‘Stay where you are, Gwen, you need to keep off that injury, remember?’ Jim stops her with a raised hand. ‘Bring him this way, Jack.’

Jack clicks the horse into motion. He avoids looking at Gwen as he leads Arthur past her, but he feels her eyes upon him. He follows the farmer up the length of the yard to the brick-built stable block on the right. The doors hang wide and Jack leads the horse inside, his eyes taking a moment to adjust to the gloom. Jim opens the swing gate of the loosebox before him and, with a tip of his head, gestures for the horse to be brought in. Jack drops his knapsack on the cobbles, then walks the horse inside, his boots sinking into the thick bed of straw. Jim follows him in, closing the gate behind them.

Without waiting to be asked, Jack pushes back the side flap of the saddle and releases the buckle on the girth strap which he drops beneath the horse’s belly. He drags the saddle towards him, resting it across his forearm, gathering up the girth as it reaches the horse’s back, folding it over the dipped leather seat, before balancing the saddle upon the wooden divide of the loosebox. As he does so, he notices a curry brush resting on the top, and with Jim still busy unbuckling the horse’s bridle, he sets about sweeping it over the horse’s side in firm, steady strokes.

Jim glances back at him. ‘You know horses, then?’

‘My grandad was a miner. I used to spend quite a bit of time up at the pits helping out with the ponies when I was a wee lad.’

‘A miner, eh? Not tempted to go mining yourself?’

‘No, a life underground is no life. He never wanted that for me.’

‘Was your dad a miner too?’

‘Aye, though I never knew him. He died in the war when I was little more than a bairn.’

‘That must have been hard.’ Jim lifts the bridle clear. The straw rustles as the horse steps forward to reach the contents of the hay rack hanging from the wall.

‘My mam moved to the city to get factory work during the war … better paid.’ Jack considers revealing the detrimental results of her having to surrender that same job when the men came home, but decides against it. Instead, he carries on sweeping the brush over the horse’s flank, liberating its short coat from the dust and sweat of its morning’s adventures.

‘And you ended up working the shipyards?’

‘Aye … handy, you know.’

‘But not handy enough to keep you there.’

Jack’s strokes falter, but he soon regains his rhythm. ‘Well, I got to thinking there might be more to life than hammering rivets … and it’s dangerous work, you know. A lot of men get injured.’

‘Is that what happened to your hand?’