Jack does not respond, he merely pushes the next sheep below the churning water, wishing the policeman would go. He has no desire to meet his wife. He wants nothing to do with home.

Gwen is tacking up Arthur when Jack returns to the yard that evening, having safely restored the milking herd to pasture.

‘Riding out?’ he says as she throws the saddle over the stallion’s back.

‘Yes.’ She strains to fix the girth. ‘Stop breathing out, you bugger,’ she mutters, squeezing the buckle prongs into the correct holes. Jack strokes the horse’s blaze. Its ears twist as Gwen joins him. ‘I’m …’ she starts, but then busies herself checking the fastenings on the bridle.

‘You’re what?’

She shakes her head. ‘Nothing.’ She collects her riding crop from the window ledge. ‘You seemed surprised, earlier. To see Vic – Constable Jennings – at the dipping.’

Jack continues to stroke the horse’s nose. ‘Did I? Well, I suppose I was.’

‘He has to come, to check we’re doing it. There’s all sorts of paperwork we have to fill in. It’s a legal requirement, having Vic supervise.’

Jack nods. He does not trust himself to say anything, so instead he takes hold of the bridle, keeping Arthur steady as Gwen fits her boot into the stirrup. With two bounces, she swings herself up into the saddle. The leather creaks beneath her as she gathers up the reins and finds her other stirrup.

‘You looked as white as a sheet when you saw him,’ she says. Jack releases the horse and steps back, unable to meet her eye. With a click of her tongue and a dig of her heels she pulls Arthur round. ‘It’s funny,’ she shifts in her saddle to look back at him, ‘it was almost as if you thought he’d come looking for you.’

And without waiting for his reply, she urges the horse to walk on.

Chapter Seventeen

Jack

June 1939

Jack is leaning against the back wall of the farmhouse eating a handful of raspberries while he waits for Gwen. He is captivated by a small bird that scurries up and down the trunk of the silver birch.

From the corner of his eye, he clocks Gwen emerging from the privy. She stops to rinse her hands under the outdoor tap, then walks over to him, wiping her palms on the thighs of her trousers. Squinting against the sunshine, she follows his rooted gaze.

‘What are you looking at?’

‘That bird.’ He nods towards the silver birch. ‘What bird is that? I swear I’ve never seen anything like it.’

‘It’s a nuthatch.’ She nudges his arm with her elbow. ‘City boy,’ she teases.

‘It’s beautiful. The colours on it.’

‘I’ll let you into a secret – it’s my favourite garden bird.’

‘No?’

‘It is. I’m not just saying that, it really is.’ She helps herself to a proffered raspberry. ‘Pretty, isn’t it?’