‘North Africa, at first. Then France and Belgium. And a bit of Holland.’

‘Quite a picnic, that.’

‘For all the good it did me.’

The old man nodded gravely. ‘Holland’s where you lost the arm, is it?’

‘I got off lightly, too.’

‘I know the feeling. Where’d it happen?’

‘In a town called Ravenstein.’ He could see that Hollis wanted more, so he surrendered the whole story, thinking it might help his cause. ‘I was in the Sappers. Our platoon was taking down a bridge. Thick snow and ice for miles. None of us had any feeling in our fingers and our coats were worse than useless. We were shifting iron transoms, unloading them in six-man teams. Suddenly, I think, My God, we’re taking fire, because the fella up ahead drops to the ground as though a sniper’s had him. Micky Davis was his name. We called him Plank. He’d only been with us a month or two, since we came back through Normandy. Well, Plank had gone and lost his footing in the snow. And once he let go of the transom, so did everyone. Except for me. They reckoned I was lucky it was just my arm got trapped.’

‘Still, it must’ve hurt like billy-o.’

‘You can’t imagine. Anyway, I try not to relive it, if I can. It catches up with me sometimes and I get moody. But not often. I prefer to keep my eyes on the horizon.’

‘That’s the way. No looking back. You can’t dwell or it kills you.’

He hadn’t known the old man long enough to start inquiring, but he got the sense – from nothing really, just the downcast tone in which he spoke sometimes – that Hollis’s regrets outweighed his satisfactions. Here was a man who’d given up most of his days on earth to tending it, making it pay dividends for someone else, and Arthur didn’t want to be the next one to exploit him.

‘All right, then. My soil is fine – that’s welcome news,’ he said, sitting in the shade beside him. ‘What about the weeds?’

‘They’re about the worst I’ve seen, but we’ll get rid of them. I’m afraid the old ways are the only ways I know: a bit of mowing and a lot of pulling. We could try smothering them for a while with tar paper, see if it softens the roots. It all depends how fast you need the money.’

‘From the crops, you mean?’

The old man looked at him. ‘Didn’t notice any livestock. Just your hens.’

‘Oh, we’re not trying to make a profit here. It’s all a matter of subsistence.’

‘Let me check I’ve got this right,’ said Hollis. ‘You’re not selling what you grow?’

‘Not unless we have a surplus. Even then, we’ll donate what we can to folk who need it.’

‘Well, what kind of farm is this supposed to be?’ The old man clutched the rail and pulled himself up to his feet. ‘I’m not going to put my back out for a hobby. There’s folk who’d give their – well, they’d kill to have a bit of land like this to make a living from.’ He handed back his empty glass. ‘I’ll have to think about it.’