Watching from the shed, I see Boss go out of the side gate, his dark head appearing and disappearing from behind the honeysuckle.

Then I take down the hoe and walk between the beds seeking out weeds. A bird sings three pure notes in the trees down by the river, and I turn my head towards the sound thinking that it’s a sign for me to get a move on. So I stick the hoe into the soft soil and walk back to the shed.

It’s a good feeling having it to myself.

I sit down in Boss’s armchair and steeple my fingers together. “I’ll not have you slacking off just because I’m not here,” I say in Boss’s deep voice. I’ll have to make the most of this rare day, for there probably won’t be another chance again like it. Enjoying myself, I fix a pot of chicory for later and set up two empty seed trays. I’ll get some salad seeds going for the glasshouse.

But the whole time I’m thinking about the big house, and can’t settle to anything.

In the end, I take the flat basket and pick beans, add some tomatoes, a few onions and fork up a potato plant, shaking the grub-like potatoes out of the dark soil. Then I take the basket and the scrap bucket and head across the lawn towards the side of the house.

It’s earlier than Boss usually goes over. With a dry mouth, I approach the side door and peer inside. One stone step, and you’re in a long airy kitchen. Except for a plump woman at the far end of the room, kneading something in a large ceramic bowl and singing monotonously to herself, the kitchen is empty. I’ve always imagined it as the busy hub of the house, people coming and going, lots of servants. The smell of roasting meat makes my mouth water. I put the basket and the bucket outside the door. It’s now or never, I tell myself, and slip off my boots, then step quietly inside. The fat woman still has her back to me, her chapped elbows working.

Across the kitchen to the right is an open doorway. Stealthily, I move around the big central table to reach it. There is a dim corridor with several closed doors leading off it. To my right, at the far end of the hallway, a staircase leads up to the floor above.

Glancing back over my shoulder – the woman is still kneading and humming – I step into the corridor, heading for the stairs.

The distant sound of music makes me pause. I press my ear against one of the painted doors, and hear the sound of the music swell. Somebody is playing what I think might be a piano, and I long to hang around and listen.