But Jack was quicker. Grabbing the man’s ankle, he wrenched as hard as he could. Mickey thundered to the ground and before he could right himself, Jack was upon him, straddling his chest, pinning him down. His fists rained onto Mickey’s face, strike after strike. He felt the man’s cheekbone give way, he heard his nose crack, and when he pulled back his hand a string of blood and mucus came with it. Tears streaked his own cheeks and sobs burst from his chest as he thought of Jenny’s lifeless body at home. Gripping Mickey’s battered head, now crudely painted with bruising and blood, he raised it from the ground and with a heartbroken cry slammed it down onto the pavement. He doubled over, sobbing, his gore-covered fingers hiding his face. When his tears finally subsided, he dared to lower his hands. Mickey Jones lay motionless beneath him, his head lolled to the side.

Jack could barely breathe as he scrabbled from the man’s prostrate body. He whispered Mickey’s name. Receiving no reply, he rose unsteadily, stealing fretful glances at the dormant windows and the empty street. His stomach contracted. He staggered back, appalled by what he had done.

And then, unable to think of anything else, he ran.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Gwen

August 1945

Gwen decides to start the milking early on the afternoon of the VJ celebration. Tom is giddy with excitement, talking nonstop about the promised firework display, due to culminate in a moving elephant that must be seen to be believed. He is quite beside himself at the prospect – the thought of delaying their arrival is too much to bear.

Nora also welcomes her decision. She wants time to get dolled up and Gwen agrees to return the cows to the pasture so she can have first dibs on the hot water in the copper. Once washed, they don flimsy summer dresses, cardigans draped upon their shoulders for later. Gwen dips a pencil into the gravy browning to draw a line up the back of Nora’s slender legs. With her summer bronzing, it lends itself well to the illusion of seamed stockings.

They walk to the village swinging Tom between them. He squeals with delight, tucking up his knees with each forward sweep, before landing on both feet and begging for more. Gwen tries to smile at his ebullience, but she is struggling to allay her fears. There is safety in numbers, she reasons. Lost amongst the crowds, there will be little chance of the Allinghams crossing their path. And yet her rationale fails to alleviate the increasing weight of her anxiety. When they reach the brow of the hill, they see the marquees in the meadow beside the church, the fete laid out in miniature before them. As Tom lets out a holler of wonder, Gwen’s insides contract.