She is clearly in her element. A displaced Londoner, she is used to the dazzling lights of the city and the chaotic revelry of a Piccadilly pub. She has been a fish out of water in the placid shallows that Gwen has been content to bask in all her life, safe and familiar. Since her arrival, Nora has been like a salmon battling the current, determined to swim upstream to where wild torrents replace the still calms, and frenetic activity awaits. Gwen watches her now at the bar as she throws back her head and laughs at some raucous comment made by one of the local farm labourers, uncaring of the bold hand that snakes around her waist, or the press of the other lad standing beside her.

Gwen looks away. All she wants is to escape outside with half a pint, and maybe sit on the stone wall and smoke a celebratory cigarette.

Instead, as the crowd shifts and friends and neighbours mill past her, she finds herself pawed. She fields hands on her shoulders and arms around her waist as she is seized by those eager to share their goodwill and embrace her in celebration. She does her best to reflect their bon viveur. Such a wonderful day; oh, we just had to come, couldn’t miss this for the world; yes, it’s such a relief; thank goodness for Mr Churchill; our boys have been so brave; I don’t know what it’ll mean for rationing; I should think Nora will stay for a while yet, goodness knows I couldn’t do without her.

And then finally it comes, with the inevitability of thunder on a clammy day.

‘You must be looking forward to getting your Jack back! Won’t be long now, I’m sure, and all our boys will come marching home.’

Mrs Hamer, the baker’s wife, grins up at her, the wrinkles in her face softening with pleasure. She looks down at Tom. ‘Are you looking forward to your daddy coming home, young man?’

The direct address provokes a display of shyness and Tom buries his face into Gwen’s navy dress. She fights to maintain the equilibrium of her smile as she glances towards the bar to see if Nora might be about to rescue them, but the Land Girl is now embroiled with a cluster of lads from the Young Farmers, all drawn to her effervescence like moths to a flame.

‘Have you heard anything from him?’ Mrs Hamer persists. ‘My Joe telephoned – would you believe it? Mrs Morgan ran round from the post office to fetch me. But then, he’s stationed over here so it’s easier for him, I suppose.’