Matthew Chapman and Jonathan Hardy lay flat on their stomachs in a fold in the ground close to a hedge. The field was their chicken farm, the land with its cottage owned by Matthew and his wife Rosie. The farm was run by them and their partners, Jonathan and his wife Emma. The field was the haven of a multitude of chickens and a dozen sheep. The sheep kept the grass cropped, which made it easier for the chickens to get at the worms. A neighbouring farmer brought a ram to the sheep in the autumn for a reasonable fee, and in the early spring when the lambs arrived, foxes prowled at night, and the ewes kept their little ones sheltered by their bodies. There were lambs now, a few months old, gambolling bundles of soft creamy wool in the bright light of day, but nestling close to the ewes at the moment. Dusk was due, and night would be close on its heels. Dangerous night. Foxes had taken two lambs last night. The mothering ewes had no defence against foxes. The ram would have charged, and the foxes would have scattered, but there was no ram.
