Instead, as the crowd shifts and friends and neighbours mill past her, she finds herself pawed. She fields hands on her shoulders and arms around her waist as she is seized by those eager to share their goodwill and embrace her in celebration. She does her best to reflect their bon viveur. Such a wonderful day; oh, we just had to come, couldn’t miss this for the world; yes, it’s such a relief; thank goodness for Mr Churchill; our boys have been so brave; I don’t know what it’ll mean for rationing; I should think Nora will stay for a while yet, goodness knows I couldn’t do without her.

And then finally it comes, with the inevitability of thunder on a clammy day.

‘You must be looking forward to getting your Jack back! Won’t be long now, I’m sure, and all our boys will come marching home.’

Mrs Hamer, the baker’s wife, grins up at her, the wrinkles in her face softening with pleasure. She looks down at Tom. ‘Are you looking forward to your daddy coming home, young man?’

The direct address provokes a display of shyness and Tom buries his face into Gwen’s navy dress. She fights to maintain the equilibrium of her smile as she glances towards the bar to see if Nora might be about to rescue them, but the Land Girl is now embroiled with a cluster of lads from the Young Farmers, all drawn to her effervescence like moths to a flame.

‘Have you heard anything from him?’ Mrs Hamer persists. ‘My Joe telephoned – would you believe it? Mrs Morgan ran round from the post office to fetch me. But then, he’s stationed over here so it’s easier for him, I suppose.’

‘No, no I haven’t heard …’ Gwen says at last. She leans forward, lowering her voice as if she does not want Tom to hear. ‘The truth is, Mrs Hamer, I haven’t heard anything for such a long while that …’ She contrives an expression of dismay. Mrs Hamer is central to village life. She is loose-lipped – well-meaning perhaps, but a gossip nonetheless – and Gwen sees how she can turn the unfortunate conversation to her advantage. The baker’s wife clutches her glass of sherry to her chest.

‘Oh, but my dear, you mustn’t think like that. If something had happened you would have heard.’

‘Would I? I’m not even sure where Jack is. He was never one for writing – just the occasional letter, you know. They’ve been few and far between and over the past few months … She shrugs at her handiwork – truth gift-wrapped in lies.

‘Oh, Gwen, love, you mustn’t give up hope.’ Mrs Hamer grips her arm. ‘I’ll pray for his safe return.’