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that weren’t done right, or that needed a bit more elbow grease. I nobbut met Mrs Rothwell once or twice, but my Grace speaks well of her, and that’s enough for me.”
    Banks thought he might have a word with Larry’s lass, Cathy. He noticed Pat’s empty glass. “Another?”
    â€œOh, aye. Thank you very much.” Banks bought him a pint, but decided to forgo a second himself, much as the idea appealed. “There were one time, when I comes to think on it,” Pat said, “that Mr Rothwell seemed a bit odd.”
    â€œWhen was this?”
    â€œAbaht two or three weeks ago. He came in one lunch-time, as usual, like, but he must have had a couple of pints, not ’alves. Anyroad, he got quite chatty, told a couple of jokes and we all had a good chuckle, didn’t we, Larry?”
    â€œAye,” shouted Larry from down the bar.
    That sounded odd to Banks. According to Mrs Rothwell, her husband had been tense and edgy over the past three weeks. If he could chat and laugh at the Black Sheep, then maybe the problem had been at home. “Is that all?” he asked.
    â€œ All ? Well, it were summat for us to see him enjoying himself for once. I’d say that were enough, wouldn’t you?”
    â€œDid he say anything unusual?”
    â€œNo. He just acted like an ordinary person. An ordinary happy person.”
    â€œAs if he’d received some good news or something?”
    â€œHe didn’t say owt about that.”
    Banks gave up and moved on. “I know there’s been a bit of ill feeling among the hill-farmers about incomers lately,” he said. “Did any of it spill over to Mr Rothwell?”
    Pat sniffed. “You wouldn’t understand, Mr Banks,” he said softly, offering an unfiltered cigarette. Banks refused it and lit a Silk Cut. “It’s not that there’s any ill feeling, as such. We just don’t know where we stand, how to plan for the future. One day the government says this, the next day it’s something else. Agricultural Policy … Europe … grugh.” He spat on the floor to show his feelings. Either nobody noticed or the practice was perfectly welcome in the Black Sheep, another reason why people stayed away. “It needs years of experience to do it right, does hill-farming,” Pat went on. “Continuity, passed on from father to son. When too many farms fall to weekenders and holiday-makers, pasture gets abused, walls get neglected. Live and let live, that’s what I say. But we want some respect and some understanding. And right now we’re not getting any.”
    â€œBut what about the incomers?”
    â€œAye, hold thy horses, lad, I’m getting to them. We’re not bloody park-keepers, tha knows. We don’t graft for hours on end in all t’weather God sends keeping stone walls in good repair because we think they look picturesque, tha knows. They’re to keep old Harry Cobb’s sheep off my pasture and to make sure there’s no hanky-panky between his breed and mine.”
    Banks nodded. “Fair enough, Pat. But how deep did the feeling go? Keith Rothwell bought that farm five years ago, or thereabouts. I’ve seen what he’s done to it, and it’s not a farm any more.”
    â€œAye, well at least Mr Rothwell’s a Swainsdale lad, even if he did come from Eastvale. Nay, there were no problems. He sold off his land—I got some of it, and so did Frank Rowbottom. If you’re thinking me or Frank did it, then …”
    â€œNo, nothing like that,” Banks said. “I just wanted to get a sense of how Rothwell fitted in with the local scene, if he did.”
    â€œWell, he did and he didn’t,” said Pat. “He was here and he wasn’t, and that’s all I can tell thee. He could tell a joke well enough when he put his mind to it, though.” Pat chuckled at the memory.
    As puzzled as he was before, Banks said