Gwen attempts to conceal her trembling mouth by turning away to rub the horses’ blazes. When she finally composes herself, it is Jack she seeks out.

He does not understand what he has done to earn the gratitude that warms her features.

But he knows he will do anything to keep it.

Jim attempts to goad Gwen at breakfast on Saturday morning.

‘Well, I don’t know, Gwen … I can’t really let you off your chores just so you can go and get dolled up for some dance.’

‘I don’t mind not going, you know. If you’d rather I stay …

Jack looks up from his plate. The levity that lifted Jim’s words is markedly absent from Gwen’s.

‘Don’t be daft, girl. You’re going to the ball.’

‘But …’

‘No buts, you’re going.’ Jim waves away her doubts with his knife and fork.

Gwen does not seem relieved. Indeed, as the week has progressed Jack has noticed how quiet she has become. He has also noticed the leaden looks she exchanges with Muriel whenever Saturday is mentioned and the shallow frown that appears like fretwork on her brow.

‘You do the milking this afternoon as normal, and I’ll come and help Jack clean up after. How’s that? Will that be time enough?’

‘I’ll put the copper on for you, so you can have a bath when you come in.’ Muriel half-turns from the stove where she is frying off some beef for a casserole.

Gwen’s expression of gratitude strikes Jack as half-hearted.

They spend the day sowing peas in the field which Jack himself harrowed the day before. He was powerless to hide his pleasure when he finished the task, with both Jim and Gwen approving his efforts.

‘I’m going to have to scrub like mad to get this mud out of my nails,’ Gwen says to him later, examining her grimy fingers as they go together to bring the cattle in for milking. ‘Jack … tonight … could you try and make sure Dad doesn’t get too carried away in the pub?’

‘Is he likely to?’

She throws a glance to the horizon, sending it on its way with a slight shrug of her shoulders. ‘I can trust you to look out for him, can’t I?’

‘He’s a grown man, Gwen …’

‘Can’t I?’

‘Of course.’

She tries to muster a smile, but it wilts on her lips like a parched flower.

‘What exactly is it you’re worried about, Gwen?’

She tips her head back. The breeze ruffles the loose strands of hair that have escaped the scarf knotted at the base of her skull.

‘I’m just being foolish … I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about,’ she says at last. ‘Nothing at all.’

Gwen is uncharacteristically quiet as she finishes the milking. When Jim appears to take over the cleaning up, she offers again to remain at home for the evening.