The men on top of the thresher unfold a narrow wooden platform which bridges the twelve-yard drop between the machine and the rick. The foreman below calls up to her, channelling his voice with his hands, and Gwen leans over the rick’s side to signal that she is ready.

‘What do I do?’ Jack shouts to be heard above the noise of the shuddering machine, as the belts spin the wheels on its sides and the pistons underneath race back and forth.

‘Just pitch the sheaf to the men on the deck. They’ll cut the binding and feed the corn into the drum on top there,’ she hollers back, pointing to the funnel he had seen earlier.

Gwen snatches up a sheaf on the prongs of her pitchfork and, with one foot on the wooden drawbridge, she whips it over to the first man on the deck. He slices the binding with his knife and passes it to the next man, who separates the straw and feeds it into the gaping mouth of the drum. Below, a couple of men loiter by the chutes, ready to replace the bags when they are full, while, at the back of the machine, straw falling in dribs and drabs lands on the baler’s conveyor belt and slides slowly down into the bale chamber. Two more men, armed with sturdy straight-pronged forks, wait for the wire-bound straw blocks to appear, ready to stack them to the side. The team work in perfect synchronicity, as well-oiled as the machine they serve.

Soon dust billows about them, stinging their eyes and scratching their throats. By the time Ted ambles into the rickyard just before lunch, their faces are coated in a film of dirt and their hair is covered by a dry crust, but there is no time to dwell on their discomfort. There is still much work to be done.

Gwen pays little heed to Muriel when she first spots her, hurrying down the path into the yard. She continues to pitch sheaves to the men on the thresher, the muscles in her shoulders and back aching. It is not until she sees Muriel twisting left to right, her mouth wide, calling, her words drowned by the thresher’s deafening digestion, that she feels the first stir of unease. Even as her body moves like an automaton, forking and pitching, her eyes trace back to the housekeeper. Her mechanical movements finally falter when Muriel runs towards them. Gwen’s stomach grips. Muriel looks afraid.

Gwen watches as Ted breaks off his conversation with the foreman to listen to the old woman’s rapid words, his brows dipping as he does so. She realises the interplay must also have caught Jack’s eye, for he too is now monitoring their hasty approach.