The bathroom, she explained in passing, was all theirs, as she and Arthur had their own en suite; and there was an outside privy in the back yard they should use when working on the farm. ‘It’s more practical and stops you traipsing mud and God knows what in from the fields.’

‘I thought you had a sturdy mop,’ Joyce said.

‘Well, not that sturdy.’

The view from Charlie’s room was of the front yard and the chicken sheds, and he went straight up to the window to absorb it. ‘Does the sash stay up?’ he asked, sliding it and seeing how it held. He turned to his sister – ‘Found my smoking spot’ – and then began reviewing the dimensions of the space. ‘I’m getting some ideas for what to do with it already,’ he said. ‘Won’t take much to make this perfect.’

‘Glad to hear it,’ Florence said. From her position, she could see the wretched tractor jutting from the doorless garage down below. Her stomach ached a little. ‘Do you need to wash up or get changed before I take you down to Mr Mayhood?’

‘Not me,’ Joyce said.

‘Nah, I’m fine,’ said Charlie.

‘Come with me, then. He’s expecting you to start work right away.’

Their procession down the stairs and back along the hallway was more solemn. She sensed some apprehension in their whispers (they were mouthing things she couldn’t quite discern). ‘You needn’t look so worried: even at his prickliest, my husband has the softest heart of anyone you’ll ever meet. All you have to do is show him that you have a strong work ethic and an appetite for learning. Try to listen to instructions and consider his suggestions. Suffer his bad singing when he’s in a cheery mood and drink the awful tea he makes.’ They reached the draughting room. She knocked lightly on the door and waited to hear Arthur’s voice. ‘Most of all, remember: everything that landed you in borstal – the mistakes you’ve made – he made them, too, when he was your age. I don’t think you’ll ever have a bigger ally in your life than Mr Mayhood.’ She could hear his footsteps on the parquet, so knocked louder.

‘Yes, come in, come in!’ he called.

She found him in the nook behind the door, riffling in the guts of their old filing cabinet. He had his reading glasses on and both the lenses were smeared thickly with his fingerprints. ‘Have you seen that bill of quantities?’ he said, not looking up at them. ‘I thought I filed it.’

‘Which one?’

‘The amended version. I’ve a nagging feeling I miscalculated something.’

‘Really? What?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said, bringing out a sheet of paper. ‘Got it.’ And he took sight of their two apprentices at last, lifting his chin faintly. ‘Wait there, please. Won’t be a minute.’ He turned and marched towards his little bureau, where he liked to do his paperwork.

Without a word, the Savigears stepped inside. She wanted to apologize for Arthur’s lack of courtesy – or was it plain dismissiveness? He was presenting such a cold front, as though he hadn’t spent the past two years preparing for this moment. But if the Savigears felt disregarded, it didn’t register in their expressions. In fact, they seemed more animated than they’d been since she’d first seen them on the platform: they were studying the room, admiring it, gesturing towards the things that took their interest – the shining draughtsman’s tables organized in a four-square pattern and the clean new instruments set out for them to use. They were pointing at the drawings for the Proctor house that Arthur had pinned up on the noticeboard behind them, the Lawson sofa where he sometimes lay in the hope of finding a solution in his work, the wing chair by the dull brass hearth where he took brandy in the evening. They were a little wonder-eyed. And she understood at once that this had been her husband’s plan from the beginning: let them find the inspiration in the room all by themselves, give them a short moment to project their dreams into the space.