He is nervous when his turn comes. Asked for his name, he hesitates, earning himself a look from the clerk. He contemplates giving a false one, but in the end he gives an honest account of himself. He has seen nothing in the papers for nearly three months and Iris Jennings’ brother has not come to visit after all. He reasons he is here to register for active service – why hang him when he is willing to die fighting? The clerk inscribes his name in the ledger in cramped black ink.

He knows he will not be called up straight away. He is beyond the first age bracket – the youngsters have been chosen to lead the charge – and then there is his occupation: farm labourer. The clerk pulls a face, and Jack can’t be sure that it isn’t disappointment.

The banns are read again the following week. This time Gordon is absent – he has already departed for officer training. Jack is standing beside Gwen when they overhear Lord Allingham informing the vicar. Colour flees her cheeks as she looks away.

At home, on the farm, the atmosphere has become charged. Jim is withdrawn and sullen. The cheeriness that characterised him has vanished. He barely speaks, except to bark orders – even Gwen suffers his silence. They labour side by side, only speaking when the task necessitates – bring the horse round, loosen that chain, spread the seed thinner. Jack is no longer invited into the sitting room each night. Instead he retreats to the tack room, sometimes with Kip for company. He misses the comfort, the enveloping warmth, of family life but he has found a task to occupy him.

He has made some space beyond his bed and fashioned himself a workbench from bits and bobs gleaned from the sheds. He unravels his leather roll of tools and sets to work on wood pilfered from the store, sawing and planing, carving and nailing. Every so often he will stretch out the muscles bunched in his back, stroke the dog’s head and step out into the yard to take in the evening air. The nights are drawing in and temperatures have dropped. He looks up at Gwen’s blacked-out window and yearns for her company.

Conscious his time with her is ebbing away, he gladly steps in when Jim leaves her with the evening chores. He downs tools on seeing her pass by his window and joins her to shoo the hens into their coop.

‘Have you noticed? He can’t even look at me anymore,’ Gwen says, as Jack carries the last bantam inside. ‘My own father. He hates me.’

He shuts the door and lifts the bar into place. ‘Ah lass, he doesn’t hate you.’