Later, when he’d tried to justify his actions to his wife, he’d found her strangely muted on the subject. All she’d said was, ‘Better get an early start on it tomorrow, then. We’ve other jobs that you’re neglecting.’ And so he had. In the cool of dawn, he’d gone out with a scythe and spade to pulverize the beanstalk nettles on the fringes of the fields, some of which had grown above six feet, and he’d razed them all by sunset, dug them out, come in with his cheeks and ears stinging, bubbled with an orange-peel texture, his palm raw with blisters underneath the glove, the whole of his good arm pulsing. It had been a satisfying day, but the worst of it was still ahead. Couch grass was a dogged weed to shift. According to his books, the only certain means of purging it (without the use of chemicals, which he and Florence were opposed to) was to tease it out with a hand fork, one devious white root at a time. The north field was almost three acres.

He’d tried not to wake up in a defeated frame of mind. He’d tried to ignore the aches and pains and rashes. He’d tried to pull his boots on and stride out every morning, steeled, envisioning the north field bare and primed for cultivation by week’s end. But the couch grass had conquered him slowly, drained his energy and self-esteem. There were certain tasks that didn’t lend themselves to single-handed men: he’d struggled to get purchase on the fork to prise the roots out, and when he’d finally managed it, they’d broken into fragments, leaving him to forage in the dirt on bended knee. His prosthetic had been useless, slipping, hanging by its straps; a more secure appliance for the job was needed. The muscles all along his back had locked up. His knuckles had begun to seize: they’d swollen to the size of chestnuts. After three days, he’d carved out a channel, running east to west, about the width of a cinema aisle – and he couldn’t bear to look in its direction, let alone pick up his fork and carry on again tomorrow.

So, that evening, he’d driven to West Horsley, walked into the Barley Mow, and heard the conversations fade as he came through the doorway. He’d ordered a pint of mild and the landlord had prepared it for him wordlessly, taking his payment and returning his change. Then: ‘How’re things going at your place? I heard you had some trouble.’

‘Nothing that some petrol and a lighter couldn’t fix,’ he’d answered.

The landlord had winced. ‘That bad, eh?’

‘At the moment.’

‘Well, perhaps you shouldn’t be so stubborn. Let folk help you out a bit.’

‘You’re right, I know. And I appreciate them taking pity on me.’ He’d sipped his mild, which tasted watered-down. ‘But there’s a trick to learning, isn’t there? I mean, you can’t depend on other people all the time. You’ve got to put the graft in, work it out alone, even if you get it wrong.’ He’d paused then, getting the impression he was being listened to for listening’s sake. ‘What I’m saying is, if I’m going to fail at something, I like to know exactly why. And now I do.’