The disappointment was so overwhelming that Penny almost choked, and it was doubly bitter for being self-inflicted. She thought back over the years when she had lived and worked alongside her husband, knowing that they had lost the point of contact, neither understanding the other. How she had toiled and made do, and lost her looks in the process.

But it had been better than nothing.

‘Maybe. There’s going to be some changes, anyway,’ he said.

‘Oh?’ She flinched at his expression, which had switched suddenly to one of joy and hope, quite different from the Andrew she knew. ‘What changes?’

‘Someone is coming to live here.’

‘Who? Who?’

‘Agnes.’

Penny clutched the bread-knife. ‘The television person? She won’t come here. Not in a million years.’

‘We haven’t sorted out the details, but we will.’

Shaken by awful, debilitating doubt, Penny sat down. I must not scream. ‘ Andrew, please think. Is this just another bee in your bonnet? You know what happens when you get one of those. Hedgerows, pesticides, you name it.’ She sighed. ‘We’ve been there.’

‘I’ve been thinking about a divorce, Pen.’

She forced herself to remain rigid but the word ‘divorce’ sprouted fins and a sharp point that buried itself in her chest. And what did she say when you asked her to live here?’

He got up to fetch his boots from the passage and wrestled with a knot in the laces.

‘I see,’ said Penny. ‘Can’t take the hard work?’

‘I know what you’re thinking about her but you’re wrong. Agnes understands.’

She wanted to lash out: I understand too. But her flare of combativeness had been doused by misery. ‘Andrew, I know how you work. You see yourself as some kind of white knight battling with baddies out for profit. You reckon you’re going to save the world.’

‘Someone has to.’ The blue eyes masked deep waters. ‘But it’s more modest than that. At the moment, I just want to save my farm.’ He fiddled with the lace then handed over the boot to Penny. ‘You’re much better at knots, Pen, could you do that one for me?’

Penny’s fingers rattled at the knot. It was all very well, but martyrs and warriors were so extreme and unreliable. So inappropriate in an age that had parted the heavens and explained space. At this point, Penny checked herself. If any progress was to be made between them, she must make an effort to understand and to get round the problem. ‘Here,’ she said, and handed him back his boot with the knot untied. I know what he thinks of me. He thinks my dreams are the earthy, non-visionary type, and I’m not capable of anything, but I do possess a soul like this Agnes woman, and I can, if I want, lay claim to those feelings.

Andrew glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘I’ve got to get on. I’m a bit worried about Molly and I must check her out. She hasn’t picked up since her calf.’

‘Is she eating?’

‘Sort of. But she doesn’t look right.’

‘Bring her in, then.’

He considered. ‘Yes, I think I will for a day or two, that’s a good idea. She won’t like it, though, will she? I’ll see you,’ said Andrew, tying the final lace. ‘Sometime.’

Left alone, Penny went into Andrew’s study and flicked up Molly’s record on the computer screen. It was as immaculate and up-to-date as she expected. Nothing deflected Andrew from the business of the farm. Not sickness, or worry, nothing. Thinking hard, she sat down in the swivel chair and turned it so that she had the best view of the oaks.

If she was going to reclaim her husband, Penny would have to move back into her own home before another woman dug her spade into her patch…

It was as simple as that.

She tucked her handbag into the drawer in which it had always lived – just in case a passing tradesman took a fancy to it. Forget the food. If she got cracking this minute, she could boil, dry and iron the tea-towels and the rest of the laundry stuffed into the basket. By evening she could have a drawer full of white, ironed rectangles and – perhaps – her feet under her own table.

In the late afternoon, Andrew took a break from chopping up a branch that had come down in the north field, and rested on the shaft of the axe. To his surprise, Penny’s car was nosing its way around the potholes in the track leading up to the field. ‘Shoo!’ he shouted to the Devons, who had come up to investigate his activities and were clustering as thick as the field thistles they stepped around so daintily. In response, they pressed their hard, hot flanks up against him, almost, he reckoned, with affection. The younger ones were playing games. Mothers and offspring swapped places, butted, challenged, circling their aunts and cousins in the way of cattle who are at ease.

‘Go on, shoo,’ he repeated, and flicked at a pair who were jostling for the front row of his attention. They have to know who’s in charge.

