‘Oh! Thank God, you’ve found him!’ Nora bursts through the doorway. ‘Hello, Ted,’ she throws him a cursory glance, before turning her attention on Tom. ‘You’re a rotter running off like that, worrying everyone silly.’

‘I’m going to have a lemonade now,’ Tom says, unperturbed.

‘Well, I’m about to go to the bar, so come with me and I’ll get it for you.’ Nora holds out her hand and Tom takes it without hesitation.

‘Here, Nora …’ Ted pulls some coins from his pocket. ‘I promised I’d buy him one.’

‘Right, Tom, it’s on Uncle Ted. Let’s go and get you that lemonade. Do you two want anything?’ she asks as an afterthought, but both Gwen and Ted shake their heads, so she disappears inside with Tom.

Gwen watches them go. She folds her arms across her chest as the light breeze begins to pick up, cooler now with only the sun’s dying rays to warm it.

‘I didn’t know whether you would come or not,’ she says.

‘Ah well, special occasion and all that,’ Ted replies, returning his hands to his pockets. ‘I didn’t know whether you’d be here. I did call round on my way down and saw that the house was all shut up.’

‘Oh, you know Nora … never one to miss a party.’ Gwen’s wry tone elicits a smile.

Voices continue to sigh on the wind. The thrush flies from its perch on the wall as far as the oak tree in the field behind. It launches into its evening song.

‘So …’ Ted says, suddenly appearing ill at ease. To Gwen’s surprise, he avoids her direct gaze, half-turning instead to observe the swell of their fields in the distance, seamed together by snowdrifts of hawthorn and verdant field maple, dulled by the fading light. ‘They’ll all be coming home, I suppose … the men.’

‘Yes.’

His voice drops. ‘Your Jack among them.’ It is a while before he adds, ‘You must be pleased about that.’ He shifts his gaze towards her.

With no voice to answer, all Gwen can do is look away.

Chapter Eleven

Jack

June 1939

They are all outside, grave-faced, when he finally reappears with Gwen’s horse. It walks behind him, its head hung low, a picture of placid submission, but Jack’s smarting shoulder bears testimony to the resistance the ill-tempered creature put up, though his shirt hides the reddened skin where it bit him. Only the smear of dried mud on the seat of his trousers hints at the trouble he’s had.

‘We thought you’d done a runner, lad!’ Jim calls out, ambling down the steps towards him, his hands deep in his trouser pockets.