*

The next time she saw Charlie, she was four months in and showing. He walked into the yard as though he’d never been away, admiring the north field – the runner beans, lettuces, peas and marrows that were next in line for harvesting, as soon as they’d brought in the summer squashes. He had both his shirtsleeves rolled up, with his cigarettes distending the breast pocket. His hair was still combed back, but it was longer at the sides now, oiled to a shine. For a moment, he just stood there in a patch of August sunshine, fiddling with the straps of the cloth satchel on his shoulders. She came down the porch steps to greet him and he saw the shape of her. ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ she said.

‘Like what?’ He grinned.

‘Like I could pop at any minute.’ They embraced, side on and fleetingly.

‘Well, you look all right to me. But how d’you feel?’

‘Depends what mood I’m in. It changes by the minute.’

‘I hope you’re not still driving that old tractor round the place in your condition.’

‘I’m in prime condition, thank you. Like our soil. You see those crops?’ She hooked her arm through his and walked him to the porch. ‘How’d you think we’re going to harvest that lot, with a knife and fork?’

In fact, she’d been enraging Arthur lately with her adamance about sustaining her surveying work and helping him around the farm. He didn’t want her going from site to site alone these days, especially in her father’s Austin with its dubious speedometer. Nor was he enthused about her kneeling in the fields and pulling radishes, or standing on the corn drill any more, or crawling underneath the Fordson to inspect its bodywork for fissures. She could understand his fretting, given their own doctor’s apprehension on the issue: ‘Thirty-nine’s no age to have a baby, Mrs Mayhood, so I’d urge you to reduce your obligations. Rest up, do some knitting, make some jam, do paperwork – that sort of thing would be advisable from this point on. Let others do the heavy lifting for a while, eh?’ Arthur hadn’t once mentioned his mother, but she’d recognized the quiet spells of rumination he’d slipped into now and then, and her compass for his thoughts was never wrong. He’d said, ‘I will not lose you, Flo. So if you think I’m going to let you put yourself in danger for the sake of some fool’s party wall agreement, you’re completely off your trolley. No more site visits. Allow yourself to do sod all and be looked after. That’s the end of it.’ In her view, sitting round all day just thinking about everything that might go wrong was more unhealthy. Still, she’d compromised to a degree. She’d agreed to let him drive her where she needed taking in exchange for certain clemencies regarding what she could and couldn’t do around the house and farm. Because, as much as he believed that he was capable, her husband couldn’t manage everything alone.