The policeman appears unruffled by the criticism scantily clad in jest. He calls out a greeting to Gwen who responds as she pauses to wipe water from her face with the back of her hand. Jack can feel the policeman’s eyes upon him. Sweat beads his forehead, but he tells himself it will be put down to exertion and nothing else. It is, after all, hard labour, dipping sheep. Hard labour. Better than what awaits him. He keeps his head down. He refuses to be drawn by the constable’s stare.

‘I heard you’d acquired some help.’

The words are conveyed over the cacophony of thrashing water, terrified sheep, and Kip’s incessant yapping. There is a lump in Jack’s gullet, a blockage. Gwen’s hands graze his in the unthinking exchange of an animal. Not here, he thinks, not like this. He calculates the route over the field to the lane and wonders if he – the younger man – can beat the policeman to it.

‘Ah, this is Jack.’

‘Hello there, Jack.’

Jack cannot find a voice to return the greeting. Gwen appears amused by his gaucheness, but then her expression changes and her brow furrows. He clears his throat and finally manages a response.

‘Ah, a northern lad, with an accent like that,’ the policeman says, pleased with his powers of deduction. He unbuttons the top pocket of his uniform jacket and takes out a black notebook. ‘So, where do you hail from?’ he asks, producing a pencil stub. He flips back the pages of his pad and begins to write. He pauses, his eyes narrowing. He is waiting, Jack realises. He is waiting for Jack to speak.

He tries to concentrate on the sheep, the wash of water over his arms, the strain in his muscles as he holds them down. He tries to remain calm. ‘Sunderland.’ The lie falls with the easy slip of chiffon and Jack experiences a frisson of satisfaction that he has kept to his story. He has not faltered under pressure.

‘Sunderland? Well, you are a long way from home. My wife is from Durham, so I know just how far you’ve come. She insists on us making the journey up to see her family on a fairly regular basis and it’s a bloody long way, I can tell you.’

Jack schools his composure in the light of this revelation. ‘Aye, that it is,’ he says, wrestling with a frantic sheep.

‘A fairly regular basis? Bah, Vic, you can’t tell me you go more than once a year,’ Jim shouts across.

‘Once a year is regular, thank you very much. She’s a big family and makes us do the rounds – a whole week gone visiting one relative after the next. I don’t mind seeing my brother-in-law, though, at least we get to talk shop.’

‘Talk shop?’ Gwen asks.

‘He’s a policeman up there. So, what takes you so far from home, Jack?’