‘I might have done if anybody had thought to tell me,’ Nora grumbles, pulling a headscarf from her trouser pocket. She knots it over her hair. ‘I would have thought you and the returning hero would have been the ones in need of a lie-in this morning.’ She pushes past Gwen and jogs towards the milking parlour, slowing to shout back, ‘Tom was asking for you, he’s inside with Muriel.’

Jack smoothly settles back into the milking. He derives such pleasure from the simple task that the events of the past six years fall away and he is almost lulled into believing they are little more than troubling figments of his imagination. In the cool gloom of the parlour, with the sharp tang of cow dung, the slosh of milk and the steady chomp of hay, the war becomes nothing more than a faded nightmare, its residual fear dwindling as each waking moment strengthens the reassuring reality of the here and now.

‘All coming back to you, is it?’

He is startled from his reverie by Nora. She props herself against the wooden side of the stall, an emptied pail in her hand. The cow he is milking sidles, her hooves catching against the stone.

‘It is. Like I’ve never been away.’

He lowers his head, his hands moving steadily. She remains, watching him. He is relieved when Gwen arrives and Nora pushes herself up and finally moves away.

He offers to drive the herd back to the field and savours the peace of his solitary return. He relishes the beauty of the countryside around him – the wood’s verdant robes turned to glowing hues of yellow, bronze and red; the shadows of clouds scudding across the harrowed fields; the harmonious bird song that sends his spirits soaring. He has traipsed across Italy, France, Belgium, into Germany even, and seen these changes in foreign climes over the years, but nowhere has the changing season been as beautiful as it is here. His cautious heart lifts with the joy of being home.

There is a figure loitering just shy of the farm gate as he approaches. He takes a fortifying breath and subconsciously straightens his spine when he realises Ted has seen him. The farmer takes a final drag on the stub of cigarette caught between his yellowed fingers, before tossing it into the nettles and long grass of the verge.

‘So, it is true then,’ he says by way of greeting as Jack draws up short. ‘I heard you were back.’

‘Aye.’

‘Didn’t think you would be, what with one thing and another.’

Jack’s brow flickers. He is unsure whether there is hidden meaning in the farmer’s words. ‘Got lucky, I guess.’

The wind whistles between them. Ted takes a step closer. He lowers his voice.