‘That must have been hard.’ Jim lifts the bridle clear. The straw rustles as the horse steps forward to reach the contents of the hay rack hanging from the wall.

‘My mam moved to the city to get factory work during the war … better paid.’ Jack considers revealing the detrimental results of her having to surrender that same job when the men came home, but decides against it. Instead, he carries on sweeping the brush over the horse’s flank, liberating its short coat from the dust and sweat of its morning’s adventures.

‘And you ended up working the shipyards?’

‘Aye … handy, you know.’

‘But not handy enough to keep you there.’

Jack’s strokes falter, but he soon regains his rhythm. ‘Well, I got to thinking there might be more to life than hammering rivets … and it’s dangerous work, you know. A lot of men get injured.’

‘Is that what happened to your hand?’

Jack meets Jim’s eye over the horse’s scooped back. For a moment, they say nothing. It is Jack who looks away first. He applies more vigour to his brush work.

‘Aye …’ he says quietly, ducking under the horse’s neck to tend to its other side, ‘… something like that.’

He is aware of Jim watching him for a moment before slipping the bolt on the loosebox door. The farmer slides the saddle from the wooden divide and leaves Jack to his currying while he puts the tack away in a small room just inside the stable door. Jack murmurs to the horse as he continues to brush him down. He feels a pang of regret when the task is complete.

Jim reappears as Jack is closing up the loosebox. He stops in the shafts of sunlight slanting into the stables through the open doorway.

‘All done,’ Jack says. He offers the farmer an awkward smile before retrieving his knapsack from the cobbles.

‘You’re on your way again?’

‘Aye. Thank you for the tea.’

Jim grunts, turning his face to the light. He rubs his chin. ‘Helvedon, you say?’

Jack shifts his weight. ‘Aye.’

‘But you’ve nothing lined up?’

‘I’m happy to take my chances. I’m not fussy, I’ll take what’s offered.’