Jim grunts again. He pulls a grubby handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his nose, before tucking it away. He turns to Jack. ‘Look, I can offer you work for the rest of the summer. I could do with a hand for the harvest … that’d take us into September, October maybe. I can’t promise anything beyond that, we’ll have to see what happens and I don’t just mean how you do. There’s all this talk of war and it seems we’re heading that way, so I don’t know how things will be long term, but … well, if you take to it and there is a war, you might be glad to find yourself working on the land. Farming is a reserved occupation.’

Jack traces the smooth curve of a cobble with the tip of his boot, before steadily meeting Jim’s eye. ‘If there is a war, I intend to fight for my country … just like my dad did.’

Jim nods. ‘That’s fair enough, lad.’ Jack becomes the subject of Jim’s quiet contemplation. He knows he is being measured and assessed and he tenses under the scrutiny. He is almost relieved when the farmer finally clears his throat. ‘Well, look, the offer stands – if you want work for the time being, I’m happy to take you on. I warn you though, farming is not for the faint-hearted. It’s hard graft.’

‘Hard work never killed anyone,’ Jack says quickly, his grandfather’s words springing to mind, ‘though worrying about it killed a fair few.’

Jim snorts, then chuckles. ‘Ah, that’s about right.’ He skewers Jack with his pale blue stare. ‘So how about it?’

‘I don’t know much about farming.’

‘You willing to learn?’

‘I am.’ Jack steadies his breath. ‘I am.’

‘I can’t put you up in the house, but I’ve had men stay in the tack room here before now,’ Jim tips his head towards the door he’s just come through. ‘There’s a camp bed and stove …

‘It’ll do me fine.’

‘Wages will reflect your bed and board – you’ll take all your meals with us up at the house. I’m a fair employer, I’m not looking to diddle you in any way.’

‘I don’t doubt it.’

Jim’s firm mouth finally relents with a smile. He claps his broad hands together in satisfaction. ‘Right then.’

Jack wipes his palm on his trouser leg to rid himself of the grease from the horse’s coat, then he holds his hand out to the man before him.

‘I’m grateful to you.’

Jim’s grip is strong and though his bruised flesh protests, Jack is careful not to show his discomfort. The farmer’s subtle application of pressure conveys all he needs to know.

‘Don’t give me cause to regret it, lad,’ Jim says, his voice gruff.

‘I won’t, sir.’