Kerensa had refused to be forbidden from the room by the doctor and was angered at his presumption that all mothers were needlessly hysterical where sick children were concerned. She stood opposite him holding Luke’s good hand, speaking reassuringly to him when he stirred and moaned as the head wound was stitched. But it required Oliver’s strength to hold him still when Dr Crebo worked on the arm to try and manoeuvre it back into place.

Beatrice was the only other person there. She laid out her ointments, rolled up bandages, fashioned a sling from a piece of torn-off sheet, but kept her distance. She cried and cried, blubbering copious amounts of foul green phlegm down over her chins. It gave Oliver real moments of panic. Before this he had never seen her cry once.

Kerensa wanted to hold on to Beatrice for comfort but stayed close to the table, passing the doctor cloths to wipe off the mounting sweat from his face. She winced as he grunted with the effort of his labour. She was distraught at Luke’s screams of agony and prayed the rum the doctor had forced down his throat would soon work and he’d stay unconscious until his arm was back in place. She felt sick to the stomach.

Oliver’s panic turned to ice-cold terror when Beatrice stopped crying and began to wail loud snatches of prayer. In all his life he had never been so afraid. Or felt so guilty. He would never come to terms with the knowledge that it was his pride and neglect that could mean his son living life as a cripple. The boys would never have disobeyed his orders as they had Kerensa’s. He could hardly bear to look at Kerensa’s face, deathly white, frightened. She had forgiven him for going away and leaving her for so long; could she forgive him for what was happening to Luke? A quick glance and he caught her eye. He saw only love there for him, the need for his strength and comfort. Why did she not hate him for this? At that moment hatred would have been more bearable.

The doctor pulled and heaved on Luke’s arm, and the boy thankfully passed out. The sound of bone jarring on bone was clearly audible. ‘Ah,’ breathed Dr Crebo as if he was confident the arm was about to slide back into place, then he swore as the movement went wide. He sat down to get his breath back. He walked to a window to gulp in much-needed fresh evening air. Then he returned to the table and said, ‘This time I will damn well get it in.’

Five minutes later he was still trying. ‘I hate putting limbs back into sockets but they usually—’

‘For God’s sake, Crebo, let me try!’ Oliver cried in desperation.