Yes, it was very odd about that mysterious little bottle in the wall by the gate. But Gina was given to saying fanciful things and getting worked up over nothing. Ellen had once heard their mother describe Gina as ‘highly strung’. She was certainly quick to anger and prone to moods. Very like their father, really … which was odd, as Gina and their dad were rarely at peace with each other. Mind, Philip wasn’t really at peace with anyone, though Gina bore the brunt of his ill temper.

As if her thoughts had conjured him up, Philip Arnold came in sight as Ellen walked the turn in the lane and passed the sign that said ‘Highview Farm’. Jute, Mr Beveridge’s sheepdog, wandered over to greet her, circled round behind her as she approached as if gently rounding her up, then went back to sit in the shade.

‘Dad, hello.’

Philip was sweeping the path into the farmyard but stopped and rested on his broom. ‘What’s the news? Tom taking you on, is he?’

‘I’m to start tomorrow.’

‘Oh, aye? So I’m to lose my help to your Uncle Tom, am I?’

‘You could congratulate me, Dad. It’s a proper job with prospects. You’ll still have Gina, and the arrangement here was only helping out anyway.’

‘Ha, Gina’s taken up with whatever nonsense is in her head half the time. She doesn’t put in half the effort you do, and well you know it.’

‘Mebbe she will now, Dad.’

‘Hmm.’

Well, what did I expect? Dad’s never been an optimist, Ellen thought. Or generous.

‘And it’ll be better when I have a proper wage. You know Gina and me only earn a little bit here,’ she said, determined to jolly him along, hoping for the slightest evidence of his pleasure in her new opportunity. ‘You won’t miss me really, Dad. There’s Edward and Mr Beveridge, and he always brings in casuals for the shearing and that. And Mrs Beveridge likes to be in charge of the hens, with Gina to help, so you never have to see to them.’

‘Hens … bloomin’ useless birds: daft. They’re like sheep that way, but with wings.’

‘And eggs,’ laughed Ellen.

‘But just as keen to be dying of one thing or another.’ Philip didn’t smile.

‘Not your problem. I’m just going in to tell Mr and Mrs B about my job.’

‘Aye. It’s just her who’s in.’

Ellen went round the back of the farmhouse, knocked on the open door and stepped inside. Mrs Beveridge was standing at the kitchen table, wiping eggs with a damp cloth and placing them in a cardboard tray. Ellen told her about the gardening job at Grindle Hall.