Jack is overwhelmed: they have all come to see him off. His orders to report for duty came through with lightning speed and now he stands on the platform of the village station, his knapsack slung over one shoulder. It is the same one he arrived with, but it is heavier now and, though he cannot think what items he has added to it, he is acutely aware he is leaving with much more than he brought.

Jim is coughing into his fist. The weather has turned in the last week. It is damp and colder now. Jack worries for Gwen, but she gently rebuffs him when he expresses concern about her waiting on the chilly platform.

Muriel has insisted on joining them. She gives him a string bag containing two jars of her homemade strawberry jam which she knows to be his favourite. She ignores his protests and pushes the bag into his hand, shushing him when he tries to object. Accepting defeat, he kisses her cheek. She bats him away, coyly delighted by his affection.

A whistle screams. The approaching train clatters towards them. Jack clears his throat to cover his sudden nervousness.

They step back from the platform edge as the leviathan slides alongside, belching great clouds of steam. Doors clang. Jack is one of only a few passengers waiting and he knows he will have to be quick. The train will not suffer tardy goodbyes.

He shakes Jim’s hand, thanking him sincerely for all he has taught him. He has, in a few short months, thrown off his mantle of city dweller and donned a farmer’s garb and it suits him well. He has been transformed in a way he would never have thought possible. His smog-filled lungs have been cleansed; the love of countryside floods his veins and he feels a better man for it. Only it has come too late.

The guard looks up the length of the train. He glares at them, his whistle ready.

Gwen steps forward. Things have been strange between them since the wedding.

‘Take care of yourself now, lass.’

It is all he can do to get the words out. He drinks her in, memorising her face.

Her hands alight on his shoulders and his arm instinctively slips around her waist as she rises on her tiptoes, but he does not pull her to him – he merely holds her, as innocently as one might hold a maiden aunt in a waltz. Her lips graze his cheek.

‘Goodbye, Jack,’ she whispers.

She drops down, but before his arm falls away, he murmurs for her alone to hear.

‘I’ve left something for you. In the tack room, under the blanket.’