Stephen had spent the last couple of days alone, walking. He’d barely eaten. He had walked through the Brompton Cemetery and on, along the Fulham Road; past the football ground, farther and farther past streets of identical rows of squat brick houses until he reached the Fulham Palace Road. He didn’t know that the river was only a minute or two away, that there was a park he could have visited, with an avenue of tall plane trees whose branches skimmed the water at high tide. There was an A–Z at the hostel, kept behind the desk so no one went off with it, but Stephen wasn’t aiming to visit anything in particular. He walked to try and burn off the terrible anxiety he was experiencing, not as a way of getting to know the city. The second day after he’d found the medal in his bag he walked north, crossing the Cromwell Road, into the sober streets of Kensington, uphill to a shabby area where paint peeled off the high flat fronts of buildings and music thudded from open windows.

He didn’t know what to do. He’d thought of not sending the letter to the Clarkes at all; of writing a new letter, in which he told them that the medal had somehow found its way into his bag. But he couldn’t face it. Celia was the only one who gave a shit about the medal – even she didn’t care that much, it seemed to him – and she was already furious with him. All he wanted was to get back to the farm, but now Celia would be able to say he’d stolen from them, as well as killing all their chickens and practically killing their daughters. He didn’t want to hand her any more ammunition.

So he’d sent the original letter and also posted the notes to Helena and to his parents and sisters. He hadn’t told his mum and dad about the car accident, just that he was having a week in London before going back for the apple harvest. He didn’t want them worrying. He was waiting for a reply from the Clarkes. Something told him that Nick would be the one to write. Once he’d heard from him and knew when he could go back, he’d simply bring the medal with him. When he got there he’d just put it back in its place on the faded velvet: no one would ever know it had been missing. No one really went up to the third floor anyway, let alone studied the contents of the trefoil table. Even if someone did glance in its direction, they’d never notice that anything was absent from the lower shelf.