‘Aye … I reckon you’re right …’

‘I never meant …’

‘No one can blame you, lad.’

Jack says nothing. Guilt tightens his throat like a drawstring purse. He merely nods to cover his mounting grief and adjusts the weight of the knapsack on his shoulder.

With a groan and a shriek, the train shunts forwards. Ben braces himself in the doorway.

‘We’re off,’ he calls out.

Jack backs away.

‘Take care of yourself, Jack,’ Ben calls again, rocking to the train’s building movement. ‘Try and let me know how you’re getting on.’ The wheels protest as they grate against the tracks. Ben raises his voice again. ‘Be sure to look me up when you get back, you hear?’

Jack raises his hand. He watches as Ben recedes into the distance. Only when he is out of sight does he allow his chin to sink to his chest. He turns and picks his way across the shingle.

They both know he won’t be going back.

Chapter Three

Gwen

8th May 1945

They all ride the Fordson back when it is time to get the cows in for milking. Tom sits astride Gwen’s lap, his hands resting on the steering wheel, giggling as the engine’s vibrations shudder through his small frame, while Nora clings on the back. Gwen can just about hear her high-pitched singing above the steady throb of the tractor.

She slows as they reach the field with the herd in. The cows have already gathered at the gate, eager to be relieved of their swollen udders. Nora waits until the tractor comes to a standstill before jumping down.

‘See you back at the farm!’ she hollers, returning Tom’s salute. Gwen shifts the tractor’s gear stick and rolls the vehicle forward as Nora undoes the gate.

Back in the farmyard, Gwen kills the engine and sets the handbrake as Tom scrambles from her lap and calls for Kip. A sheepdog appears from the open-fronted implement shed and races towards them, its bushy tail beating time as Tom collapses to his knees to welcome the ebullient creature into his embrace, squealing in delighted protest as it laps his face. She pauses for a moment to watch them, fondness softening features she fears have become stern before their time. Calling for the boy to come, she carries on across the yard, but the shrill tring of a bicycle bell stays her progress. A woman with pewter-coloured hair cycles in past the five-bar gate that sags open from the lane.

‘Did you hear?’ she asks as she stops just short of Gwen, planting her sturdy lace-up shoes in a manner that hints at a no-nonsense demeanour.

‘The bells … I heard the bells,’ Gwen says.