I heard noises from above. John was up. “Is there any coffee?” I heard his cheerful voice on the stairs. He clattered down and suddenly was amongst us. He breezed into the kitchen, apparently oblivious to the burning atmosphere, picked up the fallen chair and lifted the coffeepot hopefully, then went over to the sink to fill it.

“Country air!” he announced. “I’m ravenous. Got any bacon, little brother?”

“Why don’t you piss off, Dog?” responded Charlie, following him back into the kitchen and leaving me standing in the hall. “I’ve told you, you’re not wanted here. I’m not selling the house and Susie doesn’t want to either.”

“Susie?” said John. “Susie won’t care either way. It’s just between you and me, little brother. Anyway, that’s not what I’m down here for. Can’t I come and visit my brother down in the country? After all, it’s my house too.”

They stood there glaring at each other. I took the opportunity to slope off, mumbling something about a bath. The bathroom was steamy from John’s shower. I lit the frightening geyser with only a minor explosion and was soon wallowing in a pool of lovely clear hot water. My mind calmed down and I had just about resolved that I was blowing the whole conversation with Charlie out of proportion and that the best thing to do was to tell John, have a good laugh at the absurdity of his kid brother having a go at me, and then whizz off back to London as fast as his roadster could carry us – when I heard raised voices from downstairs, followed by what sounded like furniture being thrown around. God, they were killing each other down there. I leapt out of the bath, pulled on a dressing-gown that was hanging on a hook on the back of the door, and pelted down to the kitchen, taking two steps at a time.

I crashed into the kitchen to find the table overturned and the pair of them struggling on the floor, each one trying to inflict maximum damage on the other. I ploughed in and tried to pull them apart. “Stop it! What are you doing, you idiots?” A glancing blow from a flying fist struck me on the cheek and I reeled backwards: “Ouch! Fuck!”

That somehow brought them to their senses. They disentangled themselves and staggered to their feet. I was clutching my face, trying to massage the pain away.

“Sorry about that,” said Charlie, shamefaced. “Are you alright?”

“Of course she’s not alright, you stupid prick,” growled John. “What’s the matter with you?” He rubbed his hand and grimaced. “Christ. I think my finger’s broken.”

Charlie looked disgusted. “You never could fight.”

“Most people don’t wear it as a badge of honour that they’ve been expelled from 3 different schools for scrapping. Seriously. Look at it, it’s all bent. You really are the limit, Charlie. How am I supposed to go back to London with this? What am I supposed to say to my clients? My brother broke it. You’re not 15, you know.”

Charlie shrugged. “I told you not to come down here.”

“I suppose I’m going to have to go down to Casualty now.”

The pain in my cheek had died down to a dull throb. “I’ll drive you,” I said, afraid of being left alone with the glowering Charlie. “You can’t drive with that.”

“You’re not insured,” said John. “And I’m not letting you loose on the Merc. Don’t fuss. I’ll be half an hour. I just need to get this seen to.”

“What about her face?” put in Charlie unexpectedly. “Forget your stupid finger. How’s your face?” he threw in my direction, and then looked away again a little too quickly. I realised that the dressing-gown I was wearing was none too discreet. For one thing, it was missing the cord, which meant that I had to keep clutching at it, to retain any semblance of modesty.

“I’m fine,” I said automatically. “It’s nothing. But wait, John. Let me get dressed. I’ll ride with you to the hospital.”

“Leave me alone, woman,” growled John, proving he could be just as much of an insensitive boor as his brother. “I said I was only going to be an hour. I don’t want to faff around waiting while you put on your face. My finger hurts like hell.” He forestalled any more argument by stamping out of the room.

“Wait!” I shrieked desperately. I went galloping up the stairs to throw my clothes on, but it was hopeless. I was still wriggling into my jeans when I caught a glimpse out the bedroom window of the Merc disappearing down the drive.

“Bastard.” I finished dressing more slowly and peered at my face in the mirror. I was going to have a beautiful bruise. I touched the spot tenderly and winced.

