Kamber stood at the front door beating mud off his clogs against the crumbling step. The sun, low now, threw a blue shadow of his bent figure on that whitewashed wall. He’d cut firewood all morning, then it rained a little, softening the soil, and when his better will prevailed he staggered in the fields doing slow hard work with a rickety old sickle and now thick balls of sweat camped in his grey stubble. He grumbled to himself of an array of things. It was years since he’d had good crops, back when his wife was still alive; months since he’d quarrelled at the inn with Karl, his childhood friend who then had a fatal stroke before they had reconciled; many years since his figure had drawn a female eye, even a widow’s veiled one. A sullen widower himself, all he could do was clutch his gut and resolve anew to shed the flab.