It is the morning of the dance and Gwen asks Muriel for help washing her hair. Jim is talking to Jack about seed drills and ratios, but Jack is struggling to focus. His eyes stray to the sink where Gwen and Muriel are whispering between themselves so as not to disturb them. Muriel part-fills a white enamel jug with water from the kettle, while Gwen undoes the top buttons on her shirt and wriggles the loosened fabric down around her shoulders, exposing the greying straps of her brassiere. She holds the scrubby towel that Muriel drapes around her neck in place, then hangs her head over the Belfast sink, her golden curls tumbling forward. Jack forces himself to look away.

He tries to tune into Jim’s droning monologue, but the sound of flowing water steals his attention and his eyes slide to the sink once more. Water cascades from the jug’s broad spout, catching the light from the window as it streams over Gwen’s head. Setting the jug down, Muriel lathers up some soap and attacks the saturated hair. Gwen is tugged and turned by her vigorous ministrations.

‘So, I think it should be all right, you see,’ Jim concludes, getting to his feet. ‘But we’ll make a start and see how we get on.’

‘Yes,’ Jack stutters. He has failed to absorb anything the farmer has said, but he covers his distraction by following his lead and rising from the table.

‘Gwen, will you be along?’

‘Yes, Dad.’ Gwen’s response is drowned by pouring water. Soap suds slip down the length of her slick hair. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’

‘No rush,’ Jim says as he makes his way outside. He lights a cigarette while Jack balances against the doorjamb to shove on his gumboots. ‘She’ll be as pretty as a picture tonight.’ Jim winks. ‘You’ll be proud to have her on your arm.’ He calls to the waiting dog and sets off towards the yard.

Jack follows on, painfully aware his rising anticipation is nothing short of foolish.

Later, in the tack room, he dresses with care. Muriel has indeed found a suit and has made it fit, lengthening the leg by taking down the hem; the faded line in the material that betrays the alteration can barely be seen. Dressed only in his trousers and vest, his braces hanging by his sides, he lathers up his face and bends to the mirror as he drags the razor over his stubble. When its head blossoms with foam he rinses it in the small bowl before him, swirling it until the water laps it clean. Angling his jaw to the glass, he draws the blade down again.