They cross the cobbles to the door on the left, the latch clacking under Muriel’s hand. In spite of the warmth outside, the small room is cool to the point of chilly and Jack is relieved that there is indeed a little cast-iron stove tucked into the far corner, its black flue running up the wall and disappearing through the raftered roof above. The room smells of leather, saddle oil, and yeasty horse nuts. The back wall is studded with wooden prongs that support an array of saddles and bridles, while below sit stacked pails and sacks of oats, their rolled tops weighted down with large stones. Strands of straw sink between the cobbles, and the only window is draped with a filigree of cobwebs, which scoop across its corners like white silk, while its crumbling wooden sill is littered with the desiccated corpses of bluebottles. Beneath the window is an upturned apple crate, clearly intended to serve as a side table to the wooden camp bed shoved against the outside wall.

‘You can unroll the mattress onto that,’ Muriel says, her manner curt as her eyes roam the room, though she makes no comment on its condition or suitability.

Wordlessly, Jack does as he is bid, releasing the coiled mattress from its binds. He attempts to flatten it against the slatted frame but, despite his best efforts, its ends curl like stale bread.

While he battles with the mattress, Muriel brushes the dust from an old Bentwood chair that stands at the side of the room. She sets the bedlinen upon it and selects a sheet. Elbowing Jack aside, she shakes it free from its crisp folds and flutters it over the mattress, moving briskly around the frame to tuck it in at each corner with two sharp swipes of her flattened hand.

‘I can do that …’ Jack offers, but she merely huffs. He feels the scald of her resentment and, unsure how to appease her, he remains silent. Instead, he tries to win favour by using his initiative. He tucks the feather pillow into the folded case he spies sitting on top of the linen pile. Muriel’s eyebrows lift, as she takes another sheet to the bed.

‘How long do you intend to stay?’ she bites out at last.

Careful to ensure he is not in her way he places the pillow at the head of the bed. ‘I don’t know. For as long as they’ll have me, I suppose.’

She pulls a face as she unfolds a coarse woollen blanket and lays it upon the folded-down top sheet. Jack thanks her quietly as she finishes smoothing it in place.

‘There’s logs for the stove in the store up by the house. Dinner is at six. You know where the privy is?’

Jack has already spotted the outdoor convenience, set away from the house at the end of the garden, a fair trek in the dark.