‘Don’ he look familiar to you?’ says a woman, nudging her friend and drawing her attention to a young man a little further away on the market square. ‘Does a bit,’ says her friend. ‘Puts me in mind of someone, he does,’ says the first woman. ‘Can’t remember who, though,’ says her friend. ‘I knows,’ says the cheesemaker’s wife, leaning over the counter of her stall and craning her neck to see the man. ‘That’s Ray Birchwood’s boy, is that.’ ‘That scrounger, Ray? You serious?’ ‘Definitely. Good to see the boy’s put on some weight, he was a skinny thing when he left town.’ ‘Some while back, yes?’ ‘Must’a been at least five years.’ ‘Not seen Ray around for a while, come to think of him.’ ‘Ah! Well, things’d gone downhill with the business, see. Owed folks some money, see, and it was his wife’s dad’s business, no less. I hears he legged it a few months ago.’ ‘Never trusted him, I didn’t. Always seemed a bit dodgy, he did.’ ‘Well, he talked the talk and walked the walk, alright, only he couldn’t do the maths.’ ‘What of the wife?’ ‘Madilon? I hears she’s had to sell their house.’ ‘What a family. And what a situation for the lad to come back to, eh?’ ‘Young Fin?’ The cheesemaker’s wife looks at the man for a few moments from across the square. ‘He’ll be alright. He’s got a brain, at least, if I remembers well.’ ‘Let’s just hope he don’t end up like his dad.’ ‘That’s forty coppers for the cheese, then, thanks. See you next week.’