Jesse looks slightly surprised but takes it and goes to stand next to the man as he talks and nods. I look at the group who are, by and large, staring condescendingly at Jesse, apart from a group of women who are eyeing up his long legs and small arse. Frances’s father shakes his head as he looks at Jesse and says something to the group of men he’s standing with that makes them break into laughter.

I bristle and only realise that I’ve tightened my fists when Max reaches down and separates my fingers. “Okay, Rocky,” he hisses. “They’re just your ordinary garden variety of arsehole. No need for fisticuffs.”

I shake my head. “Pricks. He’s better than any of them.”

I can feel his stare on the side of my head like a sunburn. “Hmm,” he says contemplatively.

He opens his mouth to say more but at that moment one of Charles’s group shouts out, “Hard to hold a shotgun with a limp wrist, son.”

I move a couple of steps forward but Max grabs me and pulls me back just as Jesse turns and smiles cheerily at the man.

“Are you speaking from experience?” he asks happily. “You’ll have to give me some tips.” Then he turns and shouts “pull” in a way that inexplicably makes my balls tighten. He shoots the clay pigeon into smithereens. The first person to manage it so far including all of Charles’s group.

He gives the gun back to the man and smiles warmly at the crowd. “It’s all in the wrist action,” he says loudly, and a few of the girls giggle.

I shake my head as he comes towards me. “When did you learn to shoot?”

He shrugs. “One of my brothers fancied a girl who was into it. We went every Saturday.”

“One of them?” Max says. “How many have you got?”

“Five, and two sisters.”

“Fucking hell, it’s like meeting one of the Waltons.”

Jesse laughs. He turns to me, smiling, and I shake my head. “What are you wearing?”

He looks down. “Is there a problem?” he asks mildly.

“Is that a child’s T-shirt?”

“Of course not,” he scoffs. “You might not have noticed, Zebedee, but I’m a big boy now.” Max snorts, and he grins at him before turning back to me. “Although I did have one like this when I was little,” he says consideringly, looking at his name in bold letters. He grins. “It helped in our family to wear something identifying yourself at all times. My friend Eli bought this for me for my birthday.”

“And you are wearing it because?”

He blinks. “Well, because the itinerary said to come in period clothing, although that’s a slightly vague request.” He waves his hand downward. “Anyway, you can’t get much more period than Sesame Street.” He looks around. “Oh, you can,” he says in a disappointed voice.