Gwen looks up from the day’s post spread across the tabletop before her, an assortment of bills and directives as well as an advice leaflet from the WarAg. There is nothing from Jack and for that she is grateful. She casts her mind back, trying to remember when she last received a letter from him, but she cannot say with any certainty. She would have to check the drawer in her desk, for she has not been so heartless as to throw his correspondence away. In truth she was unsure what to do with his letters, but on the basis that Tom might, at some point, start asking awkward questions, it seemed wise in the end to keep them. She hopes that day is a long way off. She needs to compose her own defence before then.

She folds the bill in her hand. ‘Yes, I must.’ She gathers up the post and pushes back her chair.

‘I’ll see you in the Hare and Hounds then, whenever you’re ready,’ Muriel says, bundling the apron in her hands.

Gwen nods distractedly. ‘Yes … yes, I’ll be along as soon as I’ve got Tom sorted.’

They hear Nora moving around in the room above, already preparing for her evening out.

‘Gwen …’ Muriel’s gnarled knuckles crenellate on the back of the chair before her. ‘People are bound to say something … they’re bound to ask about Jack. You need to be ready for them.’

Gwen’s grip tightens on the letters in her hand. She stares down at the tabletop. ‘Yes. Yes, I know. I’ll think of something.’

Muriel purses her lips and Gwen looks away, fearing she is about to be pressed for more. She can almost sense Muriel’s internal battle, but in the end whatever arguments she had been aligning are stood down and the door clacks shut behind her. Gwen does not sense a victory, merely a temporary cessation of fire.

She steps up from the kitchen into the narrow strip of hallway alongside the stairs. She hears Tom in the front room as she lets herself into the small office immediately to her right.

Though the room is compact its large window overlooking the yard serves to alleviate its cramped conditions. Her father’s roll-top desk stands against the side wall. The oak is sun-faded and in need of a polish, but Muriel knows better than to interfere in here, so whilst other furniture in the house gleams from her weekly attentions, the desk adopts a tarnished air of neglect.