He follows her into the darkened hall, half-walking, half-dragging the semi-conscious farmer. He jiggles him awake enough to help him manage the stairs, though Jack is forced to grab the bannister to prevent them both toppling backwards. Gwen leads him into the end bedroom, hurrying forward to pull back the bedcovers. Jim collapses onto the mattress the moment Jack releases him. He mumbles incoherently as Jack pulls off his shoes, then rolls onto his side and falls silent once more. Gwen draws the covers up.

‘He can sleep like that – it won’t hurt him,’ she whispers, extinguishing the paraffin lamp on the bedside table.

Jack retraces his steps to the kitchen, the soft swish of Gwen’s velvet dress following behind.

‘Oh, you’d better take this,’ she says, shucking off his jacket as they reach the back door.

‘Will you be all right?’ he asks, taking it from her.

‘I’ll be just fine. I dare say Dad will have a sore head in the morning.’ She musters a smile.

‘Aye, I reckon you’re right about that.’

She puts her hand on the door as he slips on his coat.

‘Thank you, Jack, for everything.’

‘It’s nee bother, lass.’ He hesitates. ‘Tell me, though, did you have a good time?’

‘I had the most wonderful time.’ The memory of the evening fans the fire in her eyes, but he suspects Gordon Allingham sparked the blaze.

He walks across the yard, tormented by the perfume lingering on his jacket. He yearns to be the man responsible for igniting such fires, but by the time he reaches the tack room he is despondent, for he knows that particular privilege will remain forever beyond his reach.

Chapter Sixteen

Jack

June 1939

Suspecting Gwen will sleep in following her eventful night, Jack rises earlier than usual – the milking will take him longer alone. As he leaves the stable block, he sees her curtains are still drawn against the breaking dawn and the farmhouse displays no tell-tale signs of life. Only Kip comes to greet him, pausing to stretch and snap off a yawn, before trotting beside him to the pasture where they find the cattle huddled at the gate.

As he drives the cows into the yard the cockerel leaps onto the fence, propelled by its batting wings. It throws back its head to wake the world, the rosy flap of skin beneath its beak rippling like a signal flag. With the morning reveille performed, it jumps down, its great pronged toes digging into the mud as it spreads its colourful wings in a vainglorious display. Jack gives it a wide berth. There is something about the cock that strikes him as arrogant and dangerous. He doesn’t trust it an inch.