One after another they wandered in and took a place at Sarah Turner’s table as if they ate there every night: Dr Chapel, bent and elderly, a dry stick of a man; Mr and Mrs Vickery, he the foreman at The Flower Mill, she the local shopkeeper; Alan Hunsecker who maintained the machinery on which the business, like all modern agriculture, depended; three generations of Turners. Elphie dragged her father over before he’d had the chance to wash in order to perform formal introductions. ‘This is Donovan. You haven’t seen him since he woke up.’ The square, solidly built man in cords and a Barbour extended a soil-grimed hand apologetically. ‘Everything’s urgent with Elphie. Simon Turner. I’m glad to see you on the mend.’ ‘I’m grateful for your help,’ responded Donovan. ‘I’ll try not to impose on you much longer.’ ‘No problem,’ said Turner. ‘Stay as long as you want.’ He excused himself and disappeared into the scullery. Elphie stayed with Donovan, pressing her small hand determinedly into his.
