His errand has taken too long. There was a broken-down wagon on the outskirts of Helvedon, and he wasn’t familiar enough with the back lanes to find an alternative route. It ended up with him snatching the toolbox from the car boot and fixing the broken wheel shaft himself. By the time the horse dragged the cart clear of the lane, he knew time was against him – but he couldn’t turn back. He raced through the town’s streets, earning more than a few curses, but he managed to do what he needed. He had sped all the way home.

He parks the car in the yard without care and throws open the door, hurrying around the warm bonnet to the passenger’s side. With great care he lifts the box from the front seat.

He bounds up the steps to the kitchen door and reaches for the handle but stops himself. He can’t simply walk in, not this morning of all mornings. So, he raps his knuckles against the wood and waits, attempting to steady his frantic breathing. When his knock goes unanswered he peers through the kitchen window, but the room is deserted and dressed in gloom. He looks at his watch then hurries through the garden, reasoning that if they are upstairs getting ready, he has more chance of being heard at the front door. He is conscious of precious minutes ticking by. Balancing the box on his upturned arm, he lifts the brass knocker and brings it soundly to bear.

He waits. Sweat clings to his temples. He has yet to change – he is still dressed in his work shirt and rough trousers. He needs a shave.

Bolts grate behind the door.

‘Jack, what the devil?’ Jim looks uncomfortable in his best suit, the jacket a tad too tight on the shoulders.

‘I just …’

‘You’re not even dressed. Good God, you have, haven’t you? You’ve changed your mind.’

‘No!’ Jack pushes the box into his hands.

Jim frowns. ‘What’s this?’

‘For Gwen.’

‘Who is it, Dad?’ Gwen’s voice drifts down from the landing. Jim half-turns and Jack looks up. She is standing at the top of the stairs dressed in a blue suit he hasn’t seen before, presumably one that has been languishing in her wardrobe. Her hair has been rolled and the sides clipped back from her face. He catches his breath, and though he knows he should avert his eyes, he is unable to do so. Seeing him, she looks fearful. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Get away, Gwen, a bride shouldn’t be seen before …’ Jim starts, but Gwen ignores him and pads down the stairs, her stockinged feet whispering with the carpet. ‘It’s bad luck …’ Jim protests feebly, as she elbows him aside.

‘It’s a bit late for that.’ She looks at Jack, then her attention moves to the shallow box her father is holding.