Jim is grim-faced and silent when he finally appears. He has barely spoken to either of them since the fateful day in the orchard when secrets dropped like windfall. That night, Gwen had gone straight to her room after dinner. Jack had intuitively known he would not be welcome in the sitting room, so instead, he had busied himself with chores – shutting in the chickens, feeding Kip, refilling the horses’ water troughs. When he was done, he returned to the stables, intending to take to his bed in the tack room. He had been surprised to find Jim waiting for him, nursing a tin mug that Jack knew immediately did not contain tea – the smell of whisky was too strong.

‘Muriel’s told me everything. I thought you should know that. So there’s no need for any pretence between us.’ His breath was ripe with tobacco and spirits.

Jack had shifted uneasily. ‘It makes no difference to me – I want you to know that. I’ve taken responsibility for the child and I won’t shirk it.’

Jim had merely huffed and nodded, clutching the chipped tin mug to his chest as he hovered in the doorway. ‘Looks like you’ve come to my girl’s rescue twice, lad.’

‘And I’ll happily keep coming,’ Jack replied softly, ‘for as long as she needs me. I promise you, Jim, anything I do will be done in Gwen’s best interests.’

In that moment, he had considered sharing with the farmer his plan and his promise not to come home, that Gwen would – when she chose – be free to love another, someone lucky enough to capture her heart. But Jim had stalked out on unsteady legs before he had a chance to explain his intent: to join the army and fight – not for his country per se, not even for his life, but for bettering her future. He would fight recklessly and without fear, knowing if he fell, she would benefit.

After what he had done, the life he had taken, it seemed a suitable penance.

Muriel is already waiting for them outside the church. They take their places in a row halfway down the aisle. Jim exchanges greetings with a few neighbours as they slip into their pews, but for the most part he keeps his eyes front and centre and his mouth grimly set.

Gwen unhooks her hassock and drops to her knees to offer a brief prayer. Jack remains seated beside her, though he bows his head to stare at his knotted fingers resting in his lap. The church is filling up. The places of worship he knew in Newcastle were vast affairs which afforded a degree of anonymity, but in this quaint village church, with its modest number of pews and narrow aisles, there is nowhere to hide.