He dug his hands in his pockets and resumed walking until he reached the abandoned ruins of the farmhouse, and then sat on a fallen, rotting beam to stare out at the fields and hills which spread before him. The summer crops had been harvested, the hay cut and stacked in ricks across the fallow fields. Soon the ploughing and planting would begin for the winter crops, and this made him think about his older brother down in Somerset.

Charlie missed Bob, even though he could be overbearing and bossy at times – missed the camaraderie of harvest and haymaking – missed the farmhouse and the evenings when they’d all gathered to discuss future plans for the farm. But most of all he missed Auntie Vi. Lovely plump, motherly Vi who’d cuddled him out of his tears and soothed his homesickness with so much love and understanding.

Tears gathered and he blinked them away as he reached into his pocket for the packet of cigarettes he’d bought from one of the older boys at school. Having lit one, he dug in his pocket again for the quarter bottle of whisky he’d filched from his mother’s larder.

There wasn’t much left in it, and he doubted she’d notice it was gone, but all the same, he felt rather guilty as he sipped at it and felt the familiar warmth burn his throat. He didn’t really like the taste of the whisky or the cigarette, but they’d become a small defiance against the sense of disorientation he’d been subject to since his homecoming.

‘To be sure, I hope ye’ve saved a drop for me,’ said Ron, settling on the beam beside him.

Charlie had been so deep in his misery that he hadn’t heard him approach, and he started guiltily, quickly stamping out the cigarette. ‘I was just …’

‘Aye, I know, wee boy,’ said Ron, taking the bottle from him and draining the last of it. He dropped the bottle into his pocket and eyed the trampled cigarette before taking his time to fill his pipe.

‘I saw you coming up here, so left the dogs with Rosie,’ he muttered. ‘It looked as if you had the weight of the world on your shoulders and needed someone to talk to.’

‘I’m sorry, Grandad,’ stuttered Charlie. ‘I didn’t mean for you to …’

‘It’s grand that you’re sorry, lad, but I’m thinking ’tis only because you’ve been caught. What your mother would say, I dread to think.’

‘You won’t tell her, will you?’ he gasped in horror.

Ron shook his head and puffed contentedly on his pipe for a while. ‘I found it very difficult on my return home from the trenches,’ he said eventually. ‘Things and people were changed, and it took me a long while to repair relationships, find my feet and settle down.’

Charlie realised this was a cue to talk about his feelings, and although he wanted to, he didn’t know how without sounding pathetic. ‘I’ve found it’s best to just keep my head down and do what’s expected of me,’ he said finally. ‘School’s okay, and I’m enjoying being back in a rugby team again, but …’