Just after five, he gathers his things. His outpouring of grief has proven cathartic; his tension has ebbed, his anxieties – for the time being at least – have been ameliorated. The labour has also served to cleanse his soul, and as he leaves the small field, he pauses to survey the neat hedgerow and the thistle-free pasture. He savours his sense of satisfaction over his endeavours, manifested in the scratched and blistered hands he splays before him.

He takes a wrong turn on the way back to the farm and for a while is lost amongst banked narrow lanes bordered by fields which all the look the same. It is with some relief that he finally sees the white-rendered farmhouse rising like a beacon in the distance, and eventually he succeeds in guiding himself to it.

He does not go straight in. First, he washes up at the pump, splashing his face with handfuls of icy water, hoping to remove all evidence of his tears. He dries himself on the rolled sleeve of his shirt, then uses his wet hands to smooth down his errant hair.

Gwen is hobbling around the table laying cutlery while complaining to her father about paperwork as he enters through the back door. It is Muriel’s early afternoon and she has already returned home, leaving Gwen to dish up the pie she has left in the warming oven. Jack offers to take the cutlery from her and as she relinquishes the task, their eyes meet and the knowledge of what he accidentally witnessed that morning comes between them. Her gaze slides from his, slick with guilt. Her secrecy fuels his curiosity, but he has no right to question her, so he remains silent as he sets out the places, and for that she appears grateful. Whatever she might be up to, it is clear they will not speak of it.

After they have eaten, Jim invites Jack to join them in the sitting room, just as he had the evening before. Gwen uses the broom crutch to make her way through the house, collapsing into an armchair by the unlit fire with a gusty sigh, before resting the swollen foot on a leather pouffe.