Mr Mayhood had begun to riffle through a sketchbook, ripping pages out and placing them into a grid with all the others. ‘Everyone, please gather round a sec,’ he’d called, and so they had. He’d prodded at the top left image: a more developed drawing they’d decided weeks ago had great potential. ‘I still like the gist of this approach, but something’s overworked about it all. We’ve not defined the grammar for the building yet – it’s neither one thing nor the other. Mostly, it’s the foyer. It’s too compacted here at the south face and it’s stifling the entire scheme. We’ve not really carried through our rowan leaf idea. The foyer really needs to have a sense of openness. It’s much too sectioned off. The light should course through it as one, not like this, in slats – that isn’t right.’ He’d jabbed another sketch, two rows below. ‘I mean, have a look at this one here. You’ve captured it already, Flo. You did that, when? About a week ago? I should’ve seen it then. The central stairwell’s got that lovely tulip shape to it. I really think that’s what this building needs. It has to have that sort of openness and flow. It’s so much better. Don’t you think that’s better? I believe it’s better. There’s a motif there, and we can use it to define our whole approach. That tulip shape. We’ll have to start again, of course, but we’ve got time to play with.’

Until yesterday, their competition work had been a drudge. The Mayhoods had been agonizing over whether to withdraw and claim back their deposit. But, by accident of Joyce distracting them, they’d been rewired. The impetus had carried them past midnight and he wasn’t sure that Mr Mayhood even went to bed.

Now the yard was full of dry manure and they were bristling in the cold. It was the bitter kind of chill that settled in your bones. The winter sky was dismal, not a chance of sunlight breaking through.

‘You might need a flask of brandy out there, Charlie,’ Mr Mayhood said, eyes on the field. ‘Or I could light a brazier. Take turns standing round it.’

‘I’ll make do with my ciggies,’ he replied.

‘I wish I’d never packed them in, you know.’

‘You must’ve lost your mind.’

‘Yes, probably.’

Florence came out then, with gloves on and a woolly hat, a brown scarf hiding everything below her eyes. ‘Are you sure you want to plough this morning?’ she said. ‘Looks more like a day for baking bread to me.’

‘Last warm day for weeks, this,’ Mr Mayhood said. ‘We have to make the most of it.’

‘You call this warm?’

‘Relative to what’s ahead of us, it’s sweltering.’

‘I’d best get knitting balaclavas, then.’

‘Yes, but not for Charlie – he’s got cigarettes to warm him up.’ Mr Mayhood dug him in the shoulder. ‘Come on, let’s bring out the tractor and we’ll hitch the plough. It’s best if Florence makes a start out there – the ground might break the coulters yet – but you can do the last few furrows, if you like.’