‘It’s nee bother, lass.’ He hesitates. ‘Tell me, though, did you have a good time?’

‘I had the most wonderful time.’ The memory of the evening fans the fire in her eyes, but he suspects Gordon Allingham sparked the blaze.

He walks across the yard, tormented by the perfume lingering on his jacket. He yearns to be the man responsible for igniting such fires, but by the time he reaches the tack room he is despondent, for he knows that particular privilege will remain forever beyond his reach.

Chapter Sixteen

Jack

June 1939

Suspecting Gwen will sleep in following her eventful night, Jack rises earlier than usual – the milking will take him longer alone. As he leaves the stable block, he sees her curtains are still drawn against the breaking dawn and the farmhouse displays no tell-tale signs of life. Only Kip comes to greet him, pausing to stretch and snap off a yawn, before trotting beside him to the pasture where they find the cattle huddled at the gate.

As he drives the cows into the yard the cockerel leaps onto the fence, propelled by its batting wings. It throws back its head to wake the world, the rosy flap of skin beneath its beak rippling like a signal flag. With the morning reveille performed, it jumps down, its great pronged toes digging into the mud as it spreads its colourful wings in a vainglorious display. Jack gives it a wide berth. There is something about the cock that strikes him as arrogant and dangerous. He doesn’t trust it an inch.

He has been milking for over an hour when Gwen finally dashes in, breathless and embarrassed and terribly apologetic. She snatches up her stool and pail and hurries into the neighbouring stall where a cow waits, dragging hay from the iron basket attached to the wall. Within minutes, Jack hears the steady whist of milk. A short time later, she pauses on her way to the scales.

‘Jack …’

He stops and swivels on the stool to better face her.

‘Aye, lass?’

‘I’d be grateful if you didn’t say anything, to Dad … about how you found me last night, about me being with someone.’ Her lashes lower. ‘He’s just a bit … funny … you know, about things like that. Overly protective. I’d just rather we kept it between ourselves.’

‘Your business is your business, Gwen. I’ll not say anything.’

She smiles and says no more.

They are arranging the churns on the milk stand in the lane when Jim finally appears, walking carefully, pulling deeply on the stub of a Woodbine. He coughs, looks sheepish, and never quite manages to hold Jack’s eye as he enquires about the morning’s yield. He nods when Gwen gives him the figures, flicking his cigarette into the long grass of the verge.

‘That’s good.’

Gwen folds her arms. ‘And how are you feeling this morning?’