Constance waves her arms in frustration. Who let the bloody ducks out for God’s sake? She just can’t believe it - she’s told the children ten THOUSAND times to shut the gate behind them. It seems that now they’re old enough to scythe the field, muck out the chicken coop & polish the horse brasses, they’re always rushing off on far more urgent business with the village lasses.
Constance remembers the home made pear cider she has stashed away on the cold shelf in the well and decides that, as it’s been such a long day already, a little snifter could be considered medicinal.
Moments later Constance discovers that the pear cider is no more. She doesn’t know whether she’s more annoyed that the buggers have drunk it, or that they’ve left the empty jug for her to find (and wash up). She reflects that the length of her frustrating day today is NOTHING compared to the length of the school summer holidays ahead. Eight weeks. EIGHT WEEKS! There won’t be a morsel left in the pantry or an animal left in the farmyard at the end of it (and she’d put good money on it that they might even come home one day and find there isn’t a Constance left either...)