Duncan appears a few minutes after me, his eyes bleary with sleep. He sits on one of the upturned barrels I have commandeered as chairs and catches hold of my hand. I press my lips to his crown, drinking in his unwashed smell, feeling the coarseness of his hair on my cheek. We stay like this for a moment, and I watch the last of the summer swallows swoop for the crumbs I have thrown onto the lawn. Duncan lets go of my hand. This is the signal for me to withdraw. I busy myself with breakfast, fitting the slices of bread onto the prongs of my fork and toasting them over the fire. We eat like peasants, without plates or cutlery, grinning in complicit pleasure at our slovenliness. I look round the shelves and wonder what we can have for lunch. There are eggs from the farm. Later I will dig potatoes and carrots from the garden. We have bacon and plenty of preserves. I reach up for a jar of jam to go with the toast. It is strawberry, bottled last summer. I find a spoon and pass the jar to Duncan. He takes the spoon and sets it next to a vase of flowers I have picked for the table. I see him studying the arrangement, taking in its contours and angles, weighing it as a subject to paint. I look for a second spoon but cannot find one. Instead, Duncan puts his finger in the jar and lifts it to my mouth. I lick it clean of the sweet, sticky jam. He dips his finger back into the jar. Somehow, we will survive the coming war.