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all be staying. Imogen for the reason stated, Midge because she wouldn’t desert Imogen and I – well, they didn’t need to know my reasons. I was just staying, that’s all.

Chapter Five
    T HE WINDOW CURTAINS WERE AS THIN AS TISSUE PAPER so I woke up early, at about four o’clock, just as the light was coming in. The other two were probably awake as well but they said nothing as I got up and fumbled about for my clothes. I needed to go to the place across the yard, but since that meant getting dressed I might as well walk round and take a look at the place. After moving as a pack the day before I wanted to be on my own for a while. There was nobody in the kitchen and the fire was out. I went through the porch, unlatched the door and walked round the side of the house to the walled yard. It had gap broad enough for a farm wagon to get through on one side. The facing side consisted mostly of a high open-fronted cart shed with an old haywain and a neat wagonette parked inside. There was nobody visible, human or animal, but a cow was mooing not far away and the soft churring sound that hens make when they’re waking up was coming from a chicken shed in the angle between house and wall. Underfoot was mostly hard beaten earth, with shallow craters where the chickens had been scratching, but somebody had dug a vegetable patch along the wall at right angles to the cart shed and planted onions, carrots and a few cabbages. The place didn’t look poor exactly, but not very prosperous either. The Old Man and his little household obviously lived a spartan life. When we’d decided to inflict ourselves on them I suppose we’d envisaged more of a country house existence, or at least somewhere surrounded by rosy-cheeked country folk with trugs of fruit and jugs of cream. This was more like a place under siege and the supplies we’d brought with us were only enough for a picnic or two. We’d have to discuss that later, along with a lot of other things, but meanwhile being up so early was like stealing the best part of the day and I intended to enjoy it.
    I strolled out of the yard and on to a farm track that ran uphill between hedges smothered in honeysuckle and dog roses, frothed with white cow parsley. The sky was clear blue with a few clouds towards the west, the air cool enough to blow away the itchiness of the long day’s journey and restless night. A little way up the track the view opened out and suddenly there were sea and hills, the sapphire glint of the Solway Firth and beyond it on the Scottish side the southern uplands misty and paler blue with the sun not yet on them. I stood leaning on a gateway enjoying them until I realised that something was happening nearer at hand. The gate led into a paddock of fine grass scattered with buttercups and cuckoo-smock, sloping up to the edge of the wood. A horse was cantering towards me, such a horse that might have been made by the old gods to go with the place and the morning. Technically he was a grey, but the effect was shining silver. He wasn’t large, probably no more than fifteen hands, but well proportioned and fine boned, with his long mane flying up and his tail streaming out like a pennant. He moved as if the grass had springs under it. A few yards from the gateway he came to a halt, looking at me wary-eyed, blowing gently through wide nostrils. He’d been expecting somebody else. When I reached out he let me stroke his muzzle, but guardedly. I was talking to him, telling him he was beautiful and so on, when I heard footsteps swishing in the grass and looked up to see the Old Man. When I arrived he must have been at the top of the field near the wood or I’d have seen him earlier. He was carrying his carriage horsewhip and I wondered if he might have been there all night, on guard at the high point of his land. The horse turned and went to him, nuzzling against him.
    â€˜A fine horse,’ I said.
    He smiled, arm over the