Perhaps she can catch him. The thought flashes through her mind, reinvigorating her static body. Racing to the back door, she shoves on her gumboots and sprints along the path, leaping the steps. She lands with a jarring thud and runs on down the yard to the lane. She stops, breathless, just beyond the gate, spinning left to right. There is no sign of Jack. She has no idea which way he might have gone – she had shown no interest in his plans, she had thrown him out without so much as a goodbye. After what he has done for her, she cannot help but feel she has been handed her just desserts. It is all she can do to contain the scream of despair building inside her.

Defeated, she remains in the lane until her breathing has become sluggish and her heart as heavy as lead. She turns back to the yard, barely able to put one foot in front of the other, cursing her stupidity, wishing she had done so many things differently in her life. She wonders what she will say to Muriel.

The cows bellow in the holding pen, disgruntled with the slow progress of the milking. She needs to return to her duties; she needs to fabricate some story about Jack’s departure for Nora. Her insides clench as she wonders how to explain to Tom that his newly returned father has left already.

She spots Kip waiting expectantly outside the stable block door and her steps stutter as hope dares to flare in her chest. The dog’s head whips towards her. He emits a short whine then looks back towards the gaping door.

‘Jack …’

She hurries past and on to the straw-scattered cobbles inside. The air remains redolent with the musty scent of horses though the stalls all stand empty, with Bobby grazing in the paddock. The tack room door hangs ajar. Timidly, she pushes it wide.

Jack responds to the tell-tale creak of hinges, a leather roll of some kind caught in his hands. His kitbag is on the floor by the camp bed.

‘I left my tools behind last time I—’

‘I need you to stay.’

Her blurted confession takes him by surprise.

‘Please, Jack.’

Gwen moves to the window to gather her thoughts and form her appeal. Cobwebs matt the glass and in the corners hapless flies dangle in gossamer shrouds. The velvet curtains she made all those years ago hang limply from the sagging wire above, moth-eaten and damp, speckled with mildew and mould. She doesn’t dare to touch them – she fears they will crumble if she does.

‘Gordon Allingham came home,’ she says quietly. Jack does not utter a word and yet the air is alive with his presence. ‘He was injured, apparently … North Africa somewhere … he can’t have any more children.’ Steeling herself she turns to face him. ‘So, he wants Tom.’