‘No, I promise you, I’m not afraid of the hard work. Most jobs I can manage on my own. But if you read a thousand books on farming, all of them assume you’re doing it two-handed. So I’m having a few difficulties.’

‘Right, I get you. That’s a shame.’

Arthur had fished out a shilling from his pocket, planted it beside the pennies on the counter. This had been the cheeriest he’d felt in weeks. He’d slid his pint along the bar to stand with the old man. ‘Thing is, if you’re able to help out, I can’t afford to pay you. All that I can offer is a trade. Building work, carpentry, plumbing – I’m your man for that. Planning applications, surveys, drawings. Say the word.’

‘Sounds fair,’ Hollis had answered, ‘but I don’t have need for anything like that.’

‘Then maybe you know someone else who does? Family, friends, it’s all the same to me.’

‘I’ve got a brother down in Devon, but he hates my guts.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. I deserve it.’

And he’d been about to turn away when Hollis had come back at him: ‘You haven’t even asked if I’m a farmer. I suppose you must be desperate.’

He’d admired the old man’s leaning gait, his calloused hands, the worked-in quality of his shirt, whose whiteness had become a shade of buttercream. ‘I just presumed. From the way you were talking.’

‘As it happens, I’ve been working farms round here since I was in short trousers. Never managed to save up enough to get a piece of land to call my own – liked the horses and the fights too much, and probably a bit too much of this –’ Hollis had lowered his eyes down to his drink, muttering his words into his chest as if he were incanting the Lord’s Prayer. ‘But give me a fair patch of earth and I can get the best out of it.’

‘That’s exactly what I’m looking for. I’ll wash your windows, clean your gutters, anything you like.’

‘No need. I’m only in a caravan. But, tell you what – d’you have running water?’

‘We do.’

‘Is it hot?’

‘If you’re patient.’

‘All right. Let me have a bath round your place every Sunday, we’ll be even.’

‘That’s it?’

‘That’s it.’

Arthur had leaned over for a handshake, but there’d been an awkward meeting of their fingers – the rules of modern civilization were unfavourable to lefties.

‘Can’t promise you that I’ll work miracles, but I’m not short of good ideas.’ With this, the old man had gathered his cardigan, his tobacco pouch, his keys. ‘Tomorrow morning do?’

‘Yes. Perfect.’

They’d shaken hands again with more assurance.

‘I’ll be over nice and early. Sun’s up around six-ish.’

If a measure of good people is how true they are to what they promise, Geoffrey Hollis didn’t disappoint. His arrival in the yard had been so spiriting that Arthur found himself revisiting the numbers in his head: was there not some way that he could budget for the old man’s expertise? What position could they offer him? Caretaker? Agrarian consultant? Farm supervisor. Perhaps a day a week on basic wages to begin with? Once the next cheque from the Proctors cleared, he could section off a portion of the funds – it’d be worth it in the long run.