He does not reveal how closely he has watched the little bird over the past number of days, committing its form to memory. Or the careful hours he has spent sat on the edge of his camp bed in the lamplight, carving a piece of pine log into shape before sanding it with glass paper, following the grain with patience and care until the wood became so warm in his hands it was as if he had given life to his creation. Nor does he reveal his special trip into the village to order paints from the store, returning to collect them a couple of days later, or how he has painstakingly experimented with colour, blending globules of pigment on a broken saucer he found discarded behind the shed until he had perfected the shades required.

And never will he reveal that the fashioning of the nuthatch was not simply a way of passing the time, but an expression of the love he has come to feel for the farmer’s daughter. He knows it is pointless to lose his heart to her, but it is too late. She has elicited his love as unwittingly as she has received the nuthatch. He has begun to dread the day that he knows must come, the day he must leave her, for he cannot stay – for his own preservation, he cannot stay, and yet his own preservation seems so inconsequential now. Indeed, the delight in her face seems to confirm this conviction, for surely nothing that might await him, should he survive, could surpass the joy of witnessing her present pleasure and knowing he is responsible for it. But he is aware his feelings are unreciprocated, though he can’t help but wonder … if he was able to stay, if a future with possibilities – a future unblemished by his past – now stretched before him, might he be able to win her heart? It grieves him that he will never be free to try.

‘You’re very clever.’ She gifts him a smile so generous his chest must expand to take it. ‘Thank you.’

‘I say, Gwen! You’re taking an age, come back inside.’ Gordon emerges from the doorway. He glances between them, his eyes narrowing a fraction as he places his arm around Gwen’s back. ‘Is it all arranged? I’ll bring Gwen home, there’s no need for you to trouble yourself.’

‘It was never any trouble,’ Jack says quietly.

‘Look what Jack made!’ Gwen holds up the nuthatch for Gordon’s inspection.

‘Oh, how quaint. Can we go and dance now?’

‘Yes, yes, of course.’ For a moment, Jack thinks she means to say something to him, but she appears to change her mind and instead releases the clasp of her clutch. She drops the little bird inside; it clatters against her compact. She snaps the bag shut. ‘Actually, I just need to pop to the powder room – shall I meet you by the bar?’