‘You found Arthur!’ Gwen cries. With her injured foot heavily bandaged, she is standing stork-like, her shoulder resting on the back wall of the farmhouse. At the sound of her voice, the horse throws back his head and whinnies, snatching Jack’s hand up, and though he knows her resulting smile is not for him, he cannot help but relish its warmth. ‘I can’t believe you went and found him!’

‘Well, I didn’t want you to be worrying, like,’ Jack mumbles, shifting the position of his retrieved knapsack on his shoulder before reaching up to pat the horse’s neck. It shakes its head, chomping on its bit.

‘You even ran up his stirrups,’ Gwen observes with surprise.

Jack looks at his feet to hide the rush of blood to his cheeks. ‘I can untack him for you, if you like.’

‘Oh, I’ll come and do that …’ She pushes herself from the wall but winces as weight hits her bad foot.

‘Stay where you are, Gwen, you need to keep off that injury, remember?’ Jim stops her with a raised hand. ‘Bring him this way, Jack.’

Jack clicks the horse into motion. He avoids looking at Gwen as he leads Arthur past her, but he feels her eyes upon him. He follows the farmer up the length of the yard to the brick-built stable block on the right. The doors hang wide and Jack leads the horse inside, his eyes taking a moment to adjust to the gloom. Jim opens the swing gate of the loosebox before him and, with a tip of his head, gestures for the horse to be brought in. Jack drops his knapsack on the cobbles, then walks the horse inside, his boots sinking into the thick bed of straw. Jim follows him in, closing the gate behind them.

Without waiting to be asked, Jack pushes back the side flap of the saddle and releases the buckle on the girth strap which he drops beneath the horse’s belly. He drags the saddle towards him, resting it across his forearm, gathering up the girth as it reaches the horse’s back, folding it over the dipped leather seat, before balancing the saddle upon the wooden divide of the loosebox. As he does so, he notices a curry brush resting on the top, and with Jim still busy unbuckling the horse’s bridle, he sets about sweeping it over the horse’s side in firm, steady strokes.

Jim glances back at him. ‘You know horses, then?’

‘My grandad was a miner. I used to spend quite a bit of time up at the pits helping out with the ponies when I was a wee lad.’

‘A miner, eh? Not tempted to go mining yourself?’

‘No, a life underground is no life. He never wanted that for me.’

‘Was your dad a miner too?’

‘Aye, though I never knew him. He died in the war when I was little more than a bairn.’