Muriel leads him upstairs to the landing. Gwen’s bedroom door stands ajar and he cannot resist glancing in as he walks past, glimpsing the bottom of her bed and the jam jar of cow parsley on the windowsill.

Muriel yanks open the double doors of the laundry press and begins to search through the shelves of neatly ironed bedding, putting to one side items she deems suitable. She bends down to pull a rolled mattress cinched with two belts from underneath the bottom shelf. She thrusts it into Jack’s arms. It is light and insubstantial and he knows at once it will provide little comfort, but he wisely passes no comment. She follows it up with a feather pillow, which he manages to catch in his fingers while wrestling with the mattress.

‘I’ll bring the bedding,’ she says, drawing down the items she has set aside.

She pushes past him, making no attempt to hide her disapproval though Jack is at a loss to understand what he has done to deserve it.

As they descend the stairs, Jim and Gwen’s voices flow towards them with the comforting burble of a mountain stream. The conversation lulls as they enter the kitchen. Gwen begins to rise, offering to help, but Muriel tells her to sit down and chastises her for being foolish.

‘You’ll never make it across the yard on that foot,’ she says, continuing towards the back door. ‘Nor should you try.’

The dog jumps around them as they step outside, excited by the scent of fresh linen and the prospect of fresh blood. Muriel snaps at him to settle down, cussing him under her breath. Juggling his load, Jack frees a hand to ruffle the fur on the dog’s head. In the woods behind the farm, a cuckoo hails itself.

Muriel wastes no time in striding up the yard to the stable block. She is muttering something, but Jack is unable to determine her words – it crosses his mind that this might be for the best. The dog noses the air as it detects a scent more enticing than their own, and immediately hares off towards the implement shed, its tail down, its head low to the ground as it begins ferreting through the weeds, weaving between the equipment.

The horse inside the stable block senses their approach and snickers as they reach the red-painted doors now weathered to lobster pink and flaking like sunburnt skin.