‘Well, get up, get up,’ says Daddy. He stands, feet apart, hands behind his back, an officer at ease. Except he isn’t at ease. His lips are pursed and his moustache is bristling. Tom waits for a hand up, but Daddy keeps his hands where they are. So Tom has to roll over painfully, nettles pricking his hands and wrists, his face. His shoulder hurts. But he struggles to his feet.

‘Now catch your damn pony,’ Daddy snaps. Vulcan is at the other side of the field, tearing at a clump of sedge with his teeth. Tom limps over and, to his surprise, the pony barely looks up when he puts his foot in a stirrup. The pain in his shoulder makes it difficult to use his left arm, but he tries and then there he is, back in the saddle.

‘Reins! Shorten your bloody reins,’ Daddy snaps. He has crossed the field in a few angry strides. Tom does what he imagines Daddy means. But before he has got a proper hold, Daddy slaps Vulcan’s backside and with an affronted toss of his head, the pony is galloping again. This time they are only halfway across the field when Tom, whose feet aren’t even in the stirrups, slides sideways and finds himself with his face shoved hard into a clod of earth. Vulcan is a few feet away, grazing.

‘Get up.’ Tom knows that Daddy is speaking through clenched teeth. Although he doesn’t turn around, he knows Daddy’s jaw will have a bulge the size of a chestnut in it. He scrambles to his feet and staggers over to Vulcan, who again lets him mount, though the pain in Tom’s shoulder is so bad that he can barely manage it. His face is streaming with tears, but he gets his feet set, shortens his reins and digs in his heels. ‘Gee up!’ he says, knowing how pathetic he sounds. ‘Gee up, Vulcan!’ Soaked to the skin, his tweed jacket caked in mud, skin burning from nettle stings, his shoulder feeling as if a giant dog has set its teeth into it, Tom kicks desperately at the beast, willing it to move before Daddy reaches them. He finally kicks too hard, and again Vulcan sets off, tearing towards the gate, where to his horror Tom sees Mr Symington, holding a thermos of tea in one hand and a couple of china mugs in the other. Worse, Mr Symington is almost doubled over with laughter. At this point, perhaps seeing his master, Vulcan stops dead. Tom feels the now-familiar sensation of weightlessness.

It is Mr Symington who grabs him under the arm – the right arm, thankfully – and heaves him upright.

‘I say, you’ve had a bit of a tumble, old chap!’

‘Yes, sir,’ Tom manages through chattering teeth.

‘If you can meet with triumph and disaster …’