Jim retrieves the evening paper from the letterbox in the front door, the brass plate rattling as it is released. He sits across from Gwen, methodically reading every article, and when he has finished and the paper rests in his lap, Jack leans forwards in his chair and asks if he might see it. The newspaper is passed between them like a baton in a relay race – but only Jack is aware of its importance. His mouth is dry as he scans each page, alert for the words that will catch his eye and reel him in. He is immune to the other headlines that vie for his attention – there is only one story that interests him and he knows it might not be boldly splashed across a page, but lurking in some innocuous corner, so he is thorough in his task.

‘Looking for news of home?’ Jim asks, pushing himself up to retrieve his packet of cigarettes from the mantel.

‘Aye, something like that,’ Jack admits quietly, heady with a bemusing cocktail of shame and relief as he finally closes the paper, his fears allayed for another day.

Just before nine, Jim turns on the wireless to catch the BBC News. They sit in companionable silence as an elegant voice reveals developments that appear to be the next steps in the inevitable march to war. Gwen loses herself in thoughts that lie beyond the window, her fingers limp on the novel in her lap.

Later, while there is still enough light in the sky, Jack accompanies Jim outside to complete the day’s chores. They round up the chickens and shut them in the coop safe from roaming foxes, then check on the horses placidly cropping grass in the paddock. Jim sends Kip to his straw bed in the corner of the implement shed and, at last, they head back to the house for a final cup of cocoa that Gwen has promised to make in their absence.

‘You must find us as dull as ditchwater after a life in the city,’ she says, gently blowing across the top of her steaming mug, but Jack is quick with his contradictions.