‘Aye, you’re making a fuss, lass.’ Jack grins as he starts working the teats. His confidence grows as the milk flows freely. He is unperturbed by the back hoof that paws the stone with building impatience, nor does he notice Gwen’s wary expression.

‘There you are … no problems at all …’ he crows as the milk begins to wane.

The cow’s tail hitches and Gwen recoils. He looks around in time to see a cascade of liquid muck flow from the cow’s rear, spattering onto the stone, splashing his trouser leg. The smell is ripe. Cursing, he springs up just as the ill-tempered cow delivers a well-aimed kick to the bucket, sending it clattering onto its side, a river of creamy milk mingling with the steaming slurry to form a sickening mire.

Forgetting himself, Jack throws up his arms swearing like the docker he is, damning the animal before him to hell and back. It is some minutes before he notices Gwen is doubled over. As he falls silent, she throws back her head. Her raucous guffaw rips through the milking parlour and the tears streaming down her cheeks charm his furious scowl into a fool’s grin.

She is still teasing him as they roll the final churns down to the milk stand at the farm gate, ready for collection by the local creamery. Jack grunts as he lifts them up onto the platform, the metal casings grating as he nestles them together.

‘All done,’ he says.

They turn back for the yard, but just after Jack has passed through the gate, Gwen drops down to a crouch.

‘Laces,’ she declares, as she begins to redo them. ‘Go on, I’ll catch you up. Pour me a cup of tea, will you?’

He heads towards the house, but as he reaches the steps, he looks back. Gwen is no longer attending to her boot laces, instead she appears to be retrieving something from under the loose brick in the gatepost.

Whatever it is, one thing is clear: she does not want anyone to see.

Jack carries out his careful study of the newspaper again that evening. There is news of the royal trip to America; of bombs exploding in post offices and pillar boxes across London, Manchester and Birmingham as the IRA terrorises the country, but there is no news from Newcastle. Once again, he shuts the paper with a sense of relief, though the twin monkeys of fear and guilt cling stubbornly to his back. As he sinks into his chair, his anxieties soothed by the gentle music emanating from the wireless, he realises his urge to run is dissipating. He steals a look at Gwen. He is safe to stay. For a little while, he cautions himself silently. Just for a little while. He cannot risk becoming complacent.