‘Oh, you startled me!’ Gwen cries, catching sight of him in the doorway as she sits before an open roll-top desk. She laughs, mocking her own skittishness as she swiftly folds the piece of paper she had been writing on, pushing it into the pocket of her skirt as she struggles to her feet. She lists to one side, the result of favouring her good foot.

‘Your dad said to come on in for a cup of tea, like.’ Embarrassed at having interrupted her, Jack lowers his eyes to his boots and in doing so realises he has trodden mud into the faded rug that lies upon the floorboards. ‘Oh God … I’m so sorry, I should have taken my boots off at the door …’

‘Oh, don’t worry.’ She hobbles forward, apparently welcoming the distraction. ‘It happens all the time, Dad’s forever traipsing in muck, it drives Muriel mad.’ She gabbles breathlessly, pinpricks of colour warming her cheeks. She falls silent with an embarrassed smile. ‘Let’s go back through to the kitchen and I’ll pop the kettle on,’ she says at last, calmer now.

He stands aside to let her lead the way on her hop-cum-hobble, but when they are in the kitchen he pulls out a chair for her and, ignoring all protests, insists on filling the kettle himself. Muriel and Jim come in just as he is setting it upon the range.

‘Ah, good man, that’s it, let’s get the kettle on,’ Jim says, rubbing his broad hands together. Muriel says nothing but issues a tight-lipped stare at Jack as she slams a trug of earth-encrusted new potatoes upon the table. ‘I’ve been showing Jack the farm. He’s going to stay on for a while, help us out over the summer.’

‘Really?’ Gwen leans forward. Jack is wary of looking her way. He is intensely aware of Muriel’s narrow-eyed inspection.

‘Well, I’ve been toying with the idea of applying to the Women’s Land Army now they’ve reinstated it, but to be honest, I’m feeling outnumbered as it is what with you and Muriel. I quite like the idea of Jack evening up the numbers. You know, Gwen, we’ve got more crops in than ever before. It’s been worrying me for some time that you and I are not going to manage this year’s harvest on our own. Bringing in the hay almost proved too much for us. Another pair of hands at this time of year wouldn’t go amiss.’

Muriel scowls as she rinses her hands under the tap.

‘Jim, you make the tea.’ She turns to Jack. ‘You can come and help me with your bedding,’ she says, her voice sharp, her manner cool as she folds the towel over the back of a chair and bustles from the kitchen. Jack mumbles his assent and follows, heartened by the encouraging smile Gwen throws his way.