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stone sink and cold-water tap were and where Madge Nicholson, wrapped in a canvas apron, was busy scrubbing pots.
    Mrs Nicholson said not a word and Kirsty returned to the kitchen to chat to Lorna about the happenings at the school she had left four years ago. She found it easier to relate to Craig’s sister than to his mother. She dreaded the moment when Lorna would leave for school and she would be alone with Madge Nicholson.
    She felt lost in Dalnavert’s unfamiliar routines. She did not know what would become of her if Duncan Clegg should come rapping at the door and demand her return. She had signed articles which bound her to him for a given period of time. She had not read the crabbed script carefully and could not remember any of the official jargon. She was determined, however, not to return to Hawkhead farm. Intuitively she knew that his desire for her had not been a weak and impulsive thing but a slow smouldering hunger which her resistance had not extinguished.
    The thought of Duncan Clegg upon her, touching her, filled her with loathing. If Lorna and Madge Nicholson had not been there she might have wept at memory of the incident, from fear that she would be callously handed back to Clegg and spoiled for other men, for Craig. Kirsty had learned control, however. It kept her stable during the twenty minutes of breakfast-time. While Lorna went off to pack her dinner into her schoolbag, she occupied herself by sweeping the hearth and filling the brass coal-hod from the pile in the shed by the yard door.
    It was a fine dry sort of morning and she wondered if Clegg had, perhaps, decided to plough and to let her take her own time in returning to him. Another kind of man, another kind of farmer, would have done so, for dry spring days were precious and Mr Clegg was far behind in his planting, so far behind that he might again miss the feed crop completely.
    When she returned to the kitchen, lugging the upright hod, she found to her surprise that Lorna was not the only one dressed for outdoors. Madge Nicholson too had put on her coat and hat. They were not the sort of garments that Kirsty would have imagined for Bob Nicholson’s wife. They were expensive and fashionable, with a hint of practicality in the choice of material. The tailor-made, windproof garment with its tight-fitting back and pouched front made Madge look years younger. The hat sported a bow of brown velvet and two small artificial roses, one of which was spiked through by the long pin that held it fast to Madge’s hair. She was tugging on a pair of brown kidskin gloves, and seemed to have performed a miracle of transformation in no time at all, as if shedding the worn apron had brought her out like a butterfly from its chrysalis.
    ‘Are – are you going out, Mrs Nicholson?’ Kirsty, rather stupidly, asked.
    ‘Shoppin’.’
    ‘Oh!’
    ‘Aye, shoppin’.’
    It was on the tip of Kirsty’s tongue to enquire what sort of shopping required such elegant attire but she said nothing. She put down the coal-hod by the grate and, for something to do, blew gently along the brass bevels to remove the thin layers of dust that had accumulated there.
    ‘Will you be here when I get back?’ said Madge Nicholson.
    ‘If – if that’s all right, aye,’ said Kirsty.
    ‘I take it you’ll not be goin’ back to Hawkhead?’
    ‘No, Mrs Nicholson.’
    ‘Well, there are potatoes in the sack below the kitchen board. They’ll need scrubbed and washed. Enough for six. Can you manage that?’
    ‘Aye. Is there anything else I can do?’
    ‘I’ll be back in time to see to the rest. Nobody’s home much before six, except Lorna.’
    ‘Does Craig not come in for his dinner?’
    ‘No, he does not.’
    ‘Will I take him out somethin’?’
    ‘No, you will not.’ Madge Nicholson held out a hand to her daughter who had been waiting by the door. ‘Keep the fire up, though, if you can be bothered.’
    ‘I will, Mrs Nicholson,’ Kirsty said.
    ‘Cheerio,