Jack feels the pressure of her supervision as she stands over him; he is profoundly relieved when he completes the task to her evident satisfaction. She fetches a galvanised pail and a three-legged milking stool, then calls for his attention as she settles herself down. Leaning her head into the cow’s soft flank, she takes a firm grip of its teats and begins to work them, pulling them gently until jets of milk rattle into the empty pail beneath.

She continues for a couple of minutes then stands aside, urging Jack to take her place. He squats down on the stool, all gangly limbs, like a giant who has blundered into the wrong fairy tale. Leaning forward, he puts his forehead against the stretched plane of hide and instinctively apologises for what he is about to do, eliciting a poorly suppressed smile from Gwen. Abashed, he reaches under the cow and closes his fingers around two teats, hot beneath his cold hands. He tugs down, just as Gwen had done, but nothing happens. He tries again and the cow stamps her back hoof against the stone floor of the stall. When he tries a third time to no avail, the poor creature looks round to glare at him.

‘You need to gently squeeze at the same time as you pull,’ Gwen says, ‘that’s what a calf does, you see …’ She leans over him, her body lightly pressed against his as she covers his hands with her own. ‘Like this …’ She applies pressure to his fingers until they move under hers. The milk spurts into the pail with a satisfying whisst – whisst as she picks up the rhythm. ‘You try,’ she encourages, her breath warm on his stubbled cheek as she relaxes her grip, though her hands continue to rest on his as he works the cow’s teats alone. When the milk flows steadily into the pail she draws back. Jack tries to focus on the task in hand, yet he can’t help feeling bereft as she moves away.

She rewards him with a smile that lifts his soul when he finally drains the udder dry. She shows him how to weigh and log the cow’s yield in the milk ledger, before tipping the warm milk into the cooler; then she starts him on the next cow, and when she is confident he can be left to work alone, she sets about her own milking.

Jack insists on tackling the final beast.

‘Oh, I’m not sure … Meredith can be a bit of a handful …’ Gwen warns, but he dismisses her concerns.

‘You watch, I’m an old hand at this now,’ he says, settling himself down on the milking stool, the pail chinking against the stone as he places it ready.

‘Well, if you’re sure …’ Gwen says, resting against the side of the stall.