“Rain later, apparently.”

He didn’t turn as I approached. The two of us leant against the gate, looking out over the meadow. A solitary magpie landed on a scrubby patch of grass in front of us and began to peck at the earth.

“Good. Field needs it. It’s been a hard summer.”

“It’s still uneven.” I gestured at the patch where the magpie continued its restless scouring of the ground. Two others broke from their circling overhead and joined their companion who greeted them with an angry, rattling, staccato cry. 

“People don’t see it like you do. It’ll grow over again given another year.”

“I guess. You sure it’s being left as pasture?” 

He nodded without averting his gaze from the field. “Won’t be ploughing this for three or four years. Needs to lie fallow for a good long time. They might put some sheep in there next year I reckon once the grass takes hold properly.”

“As long as you’re sure?”

“I was always sure.” 

I pushed myself away from the gate, feeling my weight through my arms, and looked up at the darkening sky. John was sure. If he’d been trying to reassure me it hadn’t worked. Hearing footsteps behind me I turned my head to see someone from the village approaching. She was followed by a dog, sniffing eagerly at the hedgerow. Jet black. Perhaps a labrador cross. I’d never really known about things like that. Another part of country life that I’d need to learn. I acknowledged her as she passed and bent to pat the dog as it barked in greeting. Over the fence the magpies scattered at the noise.

“Looks like it’s going to rain,” called the dog walker. “Come on Rosie. Here girl.”
Rosie ignored her owner and scrabbled under the gate and went bounding into the open field, tail flapping in the rising wind. She paused where the magpies had previously settled and pressed her nose to the ground. She began to bark.

“Daft dog. Must have caught the scent of something,” said the walker coming up to the gate. “Here Rosie. Come on. Good girl.”

“There were some birds in the field earlier,” I said. “Magpies.” 

“How many?” asked the walker in between continuing to call back Rosie. I started to join in. John briefly touched my arm, his hand firm. I stopped calling for the dog.

“Anne’s new to the area. She won’t know what you mean,” he said. “Doubt she’ll know about our little country superstitions.” 

She didn’t seem to hear, wrapped up in shouting at her disobedient companion. The dog had barely moved, still sniffing the earth. I gripped the gate, knuckles whitening.

“What am I going to do with that creature?” she muttered. Reaching in to her coat she pulled out a biscuit but Rosie didn’t appear to notice until it was thrown towards her, into the field. Then she trotted back towards us and snapped up the biscuit, crumbs scattering around her as she chewed. Another proffered biscuit was enough now to tempt her back and I watched as Rosie and owner disappeared up the path again. I relaxed my grip on the gate and turned to look back at the field. 

One, then three, then, finally, seven magpies alighted back in the meadow, squabbling over the remnants of dog biscuit. John was staring straight ahead again and something in the set of his jaw told me not to ask him what it meant.