‘I couldn’t take your money.’

‘If you’re getting my war pension, lass, I’m in a place where I won’t be needing it.’

‘But your own family …’

‘I have no family. Jenny was my only family.’

‘Your mother …’

‘She was never much of a mother to me, Gwen. She’s only herself to take care of these days and she’s more than capable of doing that. I would rather you had the benefit of the money.’ He hesitates. ‘You’ve come to mean more to me than my own flesh and blood, Gwen. I’d want you to have it.’

‘To even talk about this is madness. I’ll not talk about it anymore.’ She tries to walk past him, but he catches hold of her arm. Gently, he brings her round to face him.

‘Gwen … do you want this bairn?’

She bites her lip and looks away. Slowly she nods.

‘Because it’s his?’ he asks, for no other reason than to torture himself.

‘Because it’s mine!’ She faces him, radiating defiance.

‘Then let me help you. Let me do that? One last act of friendship before I go.’

‘I can’t marry you, Jack. I don’t love you.’

Her honesty shouldn’t hurt him but it does, though he knows he has no right to her affections. It was foolish to expect them, ridiculous to hope. ‘I promise you, Gwen … I won’t come back. Whatever happens, I won’t come back. I can’t, don’t you see? And if Jerry doesn’t get me first, in seven years you can have me declared dead. You can get on with your life while you’re waiting for the legalities to pass. You and your bairn.’ He takes her hands. ‘Don’t run the risk of getting rid of it, lass, especially if that’s not what your heart wants anyhow.’

‘I need to think.’

‘Aye, I understand. Think on it, think on all I’ve said.’

He releases her, but she remains enveloped in his heart, whether she is aware of it or not.

It seems to Jack that Gwen drives herself harder that day than on any other. She hoists two sheaves at a time onto her shoulders, so bent beneath their weight she can barely lug them across the stubbled field to where the horses stand, shackled to the haycart with its growing load. She grunts with effort as she flings them up one at a time, before clambering aboard to haul them to the far end to make space for more. It is not long before her hair clings to her forehead and her shirt is dark with sweat.

‘Working like a Trojan, Gwen!’ Jim calls, his voice ringing with admiration.