‘What?’ His mind is still fuddled by nightmares; he cannot fathom why the farmer’s daughter is in a shed in the early hours of the morning, wearing a pretty frock and a cardigan and a pair of her best shoes. ‘It’s two in the morning, Gwen, where on earth have you been? What’s going on?’

‘I’m locked out, that’s what’s going on, and I’m trying to get back in.’ There is clear irritation in her carefully formed words. ‘I forgot to pick up the spare key and Dad’s locked up. I can hardly hammer on the door this time of night, can I? So I’m just going to climb in through my bedroom window, I’ve done it before.’ She lifts the ladder. Its ends tip up and down like uneven scales as she tries to pass it over the plough. It crashes against the metal frame and the stillness of the night amplifies the din. Jack winces.

‘You’re going to wake the dead, lass,’ he hisses, darting a glance at the blinkered farmhouse, relieved when no light appears. He rubs his hand over his face then winds his way between the plough and the seed drill to take the ladder from her before she creates any more of a disturbance. Up close, he smells the sickly taint of whisky clinging to her skin. Her sideways glance skates off him.

‘Your dad has no idea you’ve snuck out, does he? What have you been up to, Gwen?’

And then, as Kip idly scratches behind his ear and a tawny owl’s hoot echoes from the woods, he takes in the puzzle pieces set out before him – the misbuttoned cardigan, the Dutch courage, the luminous glaze to Gwen’s eyes and the secretive curve of her lips – and with lightning speed he slots them together: Gordon.

He doesn’t know whether he has said the name aloud or simply screamed it in his head, but it makes no difference. Gwen perceives his deduction.

‘Dad’s got him all wrong, Jack. He loves me, he’s serious about us.’

‘Then let him come here and make that clear to your dad.’

‘Oh Jack, you’ve seen how Dad is. He wouldn’t give him the time of day.’ Slick with drink, her words slip into each other, though he can see the effort she is making to form each one, like wary footsteps on ice.

‘You can’t sneak around like this, Gwen. Your dad is going to find out.’

‘Then let him. And when he sees the lengths we’re prepared to go to in order to see each other, perhaps he’ll realise he can’t keep us apart – not when we so want to be together. And we do, we want to be together.’