‘Supervising sheep dipping is probably a little different to dealing with murders and such, I’m sure,’ Ted observes dryly.

Vic’s hitherto broad smile compresses to a thin line.

‘I keep my wits about me, Ted, don’t you worry. I’m more than man enough for any task that might come my way.’

‘And what are your plans, Jack?’ Iris breaks in, keen to avert a confrontation. ‘Are you down here to stay now or do you see yourself going back?’

‘I won’t be going back.’ He hopes it is enough, but there is a look of expectation on her face. She waits for him to continue. ‘I’ll stay and help Jim for the rest of the summer …’

‘But then you’re moving on,’ Ted qualifies.

Jack studies the farmer next to him. He could not have been more pointed if he had tried. ‘Aye, then I’ll be moving on.’

‘To do what?’ Iris asks.

‘I expect I’ll be joining the army if things don’t settle down in Europe.’

‘You’ll wait for conscription, surely?’

‘I intend to volunteer.’

Her head tips to the side as she adopts a baffled expression. ‘You know, listening to your accent I’d swear you were from Newcastle not Sunderland. Are you sure you’re not from the other side of the Tyne, because I’d honestly say—’

‘For God’s sake, Iris, do you really think the lad doesn’t know where he’s from?’ Vic protests. Jack’s limbs suddenly feel loose and bloodless.

‘All I’m saying is I can usually tell Geordie from Mackem and I swear, Jack, you sound like a Newcastle lad. I can hear it clear as day!’

‘I have family … over Newcastle way …’ Betrayed by the flex of his vocal folds and the intimate touch of tongue to palate, Jack gropes for a feasible explanation, aware that even Ted is now paying keen attention. ‘My mam … she was from Newcastle … I probably picked up my accent from her.’

‘Sunderland born and bred you said …’ Ted mutters darkly.

‘My dad, his family are all Mackems, though …’

He never anticipated an encounter with someone from home, and now Iris’s sharp ear has detected the loose thread of his story and, with her persistent tugging, his lies are unravelling, as one stitch of fabrication gives way to the next.

A bell clangs across the garden and Jack spins around, blessing its interruption.

‘That’ll be the speeches … we’d best go and listen,’ Jim says, shepherding them towards the dais.

Jack picks up his pace, eager to escape their company, and soon the space he has created between himself and the others fills with the gathering crowd. He spies Gwen, standing by herself at the far side of the platform, and makes his way to her.