They work on, progressing up the banked field until they are nearly at its top. The breeze drops away and the sun beats down unchallenged, fierce and punishing. The final wisp of cloud drifts from the sky and all that is left is blue. Tom, puce-faced, his hair plastered to his forehead, complains he is too hot, and Gwen sends him to sit still in the shade of an old oak, where he gleans fallen acorns from amongst the gnarled roots, favouring those still sitting in their hatched cups.

‘Hello … we have a visitor.’ Nora leans on her scythe, tipping her head towards the gate far below them.

Gwen finishes the sweep of her blade, then turns to follow the Land Girl’s gaze. The sky shimmers with heat and she is forced to squint against the sun. There is indeed a figure at the gate.

‘Must be Ted,’ Nora says and turns away in disinterest.

But there is something about the visitor’s manner as he opens the gate that seizes Gwen’s attention. As he begins to approach through the haze, light catches on brass set against khaki and she is powerless to look away.

It is not Ted.

Her scythe thuds to the ground.

She is vaguely aware of Nora calling her name as she drifts forward, her eyes pinching. Tom comes up behind her – she cannot see him, but she knows he is there. They are one, the two of them; they share an inseparable bond.

Her mouth is so dry she struggles to swallow.

The visitor comes to a stop before her. His kitbag lands heavily beside him. For a moment they stare at each other, as if trying to determine whether the moment is real or merely some mirage resulting from the heat. Gwen fears she has somehow conjured him and, if she has, what the consequences will be.

‘Hello, Gwen.’

Her husband has returned.

Part Two

Sicily, 1943

Jack found a quiet spot by a tumbled section of wall, a little removed from the rest of the lads who had sat in sociable groups to share a few smokes and tuck into their rations. He swept away the worst of the rubble with the side of his boot, then eased himself down, resting his back against the bullet-bitten stonework. Tipping back his head, he closed his eyes and wondered, once again, why he was still alive.

He rubbed his dusty face with a hand rusted with blood and, when he was done, his fingers strayed to the breast pocket of his uniform. Working free its brass button, he took out the small black-and-white photograph of Gwen tucked inside. She was crouched down, smiling, her arm around the little boy in shorts coyly looking up at the camera as he leant against her. He smoothed his thumb over the image, a wistful expression occupying his face as he studied every line and shadow of their features.