Later, while there is still enough light in the sky, Jack accompanies Jim outside to complete the day’s chores. They round up the chickens and shut them in the coop safe from roaming foxes, then check on the horses placidly cropping grass in the paddock. Jim sends Kip to his straw bed in the corner of the implement shed and, at last, they head back to the house for a final cup of cocoa that Gwen has promised to make in their absence.

‘You must find us as dull as ditchwater after a life in the city,’ she says, gently blowing across the top of her steaming mug, but Jack is quick with his contradictions.

When he finally bids them goodnight there is only moonlight to guide him across the uneven yard. He lets himself into the tack room and fumbles for the matches to light the candle, which is stuck upon a saucer with a dried puddle of wax. In its feeble glow, he strips off his clothes and slips his aching body between the bedsheets. The ticking-covered mattress surrenders without resistance to his weight. His head sinks into the feather pillow and he lies listening to some small creature skitter along the back wall. He permits himself a single thought of Jenny, then stretches over to blow out the candle. Its smoky trail fades into the darkness like a will o’ the wisp. He closes his eyes and, as he finally allows his weariness to possess him, he is surprised to discover his greatest sensation is peace.

Chapter Thirteen

Gwen

8th May 1945

Tom is getting tired and Gwen herself is exhausted from the intricate dance she has been performing all night, as she sidesteps questions about Jack, nimbly skirting the subject with ambiguous answers and a few downright lies. Her head throbs from trying to keep track of all the half-truths she’s told and who she’s told them to, ever mindful that local gossip might further spin the tales she’s spun.

It all puts her in mind of an incident from her youth, when she was caught trying to sneak out to a dance she had been forbidden to attend. She had facilitated her escape with an assortment of convoluted fibs that proved hard to keep track of. Her father had eventually fathomed out what she was up to and intercepted her en route, dragging her back home, banishing her to her room. She had flung herself upon her bed and sobbed at the unfairness of it all. ‘If you’re going to lie,’ Muriel had told her, having mustered a little sympathy for her suffering, ‘make up one simple tale and stick to it. Embellishments will prove your downfall.’

Muriel’s wise advice had fallen on deaf ears and now, years later, Gwen fears she has, once again, tried too hard and said too much.