Jack carries out his careful study of the newspaper again that evening. There is news of the royal trip to America; of bombs exploding in post offices and pillar boxes across London, Manchester and Birmingham as the IRA terrorises the country, but there is no news from Newcastle. Once again, he shuts the paper with a sense of relief, though the twin monkeys of fear and guilt cling stubbornly to his back. As he sinks into his chair, his anxieties soothed by the gentle music emanating from the wireless, he realises his urge to run is dissipating. He steals a look at Gwen. He is safe to stay. For a little while, he cautions himself silently. Just for a little while. He cannot risk becoming complacent.

He bids the others goodnight and makes the now-familiar trek across the yard to the tack room, his way lit by a moon unfettered by clouds. When he lights the candle on the apple crate, he hears Kip whine and then a muted voice. As he goes out to investigate, Gwen appears in the stable doorway with the dog at her heels and something draped over her arm.

‘I forgot these earlier,’ she says. ‘I just thought with the bright mornings and me padding about at all hours, you should have the option of a little privacy. They’re curtains,’ she explains in the face of his confusion

He expresses his gratitude. Unsure what to do, he offers to take them, but she shakes her head and brushes past him.

‘I’ll hang them for you.’

‘Is there anything to hang them from?’ he asks, rubbing the back of his neck as he follows her into the room, suddenly conscious of the unmade bed.

‘There should be. The last chap had some curtains in here, but I think the moths ate them clean away.’ She appears to be talking to herself as much as to him, as she peers up above the window frame. ‘You see? The cord is still there. Here, take these a minute.’

She passes him the curtains and stretches up on tiptoe to reach the taut line that has been strung between two hooks. The fabric is kitten soft against his bare skin and he realises with some surprise that it is green velvet. Gwen’s shirt tugs loose of her waistband. He catches a glimpse of pale skin and looks away.

‘There we are, let me …’ Taking the first panel from him she threads the cord through the open hem she has sewn at the top, then gives it to Jack to hold while she threads on the second panel, the fabric bunching as she slides it along. When she is done, they raise the laden cord between them and hook it into place. ‘There.’ She stands back to survey her work before pulling the material together, closing them in the room with only the candle flame offering any resistance to the darkness.