She recognises her own handwriting immediately. The flimsy paper package crackles as she takes it from the bag and she feels intense shame that after six years there are so few – a mere token gesture, the half-hearted fulfilment of a pledge. Self-loathing rises from the pit of her stomach. She is about to replace them when she notices another bundle and tucked beneath that yet another string-tied stack, both significantly bigger than the humble collection in her hand. Her brows knit. The top envelopes are addressed to her.

‘Were you looking for something?’

She drops the letters and whirls around, her cheeks flaring. Jack stands in the doorway.

‘Muriel’s doing a wash,’ she blurts out. ‘I came to get your uniform. I … I didn’t know whether there was anything else you needed doing.’

‘Everything in that bag is clean.’ She shrinks from his steady scrutiny. ‘Thank you,’ he adds.

‘Right.’

Desperate to escape, she bustles over to the bed to gather up the abandoned khaki clothing. She stiffens as he joins her. The photograph still lies upon the jacket. When she makes no attempt to pick it up, he reaches past her and wordlessly removes it. She does not dare to look at him. She simply gathers up the uniform, clutching it against her.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispers, and before he can ask her to explain, she rushes from the room.

Nora has taken to going out most nights since Jack’s return, but Gwen does not miss her company. As soon as she leaves, with Tom safely tucked in bed, Jack excuses himself and retreats to the tack room. It is only then that, to her surprise, Gwen feels the loneliness of her home.

With too much time to think and too little interruption, she sits before the smouldering fire and traverses the corridors of her past, hovering beside doors she wishes she had opened, curious now as to what they might have revealed. The clock on the mantel ticks her solitary evenings away and she is always grateful when it reaches the hour for her to shut up the farm.

She checks on Tom, sleeping peacefully in the darkness, before softly descending the stairs. She pulls on her worsted jacket, for the nights are cold now with October baying at September’s door. She is just pushing on her boots when Nora lets herself in and they both exclaim in surprise, coming so suddenly face to face.

‘You’re earlier than I expected,’ Gwen says.

‘Oh, the pub was dead – except for Ted, he was there, drinking by himself. He offered to walk me home and since no one else was around to entertain me, I didn’t see the point of stopping. Are you shutting up? Want a hand?’

‘Yes, don’t worry, though, I’ll do it.’

‘Where’s your chap? Isn’t he going to help you close up?’

‘He’s still working,’ Gwen says quickly, ‘in the tack room.’