‘If this war comes, the WarAg will make us plough up every damn acre we have, because it’ll be crops the country will be crying out for, not meat. They’ll be wanting every inch of land working as hard as it can if the country is to feed itself and not rely on imports – and you can’t say it’s doing that if it’s just fattening up a few lambs for the Sunday roast. I can see us having to plough up every meadow before next year, if Chamberlain can’t work things out with that bloody German,’ Jim says, whipping his thistling hook through the spiky clumps before them with a dexterity and skill that Jack envies – his own wielding of the unfamiliar blade is decidedly cack-handed. ‘Can’t believe it’s the same bloody lot as last time,’ the farmer grumbles.

When the thistles have been thwarted they change tools, and Jim shows him how to cut back the spurting hedge that now encroaches upon the field, earning himself the chuntering disapproval of an evicted wren who flits to a nearby hazel to berate them.

By the time they break for lunch, Jack’s palms are sore with fluid-filled blisters, his skin chafed by the billhook’s wooden handle, but he makes no complaint. Instead, he helps the farmer gather the rubbish into a heap. Jim sets it alight with a match and it crackles and pops as the fire takes hold. He roots around for a long stick and when he finds one that pleases him, he unwraps the Spam sandwiches that Muriel has cut for them, and skewers one on the end to toast over the building flames. When it is cooked to his satisfaction, he pulls it free, juggling it like a hot potato as he offers it to Jack, amused by his dubious expression. The bread is a little charred, Jack finds, as he takes his first tentative bite, but the overall effect is surprisingly tasty and soon he is enjoying the hot sandwich with gusto, grinning sheepishly at the farmer’s teasing taunts of ‘doubting Thomas’.