She walks slowly towards him. Jack carries on sweeping, pushing the last remaining evidence of the day’s endeavours into a neat pile beside the laden wheelbarrow. He looks up as Gwen draws near.

‘Thank you for doing this,’ she says.

‘You don’t need to thank me.’

Her eyes fill again, but this time she loses the battle and a tear bursts through her defences. She laughs brokenly as she dashes it from her cheek.

‘What a day! I just keep crying.’

Jack does not respond; his focus does not waver.

‘I came to say that Muriel has heated water for a bath. I’ll grab a quick wash, then if you want to come in, we’ll get the tub filled for you.’

‘Thank you.’

Gwen starts to walk away. She hesitates. ‘And then perhaps you might want to read a bedtime story to Tom? I think he’d like that.’

He answers with a smile, a shy lift of his mouth as the light fades around him. ‘I’d like that too,’ he admits. ‘Very much.’ Gwen bathes quickly in the scant amount of hot water Muriel has tipped into the tin bath, positioned for privacy in the pantry. Her exposed skin is icy cold and, as she runs her lathered hands over her shoulders and arms, gooseflesh rises to greet them. Muriel has left out two jugs of lukewarm water for her to wash her hair, which wears its layer of dust like the crackle coating of a toffee apple.

She bends into her drawn-up knees, gasping as she empties the first jug over her bowed head. She lathers up her hair the best she can, then rinses and wrings it out so that it hangs like a rat’s tail. Gripping the edge of the tub, she stands up through the surface scum, wincing as she steps out onto the freezing flags. She wraps a small towel around her head and dries herself with a larger one, before slipping into her scratchy plaid dressing gown. She knots the rope about her waist and tiptoes to the door.

Muriel is finishing some folding at the kitchen table as she emerges, the paraffin lamp burning bright before her, creating a circle of light that provides solace against the encroaching darkness.

‘I’ll get the tub emptied and refilled for Jack,’ she says, ‘and then I’d best be on my way.’

‘Thank you for staying late.’ Gwen squeezes her hand.

‘I wasn’t going anywhere after …’ There is no need for her to finish. She folds the last piece of clothing into the basket on the table. ‘Right, best get to it.’

‘Can you manage all right? If you give me a minute, I’ll race up and get dressed.’

‘Oh, it’s no bother, love. I’ll soon get it emptied and filled – and I’ll let Jack know it’s ready as I head off.’