‘Wait!’ she calls after them. ‘If you don’t want the dog, I’ll have it.’

The men pause and turn. ‘What do you want with it? Why should we give it to you?’

‘You’ve just said it’s useless at … hunting. Must cost a lot, feeding a dog like that. I’ll take it off your hands.’

‘Oh yeah? How much?’

‘What?’

‘How much are you gonna give us for her? She’s from a good line. They cost money, you know, working lurchers.’

‘Even useless ones?’

Both men scowl and begin to walk off. Tilda trots after them and catches up with the tall one holding the lead. She instinctively puts her hand on his arm.

‘Look, I haven’t got any money on me. But I’ll give her a good home. Save you the cost of the dog food. And the vet’s bills.’

The youth looks down at her hand and sees her watch.

‘I’ll take that for her,’ he says.

‘My watch? Oh, but it’s…’ She is going to say broken but then notices the hands are moving; it is working again. ‘… It was a present from my husband.’

The man shrugs. ‘Do you want the dog or don’t you?’

She hesitates for only a moment, thinking of Mat and how pleased he had been when he found the watch for her, and then knowing what he would want her to do. Slipping the watch from her wrist, she hands it over and takes the chain before the man can change his mind. She whistles softly at the dog to encourage it to go with her and is relieved when it limps along beside her quite willingly. She is aware of the men watching her as she struggles to help the dog over a low bit of hedge and back onto the path, and finds she is only breathing steadily again once she hears them stomping off across the field in the opposite direction.

It takes an age to reach the house, as the dog is lame, sore, and undernourished. Tilda’s running clothes are unequal to the chilliness of the morning without the warmth exertion would produce, so that by the time they arrive at the cottage both she and her new housemate are shivering. It follows her inside meekly. Only now does she realize she did not ask for the dog’s name. There is no tag on its chain collar, which has started to rub, so she takes it off.

‘What am I going to call you, pooch? You are a weedy thing. All skinny and gray and tufty. I know; Thistle! Yes. That’ll suit you. Now, what would you like to eat, eh, Thistle? What do lurcher dogs eat, I wonder?’