In the kitchen, Jim lifts the kettle from the range and gestures for Jack to take a seat at the table. As Jack draws out the nearest chair, he takes in the neatly arranged crockery on the dresser, the coats hanging from the hooks by the back door and the stoneware bottle of scour treatment standing on the windowsill, its torn paper label bearing a pencil sketch of a calf.

‘It’s a good job you happened by when you did,’ Jim says, placing the kettle on the hotplate of the range. He glances at Jack as he crosses the kitchen to retrieve two mugs from the cupboard. ‘You’re up and about early. Where were you heading?’

Jack rests his hands awkwardly on the tabletop, lacing his fingers, but at the sight of his bloated knuckles, he slips them free and hides them on his lap. ‘The town down the valley.’

‘Helvedon?’

He nods, careful not to meet the farmer’s curious gaze.

‘And what takes you there?’

‘Work.’ The word lodges in Jack’s throat. He clears it with a cough, muttering an apology before reiterating his intentions.

‘Work?’ Jim wriggles the lid off a dented tea caddy. ‘You got something lined up?’

‘No. Just … looking …’

‘You’re looking a long way from home.’

Jim’s softly delivered words come to bear. Jack keeps his eyes trained on the table. ‘Aye.’

‘And where is home, exactly? Up north somewhere, I’m guessing,’ Jim says, spooning tea leaves into a brown teapot.

Jack hesitates. ‘Sunderland.’ He feels a sudden heat in his cheeks.

‘That right? So, what brings you all the way down here?’ Jack notes a change in Jim’s voice. There is an artificial levity that fails to conceal the first hints of suspicion. Jack catches himself glancing at the door, subconsciously calculating the distance from where he sits … from where Jim stands.

‘I worked in the shipyard, a riveter …’ His flustered thoughts trip over themselves. ‘But … it’s not much of a life, you know? And life is tough up there anyway. I decided a change of scene might do me good. If not now, then when? I didn’t want to be one of those old men down my local, who prop up the bar with their regrets.’ He pauses. ‘And if there is a war coming, I don’t want to get trapped in the yards. I’d rather find another way to do my bit.’

The kettle begins to whistle; Jim moves to pull it free from the range. Jack says nothing more, just watches as the farmer pours the boiling water into the pot, curlicues of steam rising from its top.

‘It’s a big change,’ the farmer says, using a teaspoon to swirl the leaves. ‘Must be hard to leave your family behind.’

‘I have no family to speak of,’ Jack replies, not missing a beat. Beneath the table, his hands become fists.