When I came downstairs, I found Charlie in the kitchen putting it back to rights. He was whistling.

“You’re heartless,” I said. “What’s the matter with you? We’ve not been here 24 hours and you’ve already sent your brother off to the hospital.”

He raised an eyebrow at me. “You believed all that? You’re probably worse hurt than he is. That’s going to be a beauty.”

I sighed and sat down feeling low and miserable. Maybe it was the dank house, or John going off and leaving me with his scary brother, or possibly just a delayed reaction from having been punched in the face. Charlie put a cup of tea in front of me, which I found strangely touching.

“Don’t look so miserable,” he said, which again I found touching. I hadn’t thought of Charlie as someone who would notice how anyone felt but himself. “Why don’t you come out and let me show you the farm? It’s a beautiful day.”

“Why not?” I said. Maybe it was being inside the damp dark house that was getting me down, and I could see through the kitchen window that the sky was blue, with little white clouds high up, and the sun glittering on every sparkling frosty surface.

“You’d better get some wellies on.” He rooted in the pile in the hall and threw some smallish ones in my direction.

Charlie turned out to be a surprisingly good guide. I thought that he was probably glad to have someone to show what he was doing on this contested patch of ground. I hadn’t realised the night before quite how much land came with the house. I don’t know what it was like when his parents owned it, but Charlie was well on the way to turning it into an ecofarm.

“See over there?” he pointed to a series of what looked like windows lying on a slope beyond the pigsty. “Solar power. But of course around here you can’t rely on it. When I was in Sarawak I set up a system where I had the whole village running off it. They were too remote to have mains power at all. Mind you, it was a bugger getting the panels upriver. No, up here I reckon I might be able to conjure up enough power with a combination of wind, hydro, manure, if I can come up with a way to store it, and of course actually using less power. What I’m trying to work out is the least intrusive kind of insulation for the house. The problem with most commercial insulation is environmentally it’s probably worse than – “

At this point I yawned. He stopped and smiled wryly. “Sorry. I’m being boring.”

“No, no,” I protested. He actually wasn’t being boring. I always find people interesting on the subjects that they’re obsessed with. “It’s the fresh air.” I smiled in my turn. “I’m not used to it.”

“It suits you,” he said. “Your cheeks are pink.”

Which of course made me blush and made them even pinker. Our eyes met – we had been determinedly not looking at each other during the tour – those blue eyes of his! My stomach lurched. I turned my back and pointed randomly at some grey curves in the distance. “What’s that?”

“Ah. My polytunnels. This is the real bugger. Nothing works like it. But – it’s plastic.” We tramped over and he showed me what looked to me like some muddy earth, but which apparently was a series of carefully prepared beds that would burgeon into fantastic growth come the spring.

Then we fed the chickens and the pig, Sadie, and went up to the top field to mend a fence. I was allowed to help by holding the wire in place while he did the heavy-duty hammering, and did not disgrace myself by squealing, falling over, getting in the way, or generally being girly.

By the time we stamped back into the kitchen, eyes squinting from the cold, noses running, I was ravenous. I looked at my watch. We’d been hours and it was past lunchtime. A quick check revealed that John was not back.

“Oh, dear. Do you think something’s happened to him?”

Unsurprisingly, Charlie was unmoved by the prospect. “He’s probably down the pub. Or got distracted by some nurse at St Bede’s.”

I went to check my phone for messages but there was no signal.

“No,” Charlie confirmed helpfully. “There’s no reception here. It’s because of the hills. If you want to get a signal, you could try climbing up to the top field again.”

“You know, John could be hurt. He shouldn’t be trying to drive with a broken – “ Charlie snorted “ – yes, broken, finger anyway. Maybe he’s been in an accident.”

Since I was obviously going to get no help from Charlie, I tramped back up to the top field and checked my phone hopefully. It took a bit of wandering around the field but at last my phone went into thinking-about-it mode and then finally rewarded me with its usual screen, with a little voicemail sign on it, which played back: “Min, I’m at the hospital. Why isn’t your phone on? Call me.”