Later, in the parlour, once they’d got through talking of their struggles with the Proctor house, her husband poured himself a brandy large enough to toast the population of the county. He poured one more for Charlie and the smallest nip for her, and said, ‘To family, whatever form it takes.’

They drank to that. The last few moments of ‘Carissima’ washed into static on the gramophone.

‘I was thinking,’ Charlie said, ‘do the police still have your film?’

‘It took a few reminders, but we got it back.’

‘I haven’t seen it yet, that’s all.’

‘No one has,’ she said. ‘We’ve no projector.’

Arthur swirled his brandy. ‘I was going to pick one up eventually, but I can’t bear to watch the thing now anyway.’ They’d always hoped to view it from a point of distance and fulfilment. To remind themselves of how much they’d achieved. To remember all the faces that had passed through Leventree and how their lives had changed. But it was one more project they’d been left unable to complete, another failure of their execution. ‘I’ve been trying not to dwell too much on how it used to be round here. I can remember what it felt like – there’s no film on earth can give me that again. It’s best to focus on the part that’s coming next.’

She’d put on Jimmy Dorsey’s Orchestra, for want of better options, and the sentiments of ‘Tangerine’ now seemed unreasonably mournful, so she lifted up the needle. ‘Do you have one?’ she asked Charlie. ‘A projector?’

‘No, but I could borrow one from Mr Ponsonby,’ he answered. ‘And I think my aunt could get one from the church as well.’

‘Then you should take it home with you – the film.’

‘Is that all right with Mr Mayhood?’

Arthur finished off his drink. ‘If it’ll make you happy, then it’s fine by me. Not sure what sort of state you’ll find it in, mind you.’

That afternoon, when Charlie left to catch his bus, the canister was weighting down his satchel. He’d barely crossed the yard before he lit a cigarette, dawdling a moment at the fringes of the field to wave at them once more. The shadows of the elms were slanting over him. He seemed reluctant to depart.

The sky would have no rain in it for weeks, according to the forecast she’d tuned into when she woke. They’d have to bring the squashes in today, perhaps the lettuces and peas. As Charlie started down the track, her husband kissed her head and said, ‘All right, then. Things to do.’ She watched him go along the hall into the draughting room and, by the time she checked the yard again, she couldn’t see a hint of anyone.

The winter rye is leaning at the mercy of the breeze. His sister crouches at the bottom of the frame. She’s holding out her palms to tease the awns, as though she’s playing the piano. It’s December – has to be. This rye will be ploughed under soon. She moves her fingers gently. Her back is to the camera, but she twists to glance over her shoulder. A look that says, ‘I didn’t hear you coming.’ She stands up, wipes her hands clean on her hips. Her face is spectral. She strides forward with a knitted brow. As she gets closer to the lens, it’s clear there’s something in her hair. Half a stalk of rye she’s tucked behind her ear like a flower. She blows a kiss and laughs, walks out of shot. The camera pans to follow her. Up to the porch steps she goes, and through the kitchen door, dipping her head beneath the lintel. Cut this, too.