He went quiet again. Then he admitted, ‘It’s just hard to know how well she’s doing. In Mr Mayhood’s eyes.’

‘Well, I’m afraid my husband’s very hard to read sometimes,’ she said, by way of reassurance, though it didn’t quite come out as she intended. ‘But if he isn’t happy with the job you’re doing, trust me, he won’t spare your feelings. Anyway –’ she smeared more grease into the housing – ‘at this point, you’re just here to watch and learn. We want you both to listen and get used to how we work. And, while you’re doing that, you’ll need to muck in on the farm as much as possible. Did you read the lectures Mr Mayhood gave you – in the pamphlet?’

‘Yeah. A few times, actually.’

‘There you are, then. Our ideas are the same as Wright’s. We’re trying to give you both a real grounding. Not just in our practice. Life in general.’

Charlie angled his head until she was compelled to look at him. ‘Do you believe in all that stuff?’ he asked. ‘Organic architecture?’

‘You make it sound like a religion. It’s just a way of thinking.’

‘That’s a shifty answer, miss, if you don’t mind me saying.’

‘Is it?’ She was forced into a shrug. ‘All right. Ask me that again in a few years.’

Charlie nodded, grinned. He diverted his attention to the notebook. ‘Three-inch seal’s the one you’re looking for,’ he said. ‘I’m guessing that small squiggle is a three.’

She checked. It was. ‘Smart alec.’

In an hour, they had the new parts fitted and the housing back together. There were four bolts left to tighten when she heard Joyce calling, ‘Supper’s on!’ and clattering a saucepan with what sounded like a ladle. ‘Supper’s on!’

Charlie wiped his hands on his lapels. ‘I think supper might be on, don’t you?’

She laughed. ‘I’ll just tighten these last few.’

They hung up their overalls and went inside to wash: Charlie to his bathroom halfway down the hall and Florence to her en suite in the bedroom. She fetched the Epsom salts from her side of the cabinet and filled the basin to a froth, scrubbing the dark oil from her fingernails until the water turned a sooty shade. In the mirror was a tired version of herself she hardly recognized, with soft grey crescents underneath her eyes that looked like bruises and a gungy sheen about her nose and forehead. There never seemed to be enough time to attend to her appearance. It was a quick spritz here, a dash of make-up there – repairs she fitted in between her main priorities. It had been years since she’d put on a dress and gone out dancing, though she’d never much enjoyed it when she had.

The clamour had begun downstairs already – Joyce’s thumping strides along the hallway as she carried in the serving dishes, the water jug’s dull chink against the glasses, murmured voices. They’d started to acquire the rhythms of a family. Comfort was beginning to breed habit. It was all that she could ask for. She scrubbed her arms up to the elbows till the skin was ruddy, rinsed them under the cold tap. She cleaned her face and brushed her hair. She changed into a skirt and blouse, even though she knew another hour in the garage would be needed after supper.