After the first few mouthfuls, he felt a lot better. Even Kit’s silver eyes and hair seemed, in the light of this warm room, almost normal. As Zita moved about, placing dishes in the sink and checking things in the larder, Tom relaxed. He smiled, but Kit wouldn’t catch his eyes.

Tom turned to Zita instead.

‘What can we do this afternoon?’

‘He’ull be wi’ me,’ said Kit thickly.

Zita looked up sharply from where she was counting eggs in a bowl. ‘Darling,’ she said, ‘dear old Jack said –’

‘Jack said he’d be put to work.’

‘And so he will, helping me in the woods.’

‘My work’s more important n’yours.’

To Tom’s astonishment, Zita snarled, a proper, vicious snarl, like a stoat, and the lurcher, who had, ghost-like, slipped in beside Tom, whimpered.

‘Finish.’ Kit spoke through a mouthful, then pushed his bowl away.

The kitchen door burst open, and Uncle Jack came through, hobbling a little. He greeted Tom cheerfully, and Tom inquired after his afternoon’s work. The old man stared at him keenly.

‘Now, now, do not talk of work. We must not get to work so soon. You must rest. It is time for us to enjoy each other’s presence for a while. Thomas Swinton, my dear Thomas Swinton.’

He sauntered to a decanter full of dark liquid that stood ready on a side table, and unsteadily poured out portions into four small crystal glasses. ‘Although I am the master, I do like to do some things myself,’ he said, smiling at Tom. ‘You will find us a tightly run household, but a merry one too.’

Tom caught Zita glaring in the reflection in the window. She quickly adjusted her features and, when she turned, she too was smiling.

‘Yes, we do have quite the beanfeast most days.’ She took a glass from the tray and passed it to Tom.

‘Thank you.’ Tom sipped. It was port, delicious and velvety, and he drank it down in two gulps. ‘Kit did say something about being put to work. I’d love to help – whatever you need. What kind of farming do you do here?’

Zita snorted, then recovered herself.

‘More later, later, my boy. First, allow me to show you around the house.’ Jack drained his glass and clasped his hands together, then stood in a way in which Tom’s father, William, used to stand, upright and with his shoulders squared. Spindly and crane-like, the old man beamed. He bowed, opening the door for Tom to go through first.

As they moved, Jack became more sprightly. He delighted in telling Tom about the pictures in the main hall, and in the small, relatively cosy sitting room that led off it. There was no television there, and no radio that he could see. A wooden door set underneath the stairs went down to the cellar.