He is vaguely aware of the motorbike throbbing into life and the furious rip of its engine as it speeds away down the lane. Ted jogs to catch him up, slowing his pace as he draws alongside, struggling to catch his breath, a hand to his chest.

‘I want to check on Gwen and Tom,’ Ted insists as they reach the steps. Jack keeps his head down and mounts them first. He looks back when Ted fails to follow.

The farmer remains in the yard. He pulls off his flat cap and absently runs the brim through his fingers.

‘Ted?’

He pulls his cap back on. ‘You go in and see they’re all right, Jack. I’ll go and help the men with the rick.’

‘Come on, Ted …’ Jack tips his head towards the house. ‘Come and see her.’ His voice is gentle.

Some emotion that Jack can’t define crosses Ted’s face. ‘If you’re sure. Thank you,’ he manages, his voice hoarse as his feet scuff the steps.

Jack pushes open the back door to find Gwen sitting at the kitchen table. She lifts her head from her hands; her tear tracks form a braided stream down her dusty cheeks.

‘Where’s Tom?’ Jack asks.

‘Muriel is reading to him in his room.’

While Jack comes further in, Ted remains in the doorway.

‘Is Tom all right?’ he asks.

Gwen nods. She bites her lip. Her chest rises and falls. ‘He’s never going to stop, is he? He’s never going to leave us alone. We’ll never be safe. We will never be free of him.’

The two men watch helplessly as she buries her face in her hands, her shoulders quaking from sobs she is powerless to contain.

Chapter Fifty-Three

Gwen eventually rallies and returns to the ricks, though she is grateful when the time comes to collect the cows for milking, giving her an excuse to slip away. She is conscious of the threshing team’s weighted stares as she passes by, and she wonders what deductions they have made from the morning’s entertainment.

The lane is thankfully quiet and only serenading blackbirds and a wren that flitters amongst the entwined branches of the hawthorn attempt to keep her company.

She has walked so far without seeing anyone that when she does, she is startled. A pedal bike lies discarded on the grassy trapeze before a field gate. Its owner – a young woman – is leaning over the gate itself, the wind fluttering her headscarf and coyly lifting the hem of her tweed skirt. She shies away when she hears Gwen, shielding her face. Her stiff embarrassment hints at tears, so Gwen keeps her head down and lengthens her stride to afford the girl some privacy.

‘Oh, it’s you.’