She pulled away and bent to pick up from underneath the cow the pail of milk, which, miraculously, was still upright.

‘Here, let me,’ he offered and without giving her chance to refuse, gently but firmly, he took the pail from her hands. ‘Where do you want it?’

‘In the house, please,’ she said a little breathlessly. ‘In the pantry.’

‘Right you are, Ma’am,’ he teased, then added more seriously as he noticed her limping slightly as she left the cowshed, ‘Did she hurt you?’

‘Not much – but she caught me right on my knee.’

He pulled a face as if he shared her pain. ‘Ouch!’ he murmured with feeling.

Esther laughed wryly. ‘Too true! But it’ll soon go. It’s not the first kick I’ve had by a long way, an’ I don’t expect it’ll be the last, either.’

Whilst he set the milk carefully in the pantry, she lifted the kettle from the hob and mashed a pot of tea.

He came back and stood before the range, spreading out his hands towards the warmth of the fire, for the early spring evening had grown chill. He gazed into the flames and there was a far-away look in his eyes.

Esther came to stand beside him, holding a cup of tea. She looked up at him, watching his profile in the flickering light, the straight nose and smooth, firm chin, the well-shaped mouth that smiled so readily. But now there was no smile upon his lips. Whatever his thoughts were, they were grave. Slowly he turned to look at her and for what seemed an age they just stood there looking deep into each other’s eyes.

At last Esther stammered, ‘Er – would you like a cup of tea?’

He started visibly as if she had woken him from a daydream. Perhaps she had, but in the next instant he was taking the cup from her and as their fingers touched, she felt a tingle run through her.

Alarmed that the touch of a stranger could arouse such a feeling in her, Esther stepped backwards and put the distance of the hearth rug between them. As if realizing what her action meant, there was a fleeting look of disappointment upon his face that this time she did not imagine. He smiled sadly and, taking a mouthful of tea, looked around him. His eyes rested upon the silver-framed photograph and the several postcards stacked behind it.

He nodded towards it. ‘Your husband?’

‘Yes – yes. That’s Matthew. He’s – he’s a soldier, like you. I think he’s somewhere in France. He sends me a postcard every six weeks or so, just to let me know – he’s – he’s all right. He doesnt write much.’

‘We’re not allowed to say much at all,’ Jonathan Godfrey defended Matthew. ‘You’re lucky to hear anything, believe me.’