‘The quest for some of your ice-cream. This young man is my grandson. Evan, Mona, Mona, Evan.’

‘Pleased to make your acquaintance,’ says Mona.

‘We’ve just been doing some repairs on the old bus.’

‘What, more repairs? Buy something newer, Jack.’

Jack shakes his head.

‘There’s plenty of mileage in her yet. But it’s been hot work, so I thought what better way to cool us down than a couple of scoops of your famous ice-cream. Come in, Evan, and choose what you’d like.’

He holds out his hand to encourage Evan inside the shop, and Evan takes a tentative step in the direction of the freezer, where the tubs of ice-cream are on display.

‘All hand-made,’ says Mona. ‘All from our own herd, and all natural flavourings. What takes your fancy, Evan? Strawberry, chocolate, vanilla, rhubarb and ginger . . .’

‘That’s for me,’ says Jack. ‘A double scoop. Evan, what are you having?’

Evan ventures a couple of steps closer, and peers down at the display. He points at the chocolate. When he doesn’t speak, Mona gives Jack a quizzical look.

‘He’s a man of few words, is Evan,’ says Jack, touching his grandson on the shoulder. ‘I expect he’d be wanting a Flake in that, if you have one.’

As Mona and Jack talk – the vagaries of the parish council, vandalism of a phone booth, the upcoming agricultural show – Evan carries his ice-cream outside. It’s sweet and rich; the sunshine is warm and welcome. Intrigued by a mallard with ducklings on the pond, he wanders over there, and takes a seat on a waterside bench.

Jack and Mona watch him through the post office window.

‘Poor, poor boy,’ says Mona. ‘I can’t imagine how you’re all coping.’

‘One day at a time,’ says Jack. ‘Like re-acclimatising a beaten dog. We’re trying to teach him not everyone is bad, lead him back to the view of the world he used to have.’

‘That’s a long road, after what he’s been through.’

‘It’s a very long road, and progress is slow. But he is making progress, and he’s our boy, so whatever it takes, we’re more than glad to do it.’

At home that evening, Ron opens up the Google browser on his laptop and types in ‘Petersen’s Chelmsford’.

There’s a website.

He clicks on it, and a professional-looking page fills the screen, with a logo and the same strap-line he’s seen on the doorplate: Pneumatic Technology Solutions. There’s a picture of a wind farm and another of some kind of machined metal part whose use Ron couldn’t begin to guess, and a few lines about Petersen’s being established in Holland in the 1960s and now being at the forefront of wind-farm technologies.