It was October weather. A wind was funnelling down from the bronze moor, its chill fingers ripping apart the last traces of warmth. Above it, rainclouds were waiting to release their load.

At Penny’s approach, the cattle fell back and away, leaving Andrew isolated. He watched her struggle out of the car and trudge towards him. Penny had always trudged, and always would.

It wasn’t fair that the light was so harsh and truthful with her sturdy figure, her acid green nylon jumper and inexpertly tinted hair. Familiar, good-hearted Penny. Of course he loved her, in a friendly, uncomplicated way and, now that he had Agnes, he could afford to be kinder and more honest.

But, as she drew closer, something about her manner gave him pause. ‘Thought you would have gone,’ he said, warily.

‘The postman came. I’ve brought this.’ She held out an envelope. ‘It’s from the inspector.’

‘It’s not due yet,’ he said, after all his preparation for this moment, feeling both foolish and unprepared.

Dear Mr Kelsey,

I am writing to inform you of my decision, made after due consultation and consideration and weighing all the factors involved. After assessing the needs of Exbury, and in recognition of the fact that part of the land under dispute is already used for an industrial purpose, to wit the tip that abuts the main road, it is my opinion that the housing estate, proposed by Arcadian Villages, should be permitted with the following modifications…

Andrew sat at the kitchen table with his head in his hands. Shock made him thick-brained, slow, stupid.

It was a blow to the head. The whirl of the axe blade descending. The terrible thud as it came down on bone. That was it. The end.

Once upon a time, the land had been green and fertile, crammed with species, layered one upon the other, flowers, fruit, grasses, bisected by the routes of animals and insects intent on pursuing their small, interlocking existences. Once upon a time, men had moved through the crops with their oiled, sanded scythes, their women in sun-bonnets clustering at the edges.

Once upon a time… the corncockle had thrived, the marsh marigold blazed and the wind was scented with wild marjoram.

All good stories must end.

He had already made the obvious telephones calls. Jim, Gordon the Gladiator, the posse of indignant protestors and friends. They were massing in response, making banners, writing letters, urging him to keep fighting.

The Death of a Farm. It made good copy in the newspapers. It would make excellent television. He knew Agnes would see to that. Thousands would quiver with indignation – and put the kettle on.

But it was his farm that would go under the bulldozer. His soil, patiently tended and brought to life. His careful tilling, rotation, doctoring, mending, caring…

What happens when a mind splits? When strain and despair crack it into a thousand pieces? Is there a glue to piece it together, patiently and with knowledge? Andrew’s fingers tightened on his scalp and he pressed as hard as he could until circles swarmed behind his closed lids.

Penny was talking to him. He looked up. She was pushing a cup of tea in his direction, but he could not take in what she was saying.

What did it matter? What did anything matter now?

Her face, wide-eyed, anxious, swam across his vision. Andrew pushed back his chair and left the kitchen, snatching up his axe from the yard. Penny stood in the doorway and yelled after him, ‘Come back!’ He ignored her.

If it’s destruction they want, they shall get it

The wind was rising, and the cattle had clumped at one end of the field, nervy now, with the weather, and restless as the wind plucked at their tails and ears. One or two watched Andrew as he ran past, the others paid no attention.

They would think him mad, as they had declared him mad for firing his field. He had heard the tattle in the pubs. Let them. Sometimes madness is sanity. He was panting, and his heart was thumping in strophes of grief and rage.

And as Andrew ran towards the innocent white hives, he raised his axe and brought it whirling down on the first in the line. It splintered and cracked. A moment of hush before the high-pitched response of the bewildered, angry bees.

The fascist guards sprang into action.

For a second time, Andrew raised his axe. High and poised. Then, it cut through the air towards the second hive. Nothing shall be left. Nothing will be as sweet and pure as the honey. As untouched, and as ancient, as you, the bees. You must die for there is no place left for you.

And as the gods on the moor roared their anger, and let loose the wind and rain, the wounded, violated bees massed, re-formed and struck at the one who had nurtured them for so long.

This is what I want, he thought, as their poison was driven in a thousand places through his skin and he felt it sear through his veins. To go.