Between them, they load up with crates and trays. Gwen picks her way across the sun-bleached hassocks in her high-heeled shoes and the men follow. They pass through a narrow iron gate onto the velvet lawns. She pauses to survey the scene before her, then dispatches her father with his tray of cakes to a tent shaded by a cedar tree, while she and Jack take their crates of jam to the large marquee in front of the house.

Gwen, Jack realises immediately, is in a heightened state of alertness. She appears to be on constant lookout, though she attempts to mask her sweeping study of the fete. They are greeted by people Jack doesn’t know, mostly ladies wearing pearls, neat hats, white gloves and smart dresses that fall well below the knee. When he asks, Gwen whispers they are members of the church committee which organises the event each year. But he knows her interest does not lie with such pillars of the community.

‘Looking for Gordon?’

‘He’s here somewhere, I know.’

‘I’m sure he’ll be looking out for you.’ The reassurance feels hollow, even to him. Some instinct, deep in his gut, belies the words.

‘Yes … yes, he will,’ she says, improving her grip on her crate.

They enter the marquee, the close-cropped grass a plush carpet beneath their feet. Trestles have been set up end-to-end to run its length. The first table is arranged with plates stacked with pies of all sizes – pork pies, picnic pies, meat pies – their contents hidden beneath thick layers of grease-sheened pastry with pinched rims, all jealously guarded by a plump middle-aged woman with tightly curled hair. Beads of perspiration cling to her furred upper lip as she battles off a persistent bluebottle. The warm air trapped inside the canvas is as thick as treacle.

‘Jams, preserves and pickles – far table,’ she snaps, as Gwen shyly proffers her wares.

Jack follows Gwen along, observing her as she receives nods and greetings from the other ladies setting up their stalls. The far table is unmanned and unadorned, so they set down their crates and while Jack unloads the jars Gwen starts to arrange them into colourful pyramids.

He is just stacking the empty boxes when he detects a frisson of excitement pass through the marquee as an older woman with regal deportment dips with practised elegance under the tent flap. Her dress is simple and unfussy, yet its discerning cut reveals it has been made for her and her alone. Strings of pearls cover her chest in ever-decreasing loops, and her narrow-brimmed hat bears a pretty arrangement of flowers at its front which sets off her outfit to perfection. The smile that graces her features is practised and cold.

‘Good afternoon, ladies.’