Florence had been first to notice he was struggling. Was there anything she couldn’t glean from the small shifts in his behaviour, or had he just become transparent? Two, three months ago, he’d been out scything nettles in the north field, more or less where Hollis was hunched over now, and she’d whistled in that way she always did when summoning him in for supper: a spike of noise that sent birds bolting from the hedges. He’d traipsed in and washed the dirt from his fingers, then sat down at the kitchen table, where she’d laid out a spread of Sunday’s leftovers and a fresh-baked loaf for him to tear the crust off. Bringing the water jug, she’d said, ‘You want to get a proper tool for it, or borrow one. Won’t be hard to find if you’d just ask around. It’s not the sort of work that you can do without the right equipment.’

The mere mention of the dismal job that he was doing out there in the weeds was injuring, and he’d not taken kindly to her suggestions for improvement. He’d found the old scythe in the hay barn with a box of other ancient implements, none of which he knew the purpose of, or even how to hold correctly. ‘It’d go a damn sight quicker if I understood what I was doing,’ he’d said. ‘Perhaps I’m letting them all seed by cutting them. They’ll likely reach our doorstep by next year, you watch.’

‘I wish you’d let me help you.’

‘You’ve enough to do. We need that tractor working.’

‘I’ve still got the extras notice for the Proctors to type up.’

‘Leave it. I can get to that tonight.’

‘As well as their corrections? You’re exhausted.’

‘One big pot of coffee, I’ll be fine. See if you can’t get that engine going while I’m at it.’

She’d gone quiet then, busying herself at the range, wiping down the surfaces.

‘What is it, Flo?’

‘I’m just wondering when I agreed to being the resident mechanic. We were supposed to share the work. I thought that was the point.’

He’d set his fork down a little abruptly. ‘The tractor’s a priority and you’re the only one who’s got the nous to fix it.’

‘Yes, but I can still do other things. The letter to the subcontractor – let me do that, surely?’

‘Suit yourself.’

She’d gone quiet again. ‘I was thinking we could sell the Austin.’

‘Don’t be daft. We can’t be driving to meet clients in the wagon.’

‘Why not? We’d get something a bit more modest, spend the difference on the tractor.’

‘Your father wouldn’t like that very much, God rest him.’

‘No, I know, but –’ She’d slung the dishcloth into the sink. ‘Maybe you could wait until the Savigears arrive? Attack those weeds together?’

‘I’m not going to give them that impression.’

‘What impression?’

‘That I let a pile of weeds defeat me.’

‘Well, I don’t wish to sound unkind, but they’ll be in their sixties by the time you’ve cleared that field. Sometimes the best thing is to admit you’re beaten and seek help. I’m going to put the word out in the village.’