‘Mebbe. Might not be helping on the farm then.’ Now was the time to tell Gina her news. If it all worked out, Gina would have to know anyway, and Ellen didn’t want to look as if she’d kept it from her sister. She’d put off telling her long enough. ‘Uncle Tom wants a new assistant – Young Lionel’s left to work somewhere the other side of Whalley with Old Lionel – and Uncle Tom’s asking Mr Stellion today if I could try out for it; see if it suits me.’

‘You lucky beggar! I think Uncle Tom could have mentioned it to me! That’s not fair. I could work at Grindle Hall. Why didn’t he ask me?’

‘Mebbe because I’m older,’ Ellen said diplomatically. She’d guessed this might be Gina’s reaction.

‘And I’d rather work with Uncle Tom than Dad any day.’

‘Aye, Uncle Tom’s very agreeable, and I reckon I might prefer a garden to the farm. It’d be nice to grow flowers and learn how to cut bushes into those fancy shapes that they have at the Hall.’

The sisters were silent for long minutes, Ellen thinking about the garden at Grindle Hall, Gina sulking and brooding on this missed opportunity. A bee droned in the clover flowers dotting the grass around them. Ellen had her eyes closed still; Gina watched as the cloud-figure grew grotesque features before its head detached from its crooked body and formed into … a round and benign baby cloud.

‘Oh, but it’d be grand never to have to work again at all,’ Gina said after a while. ‘That’s what I’d really like: to have owt I wanted and never have to graft for it.’

Ellen turned to her sister to see if she were serious. ‘Now who’s daft? How can you have owt without working for it?’

‘Stellion has.’

‘It’s Mr Stellion to you, Gina, and his family worked for years to build up the brewery business. He didn’t just come by Grindle Hall and the lovely garden and his car and all, you know. He still runs the brewery, though I do reckon he just turns up and tells other folk what to do these days.’

‘Exactly. I could tell folk what to do. What kind of a job is “telling other folk what to do” anyway, compared to real work, like being a farm hand?’

‘Dad’s the farm hand; we’re the farm hand’s farm hands,’ Ellen pointed out.

They both laughed.

‘But seriously,’ Ellen went on, ‘the brewery is Mr Stellion’s family business and his work is taking responsibility. There’s many a man – and some women, too – relying on his decisions for their livelihood.’

‘Like Mrs Stellion, you mean?’