Jack rises early on the morning of the wedding. The rippled clouds have been stained red by the river of molten lava flowing across the horizon, and the old adage of shepherds and their skies springs unwelcome to his mind. He hopes the scarlet-streaked heavens are not an augur for all that is to come.

The milking must go ahead as usual, but the rest of the day’s labours are to be set aside. The wedding will not be a grand affair. Gwen wrote out invitations in her best hand, sending them only to a few of her closest family friends. She is not having a bridesmaid, nor a maid of honour, though Jim has, for the sake of appearances, agreed to give her away. There was a moment, just after she had garnered the courage to ask him, her voice small and pleading, when it seemed he might refuse. Muriel had taken him into the kitchen and shut the door, leaving Gwen and Jack in the sitting room, Gwen gnawing on her fingernails as they watched the minute hand on the mantel clock move slowly round. When Jim returned, he had reluctantly agreed to walk her up the aisle. He grunted and rustled open his paper when she thanked him.

Jim is already waiting when Jack emerges from the stable block.

‘She’s not coming.’

The gruff announcement knocks Jack for six. Thoughts racing, he stares at the ground to hide his dismay that Gwen has reneged on their arrangement.

‘It’s just us milking, Gwen needs to get ready,’ Jim calls back over his shoulder as he strides towards the gate.

‘Right.’ Jack’s relief is profound. Feeling the blood return to his cheeks, he clears his throat and follows on.

Later, when they are milking, he stops by the stall where Jim is working.

‘What is it?’ the farmer asks without looking up, his hands unfaltering in their task.

‘I need to pick something up in Helvedon this morning, before …’ He is too shy to say the word. ‘I was wondering whether you might lend me the car?’

The farmer sits back and looks directly at him. ‘You’re not doing a runner?’

‘No, no,’ Jack is quick to reassure him. ‘Just need to pick something up, like. I’ll be back in good time, if you don’t mind me heading out when we’re done here.’

The farmer releases a burdened sigh. ‘If you must. This day is wasted already. You swear you’re coming back?’

‘I’ll be back,’ Jack promises. This time.