He entered his password and his blue desktop screen, littered with his familiar icons, appeared.

Five minutes later, having checked everything, he walked over to the window and peered out at the Sunday-silent building site, which started just a hundred yards or so away. Phase two, the agent had called it. It was an ocean of mud, trenches, holes, metal fences, wheelbarrows, bendy poles and warning signs. On one side were two Portakabins, and there were several diggers and bulldozers seemingly parked randomly, some yellow, some orange. He saw a pile of rubble, another of bricks under blue sheeting, and a vast stack of steel beams.

He must take some photos for future reference, he thought, so that they could remember what it was like when they first moved in. Also, perhaps tomorrow he’d take some pictures of the workers. He had in his mind some Lowry-inspired images of the men in their hard hats in this vast wasteland. He might make a group of paintings for his exhibition – they would be something different, he thought, inspired.

He turned away and looked towards the lake at the end of the lawn, studying the ducks. There was a group of a dozen or so mallards, and another similar-sized group of Indian runners, each sticking to their own tribe. The two groups were some distance apart, moving around the water, staying close to the island in the centre on which there was a large, bare weeping willow.

When the Bedfords had popped over yesterday afternoon, Tom’s wife, Marianne, had said the way to make sure the ducks all stayed was to feed them daily. She recommended buying something like an old milk churn to keep the feed in, to avoid attracting rats.

One mallard suddenly rushed across the water, almost standing up on it, and jumped on the back of another. Doubtless a female, he thought. The female flew off a short distance, landing with a splash. The male hurried after her, caught up and pounced, landing more firmly on her back this time, and pushing her head under water as he shook vigorously.

Jason smiled at the antics; male mallards clearly weren’t much into foreplay. And within moments it was over. The female scurried off, shaking herself, and the male, looking like a braggart, returned to his group.

He’d never painted ducks before, but entranced by the view and their behaviour, he decided to go down there later today and do some rough sketches and take some photos. Meanwhile, he had the two urgent last-minute commissions to get on with. One was a portrait of two dogs, a grey labradoodle and a golden one, for a client who wanted it as a surprise Christmas present for his wife, and the other was a pencil sketch of a King Charles spaniel. He had photographs of all of them to work from – the one of the two labradoodles showing them looking cute as hell curled up on a sofa together.

This was just the kind of painting he loved doing. It would be fun, and if he worked hard today and into the night, and all tomorrow, using the quick-drying oils he favoured, with luck he should have it ready to take to the framer tomorrow, and ready for his client, as he had promised, by Thursday.