Before she knows what she is doing, she has gripped it between her right thumb and forefinger and she is twisting it round, dragging it forward, suddenly desperate to be free of it, if only for a moment. Alone in her room she might escape its judgement, its condemnation, be free of its bondage, but no matter how hard she pulls, it jams against her knuckle. She tries to suppress a rising sense of panic as she works it round and round, but it stubbornly digs into her flesh. It will not budge. It is stuck, trapped against her joint; it has become an irremovable part of her.

She snatches her fingers away. Her breaths are coming quickly now, provoking a terrifying tightness in her chest. She collapses onto the end of her bed, knocked off her feet by the dawning realisation that the men are coming home and there is no longer any way to avoid the mess she has made of her life. The future that stretches before her appears mined with horrors and she cannot see a clear path through.

It takes a concerted effort to calm herself. She closes her eyes and slows her breaths. When she finally looks again at her hands, she notices that her wedding band continues to shine, even though it is now cast in shadow.

She gets to her feet and this time when she checks her reflection, she does not allow her focus to stray, she does not allow herself to panic. She rationalises that her hands are simply too warm. The wedding ring will come off. As soon as she is cold again.

Chapter Nine

Jack

June 1939

‘She’s in good care, Muriel was a nurse before she got married.’ The farmer holds out his hand to Jack. ‘Jim Hughes, pleased to make your acquaintance, young man. I’m very grateful to you, for coming to Gwen’s assistance like that.’

Conscious of his bruised knuckles, Jack angles them to conceal the worst of the damage as he shakes the farmer’s hand. ‘Jack Ellison. I’m just glad I was able to help the lass, sir.’

‘Good lad, good lad.’ Jim claps him on the back. ‘Cup of tea for your trouble?’

‘I wouldn’t say no.’

In the kitchen, Jim lifts the kettle from the range and gestures for Jack to take a seat at the table. As Jack draws out the nearest chair, he takes in the neatly arranged crockery on the dresser, the coats hanging from the hooks by the back door and the stoneware bottle of scour treatment standing on the windowsill, its torn paper label bearing a pencil sketch of a calf.

‘It’s a good job you happened by when you did,’ Jim says, placing the kettle on the hotplate of the range. He glances at Jack as he crosses the kitchen to retrieve two mugs from the cupboard. ‘You’re up and about early. Where were you heading?’