She brings to Jack’s mind the woman who lived three doors down from them in Newcastle. She would walk the cobbled pathway behind the houses unkempt – her hair matted, her face smudged, a holed cardigan over a nightdress drab with wear – muttering to herself, fingernails bitten to the quick bunched at her cracked lips, her downcast eyes raking left to right as she searched for something that could never be found. The young children were all afraid of her, for she would reach for them adoringly, then cry with pain as they shied away, while the older ones mocked her for her madness. And she was mad, Jack’s mother said, driven mad by the death of her only bairn. Her child’s sudden passing had been incomprehensible, and unable to fathom her loss, her sanity fractured. Her husband had abandoned her and she was left alone, her mind rotting, just as their narrow terrace, neglected, began to rot around her. That Gwen’s behaviour should now cause him to recall that grieving woman frightens Jack. He takes a step towards her.

‘Gwen—’

‘I have to see him.’

She lifts her head. Her eyes shimmer with fervour. ‘I need to see Gordon … now … I need to speak to him, to … don’t you see? He hasn’t told his parents about us, so they’ve arranged this marriage without his consent. I must go to him now, so we can tell them together …’

He blocks her attempt to pass, grabbing hold of her arms as she struggles to push him aside.

‘Let me go!’

‘You can’t speak to him, Gwen. Not here, not now, not like this.’

‘I can … I must …’ She claws at his chest. ‘Blast it, Jack, let me go!’

But he clenches his jaw and bears the violence of her frantic struggle, a struggle fuelled by panic and rage and grief in equal measure. He murmurs her name softly, begging her to stop and think. He will not let her subject herself to the raw humiliation such a confrontation is sure to bring. Gradually, the fight ebbs from her as the reality of her situation dawns. She emits a low moan as her knees give way; he pulls her to him. Enclosed in his embrace, she sobs against his chest. Jack rests his chin on her bowed head, her tears dampening his skin. By some form of osmosis, he absorbs her grief, her disappointment, until soon his own heart is breaking.

‘Let’s get you home,’ he says, hoarse with emotion.

The crowd beyond the marquee are clapping again. Winners are being announced and prizes bestowed.

‘Dad will wonder where I am …’