The puppy in the boot let out an excited yap and Pax looked up as a very muddy Land Rover swung into the memorial hall car park, watching in the rear-view mirror as a broad-shouldered figure stepped out of it, smile as wide as the sky and eyes as blue, a gundog at each heel.

Bay Austen, Compton Magna’s unofficial squire.

Frantically mopping the last vestiges of tears, Pax summoned a bristly smile as a gloved hand rapped on the window. She slid it down a fraction and a delicious burst of waxed cotton and Penhaligon’s Quercus blew in.

‘Darling Pax! Greetings. If your New Year Resolution is to run away from all this bad weather and start a beach bar in Honolulu, thank goodness I’m just in time to join you.’

‘Bay.’

Briefly in love as teenagers, now jaw-tighteningly cool with one another, their encounters were never comfortable. Bay, who flirted with everybody like an eager Labrador, still wanted to be forgiven. Pax, who found it too hard to forget, wanted him nowhere near.

Even after more than a decade, being in his presence made all her pulses tighten with that first love hit of lost innocence and exquisite pain. It didn’t even help that he’d matured into such a country cliché, perfect bone structure and soulful blue eyes sitting far too exquisitely above the Schoffel fleece collars.

The eyes darkened as they studied her own red-rimmed ones. ‘Pax, darling, are you okay?’

‘Winter cold. Highly infectious.’

‘Bad luck.’

‘If you’ll excuse me, I’m late.’

‘Of course. Catch up properly soon.’

‘Yes.’ Never. How can one pick up where one left off when over a decade earlier she was so indescribably broken by him?

Starting the engine, she set off at speed, clipping a dog litter bin in her haste to get away, and adding another dent to the car Mack liked to call ‘The Fiat Worse than Death’ in a bad Geordie accent. Less than five years old and already rusting and battle-scarred, the Italian fake Mini he’d bought her as an apology after writing off her beloved Golf wasn’t built to be parked on a flooded building site. Its exhaust, which had been threatening to fall off for weeks, sounded awful, blowing raspberries as she accelerated along Plum Run, rattled through Compton Magna and turned noisily into the stud drive.

Lester was leading dun stallion, Cruisoe, back from his high-hedged field, creased old face lifting like a furled flag in a breeze at the sight of her car. He was a stickler for treating his favourites to the toughest love, and Pax had always been his favourite. In the same way he gave a sharp tug to the chifney bit in his mouth now to remind Cruisoe he had his back, he fixed her with a steely look.

‘We were expecting you first thing.’

‘Sorry about that. Been a bit under the weather.’ Shakes, headaches and tears, the usual morning call. ‘Is Mummy around?’

‘Mrs Ledwell’s already set off.’