Nora jumps down to open the field gate. There is a harsh wind, a reminder that September is well under way. It brings the first of the copper beech leaves from the branches; they drift lazily to pepper the ground. Gwen slaps the reins and drives Bobby through the gate to the top of the field. She jumps onto the rain-softened soil and then reaches up for Tom. Before she can say a word, he is off running, calling for Kip. She watches him go, absently freeing a strand of hair from her lip, her chest aching with love for the blond-haired boy that is hers and hers alone. She is still savouring the sight of him as Nora hands her a fork from the back of the wagon.

‘Everything all right, Gwen?’

Gwen finally looks away. ‘Yes.’

She thrusts the fork’s broad prongs into the straw-laced muck piled above her, then steps back to shake its load loose over the furrows at her feet.

By mid-morning, they have covered half the field and the air is pungent. Tom entertains himself by collecting blackberries from the hedgerow. Periodically, he runs back to Gwen to reveal his stained tongue, his chin dribbling with juice. When he tires of blackberries, he moves onto the hazelnut bush growing halfway down the back hedge. He stuffs his pockets with the husk-wrapped shells missed by the squirrels, though Gwen warns him they are unlikely to ripen.

‘Hello, hello, who’s this?’ Nora wipes her nose with the back of her hand. The prongs of her fork sink into the ground as she leans her weight upon it, her attention taken by something at the bottom gate.

‘What?’ Gwen scatters her forkful of manure, breaking up the clods of muck with a bash of its prongs. Squinting, she follows Nora’s gaze. A maroon-coloured car has pulled up in the gateway. The driver’s door opens and a woman stands out. She turns to regard the field over the roof, shielding her eyes with the flat of her hand, though the sun is far from dazzling. She pushes the door to and picks a delicate path around the front of the vehicle until she is standing in the open gateway. She holds up a gloved hand.

‘I don’t know who she is but she’s going to regret it if she tries to walk up here in those shoes,’ Nora mutters, wrenching her fork free.

The woman is waving now, eager to draw their attention, impatient for them to come. It seems she has no intention of tackling the muck-coated field.

‘Shall I go?’ Nora asks, when Gwen makes no attempt to respond.