Jack meets Jim’s eye over the horse’s scooped back. For a moment, they say nothing. It is Jack who looks away first. He applies more vigour to his brush work.

‘Aye …’ he says quietly, ducking under the horse’s neck to tend to its other side, ‘… something like that.’

He is aware of Jim watching him for a moment before slipping the bolt on the loosebox door. The farmer slides the saddle from the wooden divide and leaves Jack to his currying while he puts the tack away in a small room just inside the stable door. Jack murmurs to the horse as he continues to brush him down. He feels a pang of regret when the task is complete.

Jim reappears as Jack is closing up the loosebox. He stops in the shafts of sunlight slanting into the stables through the open doorway.

‘All done,’ Jack says. He offers the farmer an awkward smile before retrieving his knapsack from the cobbles.

‘You’re on your way again?’

‘Aye. Thank you for the tea.’

Jim grunts, turning his face to the light. He rubs his chin. ‘Helvedon, you say?’

Jack shifts his weight. ‘Aye.’

‘But you’ve nothing lined up?’

‘I’m happy to take my chances. I’m not fussy, I’ll take what’s offered.’

Jim grunts again. He pulls a grubby handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his nose, before tucking it away. He turns to Jack. ‘Look, I can offer you work for the rest of the summer. I could do with a hand for the harvest … that’d take us into September, October maybe. I can’t promise anything beyond that, we’ll have to see what happens and I don’t just mean how you do. There’s all this talk of war and it seems we’re heading that way, so I don’t know how things will be long term, but … well, if you take to it and there is a war, you might be glad to find yourself working on the land. Farming is a reserved occupation.’

Jack traces the smooth curve of a cobble with the tip of his boot, before steadily meeting Jim’s eye. ‘If there is a war, I intend to fight for my country … just like my dad did.’

Jim nods. ‘That’s fair enough, lad.’ Jack becomes the subject of Jim’s quiet contemplation. He knows he is being measured and assessed and he tenses under the scrutiny. He is almost relieved when the farmer finally clears his throat. ‘Well, look, the offer stands – if you want work for the time being, I’m happy to take you on. I warn you though, farming is not for the faint-hearted. It’s hard graft.’

‘Hard work never killed anyone,’ Jack says quickly, his grandfather’s words springing to mind, ‘though worrying about it killed a fair few.’