The concertina top rattles as Gwen rolls it up. She places the day’s post on the pile of correspondence inside, next to a bottle of Royal Blue ink and a box of paperclips. She is about to close the desk again when the stack of small red diaries tucked away in one of the cubbyholes at the back catches her eye, evoking an unexpected pang, which she attributes in part to the peculiar events of the day.

Fuelled by a maudlin whimsy, she reaches for the top book. The cherry red cloth is rough to the touch; 1939 gleams in its upper right-hand corner, the numbers embossed in gold. She brings the diary to her face and inhales the lingering scent of Woodbines before opening it up, cupping it reverentially in her hands, folding back the pages with her thumbs, as one might break bread.

The double-page spread is unevenly divided into seven, three days on the left, four on the right, Saturday and Sunday cramped together in a mean distribution of leisure – though it is immediately apparent from the pencilled entries that there are no weekends of idleness to be found on a farm. Animals know nothing of a day of rest.

The corners of her mouth tug with fondness as she scans her father’s neat, brief entries:

Wind from the south. Mangles lifted. Tups sold.

Tried to rain all day but stayed dry. Harrowed Top Field.

Two calves, both healthy.

As she flicks through the diary, randomly stilling its whispering pages, the tension in her shoulders begins to ease and the weight that has been bearing down on her since hearing the clamorous church bells finally lifts. She can almost hear her father, summing up the day in his gruff but gentle voice. It is as if he is in the room with her and the comfort she takes from that foolish thought is so great that the pages flutter once again.

Fine, bright intervals. Strong N Wind.

Finished planting kale. Cultivated Mere Field.

Finished carting muck.

And then her eyes scan to the opposite page and one word leaps out at her:

Wedding

The word has been scored into the paper, just as the date has been carved into her heart. It has left an indelible scar on both. In the uncharacteristic slapdash scrawl, she feels her father’s unforgiving anger. The seven letters which should have encapsulated his happiness and pride instead betray his disgust and disappointment, and she feels their cut so acutely she catches her breath. She slams the diary shut and tosses it back into the desk. Her eyes sting as she hastily instigates the rolled slats’ unravelling descent. As the top clatters shut, she takes a steadying breath and blinks away her tears.