‘In time, I suppose.’ The petulance of her one-shouldered shrug irritates him.

‘No time like the present, lass. If he means well, let him come.’

‘You make it sound so easy.’

‘Perhaps it’s easier than you think.’

She says nothing, allowing herself to be distracted by the flapping of a pigeon that has become trapped inside the barn. It flutters about the rafters until, exhausted by panic, it perches on a beam to take stock of its predicament. Gwen gestures towards the sack. She is sullen again, and for a moment Jack fears he has crossed a line and claimed a familiarity he has no right to, but he cannot square the young man’s behaviour with his own sense of what is right. Nor can his envy see past Gordon’s indifference.

He heaves the sack onto his shoulder with a sigh. He does not want to afford Allingham room between them and so seeks to change the subject in the hope of winning back her easy companionship.

‘Why do you dip them, the sheep?’ he asks as they slice through shafts of sunlight on their way to the open doors.

‘To protect against scab.’

He meets her terse explanation with a bewildered smile and watches her petulance fight her instinct to return the gesture. He is relieved when it loses the battle. ‘It’s a disease. There’s a mite that lives in the skin and lays eggs. It causes irritation, makes the sheep itch, so they rub themselves against anything they can. Eventually, they rub away their coats, create sores, and the skin scabs up. It’s horrible – they spread it to one another, it can devastate a flock. So, we try and make sure that they’re not harbouring any insects before the autumn – the mites tend to lay eggs when the sheep are in their full fleeces.’

Back at the tub, Gwen measures out the disinfectant. She leaves Jack to swirl it through the water, while she checks the gated run that connects the holding pen to the dipping tub and then the field beyond. It is not long before they hear the sheep bleating in the distance and Kip’s excited barks. They stand by, their overalls tied tight with string around their waists, their sleeves rolled above their elbows.

‘Here they come.’

Jim drives the sheep up the yard. Kip skirts behind those lagging at the back, sweeping left to right, rounding them together, funnelling them between the barn and the stable block and into the pen in the field beyond. Jim swings the gate shut as the last ewe pushes into the huddled flock.

‘Ready?’ he calls.