The muscles in his legs are straining by the time he reaches the brow. The sun has shrugged off its modest shift of gauzy clouds and shines brightly now and Jack is beginning to sweat. He removes his jacket and slings it over his shoulder. As the vista opens, he is relieved to see the sprawl of a large town in the distance, a dark blot on the picturesque landscape. His unguided steps, it would seem, have not been in vain – he is heading the right way for obscurity. He finds he walks a little quicker as he tackles the winding road before him.

He hears the ring of hooves before he sees any evidence of a horse. Slowing his pace, he watches the approaching bend expectantly, the clipped sound growing louder and louder. Sure enough, the animal appears – a chestnut beauty, its short coat gleaming like a freshly hatched conker. The horse tosses its head at the sight of him, the metal bit jangling in its mouth, its dark eyes rolling with suspicion.

‘Easy, Arthur,’ the young woman on its back chides, leaning forward to reassure the capricious creature with a pat on its neck. She smiles down at Jack. ‘Morning.’

Jack mumbles his reply. The young woman’s jodhpur-clad legs curve round the horse’s sides and he sees her knee-high riding boots are splattered with dried mud. He backs into the verge, allowing her to pass. The horse’s undulating rear disappears around the bend in the road, but the phantom echo of its hooves lingers.

He steps back into the lane, the corner of his mouth tugging upwards, though he is unable to say why.

The drone of a motor vehicle is faint at first, but as it draws closer, he detects the whine of a flogged engine and the sharp grating of crunched gears. A Bedford delivery van painted cardinal red hurtles around the corner towards him. Jack stumbles back into the blackthorn hedge, its barbs biting through his shirt, as the van races past him at such speed he is buffeted by its downdraught. He shouts in anger as he scrambles to his feet, but it has already disappeared, leaving him to choke on the cloud of purple fumes that trails in its wake.

In the next moment, he hears the screech of brakes.

A horse begins to scream.

Chapter Five

Gwen

8th May 1945

‘We should go to the pub this evening.’

Gwen makes no attempt to respond to Nora’s comment. She sits on the squat milking stool, her shoulders hunched, and gently grasps the cow’s teats. Her hands begin to move rhythmically, up and down; jets of warm milk squirt into the empty pail before her.

‘It’s a momentous day, Gwen …’ Nora perseveres, appearing at the rear of the cow, a half-full pail in her hand. ‘Come on … we can’t miss it. Let’s go to the pub. I bet the whole village will be there.’