The cabinet maker threw up his arms. ‘All I’m saying is perhaps…’ He lost his balance and sat down abruptly. ‘Perhaps you should think of the chickens you have in the yard instead of dreaming of the cockerel you’ll never own.’

‘Where did you find that pearl of wisdom?’

‘It’s just that the butcher…’

The butcher. Edith shuddered. She felt as if someone was standing on her grave.

She stood up straight and said, ‘I’m betrothed to Demetrius, and it is he who I will marry.’

‘If he comes back,’ said her father. ‘Personally, I think he would be a fool to come here again. What have you to offer him? Just some pretty stitches on a red shirt.’

‘He will be here,’ said Edith.

The promise to the butcher – or rather the idea that the promise might not be kept – now worried the cabinet maker. And being a man without the ability to keep his worries to himself, he imprudently confessed them to the butcher. But the butcher seemed remarkably unconcerned.

‘There was no betrothal supper, was there?’ the butcher asked, and before the cabinet maker could think of a coherent answer, he continued, ‘If there was one I don’t remember being invited nor were the other village elders. I ask myself, what kind of wedding would it be without keeping the traditions of this village?’

‘You’re right,’ said the cabinet maker. ‘But what if…’

‘Go home,’ said the butcher, ‘and don’t worry yourself needlessly. If he comes back, then he comes back.’

Yes, thought the cabinet maker, if the shepherd returns I will tell him, God be my witness, that he can’t marry Edith. A bottle of plum brandy was enough for him to turn a shepherd into a lamb.

The next day, a cartload of logs for the winter arrived at the cabinet maker’s yard, and the sight of them gave the old drunk hope.

‘What other deal have you done with the butcher?’ asked Edith.

It wasn’t a word of a lie when her father said, ‘None that I know of,’ and, tucking a bottle of plum brandy under his arm, went off to his bed.

‘Wait,’ said Edith. ‘Where did that come from?’

‘What? Now can’t a man have a drink in his own house?’

Edith had misjudged his sobriety. He caught hold of her.

‘You will marry the butcher, do you hear me, girl?’ he said and struck her across the face. ‘You will marry the butcher.’

Edith felt she’d waited an eternity for this day. Her face still bore the faint mark of a bluish bruise but it didn’t matter. She had spent the past week thinking what she was going to wear. Now, at last, the day was here. Dressed in her finest petticoat, her second-best embroidered skirt and with flowers laced in her hair, she joined the women of the village to cook the harvest supper.