Jack is not enjoying the fete. Gwen has committed to the opening stint on the jam stall and at first he thinks he will stay with her, but as the marquee becomes packed with plump farmers’ wives and young children overflowing with reckless energy, he makes his excuses and ducks out. The grounds are filling up now. The domed roofs of cars cobble the front meadow and abandoned push bikes decorate the iron railings, while the Hall looms in the background, disapproving of the hoi polloi now milling over its manicured lawns.

It is unbearably hot. He pulls his handkerchief from his pocket and dabs at his forehead. He yearns to strip off his jacket and roll up his sleeves, but he notices a decorous standard is being maintained amongst the crowd, with everyone suffering the heat in their hats and suits, and he has no intention of letting the side down. So, his jacket remains on, though his body leaks through his shirt into its seams.

He passes the coconut shy where a group of giggling girls are trying their luck with little success, and then an apple-bobbing barrel with a line of boys egging each other on to get wet, much to the consternation of the stallholder. The enticing scent of honey and hops emanates from the open-fronted beer tent, but though sorely tempted, Jack decides against joining the old men and lithe lads lingering around its guy ropes supping their nectar-filled glasses. He walks on.

An eight-piece ensemble is playing on a raised dais erected in the middle of the lawn, and as the violins’ soft strains float through the air Jack is struck by how unimaginable he would have found his present situation a few weeks ago. He thinks back to that night in June, huddled against the shuddering boards of the coal wagon, with his throbbing knuckles and smarting eyes, and he remembers the plan he managed to extricate from his racing thoughts. He marvels how that very plan – formed from a desire to redeem himself – has so unexpectedly brought him here to this new life – a life that he now longs to pursue.

But he knows it is an impossible dream. He must fulfil his original intentions. He has no choice in the matter – he must escape to the war that draws ever closer. It remains the only way he can atone for what he has done – and perhaps secure a future. War will be his trial and fate his hanging judge. If he is to sacrifice his life for his crimes at least it will be on his own terms, and that way he can accept its loss – for its loss, he suspects, is inevitable. The black-bordered photographs on his mantel at home reveal how battlefield odds play out for men like him.