Evan beams, and runs to get in. Jack follows, and leans inside to check that the Land Rover’s in neutral.

‘Wait till I give you the thumbs up,’ he says.

Jack takes up his position under the bonnet, and when he gives the signal, Evan solemnly turns the key. The engine fires, running less roughly than it usually does.

Jack gives another thumbs up and drops the bonnet down.

‘You’ve done a good job there,’ he says to Evan. ‘You’ll make a decent mechanic, one day. Shall we take her for a spin, make sure she’s OK?’

Evan seems uncertain.

‘Go on, shift over,’ says Jack, and Evan clambers over the gearstick, into the passenger seat. ‘Let’s go and see what we can find.’

Jack drives them down the pot-holed lane. As they pass over the stream, he stops, and from their respective windows they peer down into the water, looking for fish.

‘They’re hard to spot when the sun’s on the water,’ he says. ‘But we know they’re in there, don’t we?’

He follows the lane in the direction of the village, but before they reach it, he takes a turn up an even narrower lane, where the frothy heads of cow parsley brush the Land Rover’s sides. Evan’s looking out over dry-stone walls into meadows alight with yellow buttercups, at doe-eyed cows swishing away flies as they chew the grass. In the corner of one field, there’s a ramshackle barn where rampant nettles are growing through the blades of an abandoned plough.

They pass a sign announcing a village where Evan hasn’t been before, which turns out to be not much more than a well-kept green with a duck pond, surrounded by a scattering of grey stone houses and cottages. One of the cottages has been converted into a post office, and Jack parks outside.

‘This place here,’ he says, ‘is a bit off the beaten track, but it holds a closely guarded secret. This little place just happens to sell the best ice-cream in all England. Come on, I’ll show you.’

He climbs out of the Land Rover. Evan doesn’t follow, so Jack walks round and opens his door.

‘Come on, lad. It’s just one old lady and a bad-tempered cat.’

Reluctantly, Evan gets out, and follows Jack as far as the post office door.

Inside, the woman behind the counter might be older than Jack, but she’s not dressing her age. Her hair’s tied in a ponytail reaching below her waist, and her clothes are sixties hippy: purple cords, big hoop earrings, a crocheted jacket in rainbow colours. She should look odd, eccentric, but somehow on her the style looks cool.

‘Afternoon, Mona,’ says Jack.

Mona gives him a big smile.

‘Hello, stranger.’ Evan hears an American accent. ‘What blows you into town?’