When the milking parlour is clear of muck, he fills large buckets from the outside pump, working the heavy handle until water whooshes from its wrought-iron mouth. Taking a bucket in each hand he staggers back, the muscles in his neck standing proud as he strains under their combined weight. He sluices the floor one bucket at a time, sweeping through the swilled water with a hard-bristled broom until he fancies the stone practically gleams.

‘He’s giving you all the glamorous jobs, I see,’ Gwen says as Jack ushers the last of the lying water out into the yard. She stands just beyond the door, her swollen foot cocked behind her, while she rests upon an upturned broom, its head – covered with a towel – tucked in her armpit.

‘Impromptu crutch,’ she explains with a wry smile. ‘Muriel’s idea.’

Jack finds her grin infectious. ‘Very fetching.’

‘How are you finding it?’

‘It’s proper graft … but I don’t mind that.’

‘Well, there’s a pot of tea made up at the house. Dad usually comes in for one about now.’

‘Fair enough, I’ll just finish up here.’

She smiles and hobbles around. He returns inside to put away the broom and the buckets. When he comes to leave, he expects to see Gwen by the back door, but instead she has carried on past the house and is heading towards the gate and the stand from where the milk lorry collects the full churns each morning. He pauses in the doorway of the milking parlour watching her. There is something determined about the set of her shoulders as she labours her way down the yard with more speed than he has seen her use since her accident – with more speed than he thinks is wise. She is hurrying, that is clear, but her purpose is not.

She stops at the gatepost and wriggles a brick clear from the top, slipping something into the gap before swiftly replacing it. As she turns back, she catches sight of him watching her. Though she is too far away for him to clearly see her expression, Jack detects a tell-tale stiffening in her stance.

She drops her chin to her chest then resumes her return to the house.

Jim has Jack labouring for the rest of the day. The morning is spent cutting thistles from a fallow field that is to be cultivated, pressed into action by the local War Agricultural Executive Committee.