‘Aye.’ He senses a contract between them, though he is not privy to its detail. He frowns, but Gwen’s apparent concern seems alleviated by their pact.

‘I thought I might go down to the Hare and Hounds,’ Jim pipes up. He draws deeply on his cigarette, holding onto the smoke as he removes the fag with dirt-blackened fingers. ‘What do you say, Ted? Fancy joining me for a pint?’

‘You said you would stay in.’ There is a note of horror in Gwen’s blurted interjection. ‘You said you’d stay in with Jack.’

‘I don’t see why we should stay in when you’re out having all the fun …’

‘Dad …’

‘Oh Gwen, can’t a man go out for a jar every now and then? And if Jack wants to come, he’s more than welcome. What do you say – Ted? Jack?’

For an awful moment, Gwen appears on the verge of tears, but her features harden as she looks between the two men. Ted picks a fleck of tobacco from his bottom lip.

‘Ah,’ he says at last, shifting his stance. ‘I don’t see why not. Been a while since I was down the Hare and Hounds.’

Gwen opens her mouth to speak, then appears to rein herself in, but her tightly pressed lips still manage to convey her resentful fury.

‘What about it, Jack? Will you join us old boys for a beer?’

‘Not so much of the old, Jim,’ Ted chuckles.

‘You’re a whippersnapper compared to me, it’s true,’ the farmer laughs, resting on the plough, smoke spiralling skyward from the cigarette caught between his fingers. ‘Well, Jack?’

Jack does not want to go to the pub. He wants to stay hidden at the house, out of sight. Safe. But Gwen casts him such a look of naked appeal he knows he has no choice.

‘Aye …’ His voice catches in his throat. ‘Aye, I’ll join you for a pint, why not.’

Gwen attempts to conceal her trembling mouth by turning away to rub the horses’ blazes. When she finally composes herself, it is Jack she seeks out.

He does not understand what he has done to earn the gratitude that warms her features.

But he knows he will do anything to keep it.

Jim attempts to goad Gwen at breakfast on Saturday morning.

‘Well, I don’t know, Gwen … I can’t really let you off your chores just so you can go and get dolled up for some dance.’

‘I don’t mind not going, you know. If you’d rather I stay …

Jack looks up from his plate. The levity that lifted Jim’s words is markedly absent from Gwen’s.

‘Don’t be daft, girl. You’re going to the ball.’

‘But …’

‘No buts, you’re going.’ Jim waves away her doubts with his knife and fork.