For a while after this, she’d seen much less of Charlie. They’d had their routine hours in the draughting room, of course, with Arthur overseeing matters from his station by the window, going to and from the Savigears’ tables to scrutinize their work or offer his advice. Sometimes, she would demonstrate a technical concern to Charlie or his sister – how to vary line weights to suggest a difference of material, say – and they’d be effusively apologetic, as though it wasn’t every trainee architect’s experience to fail a little less with each attempt.

Charlie had submitted a design for renovations to his bedroom after only a few days and she couldn’t help but think he’d rushed it. The drawing showed a raised bed with a ladder and a small desk in the hollow underneath, plus a built-in wardrobe unit: it was a clever use of space, rather like a sailing boat’s interior. Functional, discreet, overtly boyish, and drawn with a nice looseness of expression. Her husband had been most impressed when they’d reviewed it: ‘See the rungs there, on the ladder, how he’s thought to make them thicker at the base and thinner at the top – I like that sense of detail. But it should be ash, not oak … I’ve got to say, I’m glad to see so much restraint, aren’t you? It bodes well for the future.’ Compared to the extravaganza Joyce had put together, it was practically monastic: Arthur had instructed her to scale down her ideas. ‘That big four-poster bed is an indulgence,’ he’d said. ‘And how exactly do you plan to make that stained-glass window? I don’t know a glazier who could do it to those specs – at least, not for the amount of peanuts we could pay him.’ Since then, Charlie’s doorway had been covered with a tarp – the carpentry was under way inside and he’d been making furtive progress every day with Arthur’s help, while Joyce was left amending her initial plans. ‘A good lesson to learn early,’ Florence had maintained to both of them. ‘Compose within your means.’ But, quite honestly, she felt that Joyce’s rather clumsy drawing showed the most imaginative range. And though she’d grown accustomed to the din of hammering and sawing inside Charlie’s room each afternoon, she missed his company in the garage.

Eventually, there came a phone call from a dairy farmer near Worcester, claiming that he had the tractor parts she needed. The only problem was the price: a whole pound steeper than her husband was prepared to entertain. She enlisted Mr Hollis to her cause, suggesting, ‘Please could you remind him how expensive it’ll be to keep a horse in food and shelter through the year instead. We’ve no room for a working animal. It’s looking like we’ll have to drag that plough on someone’s shoulders – are you going to volunteer for that?’ Her husband listened better to the old man’s supplications, it transpired.

This morning, she agreed a deal with the dairy farmer on the phone. After breakfast, she got straight into the wagon and drove there without stopping – three hours on the outbound leg, the loose boards of the flatbed clanking all the way. She took a flask of sweet tea with her and some home-made biscuits in a napkin, nothing else. The farmer let her give the parts a long inspection and then made her count the money on the still-warm bonnet of the wagon. ‘Sorry, love,’ he said, ‘I’ve had the wool pulled over me before. Don’t take it personal.’ On the way back, near Burford, she parked up on the verge of a through road to relieve herself behind a tree. Her stomach started whining for a feed. She wanted fish and chips with reams of bread and butter, but no shop was open on a Sunday.