‘Lloyd! Lloyd!’ Tara waved, and the dog barked in response, but each time his paws touched the water he shied back with a whimper.

David turned to her. ‘Aren’t Labradors supposed to be water dogs?’

‘He’s a city boy. Don’t think he’s seen a sheep before.’

‘Him and me both.’

Tara surveyed the field with zero enthusiasm. It was beyond muddy, bordering on boggy, and there were sheep – which she’d never felt totally comfortable with either, despite growing up surrounded by them.

But who else was going to do this?

Tara took a deep breath. For Branston. For Mum. For Molly.

For herself.

‘Right,’ she said. ‘Let’s go and get him.’

‘Have you found Lloyd?’ said Molly before Tara could even speak. Her voice was scratchy with fear. ‘Is he alive?’

Tara swivelled round in the driver’s seat to check the state of a mud-encrusted, drenched-to-the-bone Lloyd wrapped in David’s mac, on the back seat. His eyes were closed with exhaustion and he was limping badly on three different paws. But he was alive, yes.

David sat next to him, looking equally drenched and shattered. He’d staggered the length of a field bearing the whining Labrador to the nearest point Tara could reverse the Mini without it getting stuck. Which, it turned out, was nowhere near enough for David’s lower back.

‘We’ve got him! He’s fallen in the river and he’s a bit, um, soggy, so we’re just taking him to the vet’s for a check-up.’

Molly started saying, ‘Hurray!’ but the word dissolved into tears of relief. A lump rose in Tara’s throat. Deep in the hidden folds of her subconscious there was a shift, a balance restored.

She heard Toby saying, ‘Is that good crying or bad crying?’ over more sobbing, then he’d taken the phone from Molly and was on the line.

‘Good job, Sis,’ he said. ‘I’m proud of you.’

‘Call me if Dad calls,’ said Tara, and hung up before her voice broke.

She busied herself with the windscreen wipers, but when she glanced in the rear-view mirror, David looked straight at her.

‘Tara? Are you all right? You’re crying.’

She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. ‘Sorry, I’m just … I did something similar with our dog when I was Molly’s age.’ She gulped. It felt like David already knew.

‘Branston?’

‘Yes. Branston.’ Had she told him that? Probably. That was how cold readers worked; you forgot what you let slip. Still, what did it matter? ‘I let him out hoping he’d get lost and Dad would come home. He was hit by a car. I managed to blank it completely, but not the guilt. It all merged with Dad leaving and Mum’s unhappiness.’