‘Over there,’ the man says, pointing to one of the nearest fields. A young man is standing near its gate, putting a saddle on a small, shaggy creature. As they get closer, Tom sees it is one of the wild-looking ponies who live up on the open moor, though smaller than usual.

The pony’s name is Vulcan, Mr Symington tells them, and he is an Exmoor pony, not a Dartmoor pony, something which the two men find quite funny. ‘He’s a bit of a stick-in-the-mud,’ Mr Symington says. ‘Fat as a lardy cake and lazy with it. My little girl finds him dreadfully dull. But he’ll do for a beginner.’ The young groom leaves them, and so does Mr Symington, promising to return with ‘provisions’.

‘Now, then, Tommy. Up you get, old chap.’ Daddy is holding the pony’s bridle. The beast has velvety fur the colour of dark caramel. Tom reaches out and strokes it, cautiously. It feels like the old sofa in the nursery at Da’s house in London. He looks into the pony’s eyes, hoping to find some comradeship or perhaps sympathy, but they are as unfathomable as two large, wet black marbles. Daddy is watching him from under the brim of his hat, and Tom can sense his impatience. Daddy is always impatient, except when he is laughing with his friends, or riding off somewhere, or cleaning his guns. But there are different levels, and Tom has become sensitive to them all. He can tell whether Daddy is mildly bored, irritated, or about to erupt in fury. Now, he is about to become irritated. Tom takes hold of the saddle, as he has seen Daddy and Mummy do. Daddy says nothing, but Tom knows his performance is being scrutinised. Everything he does with Daddy seems to be a test. He lifts his booted foot and puts it through the stirrup, which is wet and slippery. It takes him a few tries before he can get his weight onto it. His heart is pounding. But Daddy says nothing: no advice, no encouragement. He grits his teeth and pulls himself up. To his intense relief he manages to swing his leg over the pony’s back and suddenly he is sitting in the saddle. He beams at Daddy, who merely gives him a satisfied nod. Tom sits, feeling the wet soak in through the seat of his trousers. So this is a saddle. He is surprised by how uncomfortable it is. Daddy lets go of the bridle and stands back, hands clasped behind his back. He raises his chin and narrows his eyes.