Hollis had glanced up towards the ceiling. ‘Mrs Mayhood a late riser, is she?’

‘Not usually,’ Arthur had replied.

‘Thought I’d say hello while I was here.’

‘She’s gone to town to fetch a part. How loud’s your voice?’

The old man had snickered. ‘Saw your tractor out there in the garage. If it were a horse, I’d shoot it.’

‘Wish I had the luxury.’

‘What’s the part she’s after?’

‘Damned if I know.’

‘Just to Leatherhead, she’s gone?’

‘Yes.’

‘Could’ve put it in the post for you.’

‘I think she wants to barter down the price.’

‘Well, good for her.’

This had been as much of an exchange as could be wrung from the old man. There was a dourness to him that seemed reflexive, born of wretched luck in days gone by. Civility and candour were the best assurances for men like Hollis – it had been the same with lads in borstal and a fair few of the sergeants in his company – while others favoured toadying and politicking. In Arthur’s view, a bit of gruffness in a fella was a sign he wanted to be taken seriously. As they’d gone out to the yard together, he’d suggested that the windbreak was the place to start: ‘I think it might be causing us more problems than it’s helping.’

The old man had nodded. ‘If you say so.’ They’d moved off together, heading for the bank of ash trees at the far side of the meadow, but then Hollis had stopped walking. ‘There are two ways we can go about this. Either I can tell you what you want to hear or I can tell you what I really think – which one suits you best?’

‘The truth is all I need for now.’

‘Then stay put here. I’ll have a wander on my own.’

There was a time, barely a week ago, when Arthur might’ve been embarrassed to expose the dearth of progress he had made at Leventree. He didn’t like to advertise his limitations, even if he could admit to them. But replenishing the grounds of this old place – just making the land functional again – was going to take more than his reserves of industry and patience. It required native wisdom. Men like Hollis had a vast resource of local knowledge and experience to draw from, inherited from their fathers and grandfathers. It was in their bones and blood. They could gauge the character of a soil by sight and feel. But Arthur had no instinct for this type of work. He’d learned the rudiments from books and tried to put the complicated business into practice. He’d scrutinized the survey map a hundred times, inserted augers to determine depth, variety, but ask him the condition of his soil today – the very thing upon which Leventree relied – and he couldn’t give an answer. Florence always said he ought to be more tolerant of his failings and celebrate his talents: ‘You’re not a farmer, you’re an architect. There’s not a man round here who knows the right end of a T-square, let alone could run a farm and keep a practice going all at once – you’re too hard on yourself.’ Still, he couldn’t help suspecting there were people back in London who were taking a dim view of him already. Another city exile with delusions he could work the land: the countryside was teeming with them.