‘They’re on about the light restrictions again,’ Jim says, looking up from the pamphlet. ‘You’d best get the blackout screens up from the cellar, Gwen. I thought we’d seen the last of those after all that Munich nonsense. It’s a good thing we didn’t chuck ’em out after all.’ His tone is sombre. ‘Jack, will you help her?’

‘Aye, no bother.’

She leads him into the hall and opens the cellar door, pausing to light the paraffin lamp that hangs from a protruding nail just inside. Gwen goes first, holding the lamp aloft so that its light trickles over the descending steps, while Jack follows behind, instinctively hanging his head under the low ceiling. The cellar is cool and dark and filled with an assortment of wooden crates, cardboard boxes, and bits of discarded furniture.

Gwen takes him further in, past a pair of dining chairs with broken rush seats, to where a set of simple wooden frames rest against the wall. Black fabric has been stretched across them and tacked into place. Gwen pulls the first one free.

‘I had hoped we wouldn’t be needing these.’

Jack steps forward and relieves her of the frame that has D/R, FRONT chalked on its side. Gwen brushes against his shoulder as she brings the lamp closer.

‘Dining room, front window,’ she interprets. ‘There’s a system, you see.’

He nods. ‘Is there one for every window?’

‘Almost. I think the crisis was averted before we got them all done. Looks like we’ll have to finish the job now.’

‘Aye, it does.’

‘Do you think that, Jack? That war is inevitable?’

He is reluctant to be the harbinger of doom, but there is no avoiding it. He nods.

She places the lamp down on a stacked tea chest. ‘What will happen, do you think? Will it be like last time? Conscription?’

‘I would imagine so. I suspect …’ he sighs. ‘Men didn’t know last time what it was going to be like – they expected an adventure and were keen to volunteer for that. But we know better now and I can’t see it happening this time. I think men will have to be compelled to do their bit. They’ll do it, like – when asked – but I think they’re going to have to be made to go.’

‘And what of you, Jack? You said you’d sign up.’

‘And I will.’

‘When?’

‘Eager to get rid of me?’

‘No!’ She offers him an apologetic smile, then asks softly, ‘Do you think they’ll wait? Wait until war is declared before starting conscription?’

‘Well, they’ve started the process already, remember, with the young lads doing military training … but full conscription? Aye, I reckon when war is announced, then we’ll hear.’

‘Gordon will have to go.’

‘Yes, more than likely he will.’