Looking around the homely clutter of the farm kitchen, with its cosy muddle of possessions, he realises that he has always yearned for a home like this and perhaps, he tortures himself, he might have achieved it – or something similar. But in one of those shabby back alleys that he knows so well, where rats fight with seagulls for the scraps scattered on cobbles slick with urine and spilt liquor, he threw away any chance he had of making a better life for himself. He threw away his chance of having any life at all.

The tea is cooler now and he gulps it down. Pushing back his chair, he carries his mug to the sink and rinses it under the tap before placing it upside down on the drainer. He glances up at the ceiling. All is still.

He hovers, cocking his ear to the hallway door. Detecting no signs of life, he carefully replaces his chair under the table and, with a wistful backward glance, he lifts the latch on the door and steps out into the fresh morning air.

Chapter Ten

Gwen

8th May 1945

The three of them walk down the lane, the evening sun warm on their backs, the scent from the flower-laden hawthorn hedges sickly sweet in the air. Tom skips between them, imbued with Nora’s mounting excitement. Gwen’s lack of enthusiasm for the outing appears to go unnoticed.

The pub garden rolls out to greet them as they reach the outskirts of the village and Gwen sees at once that Nora’s prediction is right. Villagers spill from the pub’s open doorway, covering the lawn in convivial clusters, their incessant chatter like the hubbub of a boiling pot.

Tom races forward to reach the picket gate first. He plunges through but pulls up abruptly, daunted by the throng before him. She is not surprised when he falls back, his sticky fingers finding hers, his hesitancy mirroring her own.

‘What a turn-out!’ Nora crows, nudging past them, showing none of their reticence. ‘I should think the entire village is here. Come on, you two, let’s get a drink.’

Gwen envies the Land Girl her easy confidence as she barges through the crowd, raising a hand and hallo-ing to familiar faces who call out in greeting. Gwen follows demurely in her wake, tugging Tom with her as she ducks beneath the door’s blackened lintel.

Inside the pub is a crush. They can barely move; every inch of quarry-tiled floor is occupied and a yellow smog of tobacco smoke hovers amongst the thick beams that line the ceiling, the horse brasses tacked to their sides barely visible. The clamour is deafening and Gwen’s ears ring, as beads of sweat begin to decorate her brow. The atmosphere is stifling.

‘This is the most life I’ve seen in this place in four years,’ Nora shouts back to Gwen. ‘I’ll get the drinks in.’