Gwen is trembling when she enters the milking parlour. Nora is at work in the second stall. Tom squats by the side of her milking stool, the soles of his wellies flat on the ground, the backs of his thighs plastered to his calves, his arms wrapped around his knees as he watches the jets of warm milk squirt into the pail. They both look around as Gwen comes in. She pauses while her eyes adjust to the dim light after the glare of the sun. Amusement plays across Nora’s pretty features and Gwen has to bite her tongue to stop herself from lashing out at the girl, for mocking what she doesn’t have the wherewithal to understand.

Tom scampers over to her as she buttons up her dairy coat. He shyly whispers for her attention.

‘Not now, Tom.’ She cannot bring herself to look at him, so profound is her sense of guilt. She has betrayed him his entire life, boldly feeding him lies, confident that she would never be caught out. All that mattered was that Tom should feel loved and cherished – by her and by his ‘father’.

Over the years she has constructed a castle for him built from untruths and mortared with falsities, never once considering how one crumbling block might bring the whole edifice tumbling down, never once considering that the king might one day return to reclaim his citadel and the little prince trapped inside.

And now Tom is looking at her with a blend of excitement, confusion and fear and she cannot bear it – she cannot bear the damage she has done.

‘Later,’ she says at last, cupping his chin in her hand and smoothing his cheek with her thumb. ‘Let Mummy get on with the milking for now. Why don’t you run and have a look in the pen and decide who I should bring in first? I think maybe Petal.’

He pulls a face. She knows Petal is his least favourite cow. ‘Tulip,’ he decides.

Gwen frowns playfully. ‘Are you sure? Mabel maybe? Go and have a look and I promise I’ll bring in the one you say.’

Placated, he races down the length of the building and out through the door to the pen. Gwen’s smile fades. She collects a pail from the stack by the doorway and nearly collides with Nora as she turns back. The Land Girl’s grin seems almost malicious.

‘You’re a sly one,’ Nora says, lifting her pail onto the hanging scales. ‘You never said your fella was such a looker.’ Noting the result, she lifts the pail clear and faces Gwen. ‘That photograph on your mantelpiece doesn’t do him justice.’

Gwen is unable to summon a reply. For some inexplicable reason, her cheeks grow hot. She is infuriated by Nora’s impish glee.

‘Hurry up, Nora, we’re running late as it is.’