‘In here.’ Muriel leads him into a good-sized room dominated by a brass bedstead with a light blue blouse hanging off its bottom post. She bustles forward to remove a splayed book from the crumpled pillow, before straightening the eiderdown and stepping back to make way for Jack.

He places Gwen gently upon the bed, sliding his arms out from underneath her, his focus lingering longer than it perhaps should. He is relieved when she mumbles drowsily, the tip of her tongue tracing the swell of her bottom lip.

‘Dad …’

‘I’m here, love.’ The farmer’s voice softens as he nudges Jack aside.

His eyes still on the girl, Jack backs away. He bumps into a dressing table set before the window, causing the array of perfume bottles clustered on its top to wobble and chink. He whips around to steady them, his large hands oafish against the delicate glass. He is momentarily distracted by the framed photograph of a woman with a little girl on her lap. The child bears such a strong resemblance to Gwen that he knows at once it is her. The woman in the photograph, though, is not the same woman who is clucking over her now, exclaiming at the sight of her swollen cheek, as she meticulously searches her scalp for injury. Gwen weakly protests at the fuss being made.

‘I’m fine – the shock of it all just made me lightheaded. Where is Arthur?’ She struggles to rise, but Muriel pushes her back down.

‘Never mind that bloody horse, Gwen!’ Her father paces the room, his agitation ill-masked. ‘I’d put a bullet in him if he were here. I’ve told you before – he’s too damn skittish for my liking.’

‘It wasn’t his fault, Dad,’ Gwen says. She cries out as Muriel eases off her boots.

‘If he was steadier, he wouldn’t have thrown you. No, I’ll not have you ride him any longer – I’ll see him in the knacker’s yard before I see you on him again.’

‘Hush now, Jim, for goodness’ sake, that sort of talk isn’t helping at all.’

Jack spies the wedding ring on Muriel’s finger and wonders if she is a replacement for the woman in the picture. She peels back Gwen’s sock to reveal an engorged foot already turning a nasty shade of purple. Gwen’s father grimaces.

‘Could it be broken?’ he asks.

Gwen breathes in sharply as Muriel begins a careful examination. ‘I don’t think so, or at least nothing major – she’s pulled it every which way though. But, Gwen, I do want to have a proper look at you, if you’ve been dragged about like this young man says you have.’

‘It was nothing …’ Gwen mutters.

‘All the same, I’d rather give you the once-over. Come on now.’ Muriel helps her to sit up.

‘I should—’ Jack starts, colour rising to his cheeks, but the farmer cuts him off.