She rewards him with a smile that lifts his soul when he finally drains the udder dry. She shows him how to weigh and log the cow’s yield in the milk ledger, before tipping the warm milk into the cooler; then she starts him on the next cow, and when she is confident he can be left to work alone, she sets about her own milking.

Jack insists on tackling the final beast.

‘Oh, I’m not sure … Meredith can be a bit of a handful …’ Gwen warns, but he dismisses her concerns.

‘You watch, I’m an old hand at this now,’ he says, settling himself down on the milking stool, the pail chinking against the stone as he places it ready.

‘Well, if you’re sure …’ Gwen says, resting against the side of the stall.

‘Aye, you’re making a fuss, lass.’ Jack grins as he starts working the teats. His confidence grows as the milk flows freely. He is unperturbed by the back hoof that paws the stone with building impatience, nor does he notice Gwen’s wary expression.

‘There you are … no problems at all …’ he crows as the milk begins to wane.

The cow’s tail hitches and Gwen recoils. He looks around in time to see a cascade of liquid muck flow from the cow’s rear, spattering onto the stone, splashing his trouser leg. The smell is ripe. Cursing, he springs up just as the ill-tempered cow delivers a well-aimed kick to the bucket, sending it clattering onto its side, a river of creamy milk mingling with the steaming slurry to form a sickening mire.

Forgetting himself, Jack throws up his arms swearing like the docker he is, damning the animal before him to hell and back. It is some minutes before he notices Gwen is doubled over. As he falls silent, she throws back her head. Her raucous guffaw rips through the milking parlour and the tears streaming down her cheeks charm his furious scowl into a fool’s grin.

She is still teasing him as they roll the final churns down to the milk stand at the farm gate, ready for collection by the local creamery. Jack grunts as he lifts them up onto the platform, the metal casings grating as he nestles them together.

‘All done,’ he says.

They turn back for the yard, but just after Jack has passed through the gate, Gwen drops down to a crouch.

‘Laces,’ she declares, as she begins to redo them. ‘Go on, I’ll catch you up. Pour me a cup of tea, will you?’

He heads towards the house, but as he reaches the steps, he looks back. Gwen is no longer attending to her boot laces, instead she appears to be retrieving something from under the loose brick in the gatepost.

Whatever it is, one thing is clear: she does not want anyone to see.