The whole world was yellow, the sun’s long afternoon rays bathing the village ahead in golden light.

Tilly turned away from her lengthening shadow and looked back towards the setting sun. It threw the landscape into such stark relief against the rich blue of the sky that she felt her eyes hurt with the sharpness of it.

But it was a trick. The light wasn’t warm like the midday sun – rather it was cold, like the gold coin she had once held briefly in her hand.

Neatly planted rows of hops reached for the sky, the tendrils of the vines reaching heavenward to wave in the breeze, as though bidding goodbye to the sun for another day.

The sun responded by blowing rosy-tinged kisses as the sky’s blue faded, the wind freshened and the last of the glowing orb disappeared over the hill that separated this village from the rugged Kent coastline beyond.

Still Tilly lingered at the crossroads separating the fields from the edge of the village and the tavern which was her home.

She drew a hand over light brown hair to remove the curly strands from her eyes and watched the rose sky turn purple.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw the first of the evening stars wink into view and she wondered, as she had done on this eve so many times before, whether he saw it too.

They would be here soon, within days, the workers to help with the harvest. They would come from the outlying towns and villages – even, as she well knew, from as far away as London.  They would pull down the bines on which the hops vines grew and everyone – children included – would walk through the yards picking the cones to be taken to the nearby oast houses for drying and brewing into beer drunk the length and breadth of Britain.

Tilly wondered whether Andrew would return.  At the thought, her heart tumbled several hollow beats.

She pulled her rough woollen shawl over her shoulders and turned back to the tavern. Whitewashed walls glowed in what was left of the light as she approached and opened the oak door, black with age.

It gave way to the kitchen and inside, the glow was more orange than gold from the large fire that warmed the flagstone-floored room. Cut wood sufficient for the evening and the next morning had been stacked to the side of the hearth by Noah. From the tavern, above a hubbub of voices, she could hear Gwen calling for Agnes to clear the tables.

Tilly stepped inside and closed the door firmly to keep in the heat. An apron hung by a peg at the door and she put it on, tying the long white strips of fabric neatly behind her.

As she started her evening chores, Tilly allowed her mind to wander back to another September day, seven summers earlier.

Andrew was little more than a boy himself, just fifteen, when she first laid eyes on him and she was only eleven.