Tom tries to smile. Why do grown-ups always throw bits of that poem around? Daddy has made him memorise ‘If’ and is always declaiming it himself, though Mummy says it makes her want to scream. ‘Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it.’ Which, he thinks, really couldn’t feel less true at this moment.

‘No dawdling, Tommy. Mount up.’ Daddy is standing over him.

‘I think he looks a bit done in, don’t you, Jim?’ says Mr Symington. ‘Enough for one day, don’t you think?’

‘Nonsense. Tommy: quickly, please.’

Head down, clutching his shoulder, Tom trudges over to Vulcan, who lets him hoist himself up. The pony doesn’t even bother to raise his head, but keeps tearing savagely at the grass. Tom listens to the powerful teeth rip and scrape. He kicks feebly but Vulcan just flicks his ears. ‘I hate you,’ Tom whispers, but he doesn’t, and his words seem so unfair, and so mean, that he starts to cry, still kicking with his heels.

‘I really think he’s had enough, Jim.’ Mr Symington sounds a little anxious. ‘He’s had a jolly good try and this rain really is a bit foul. Tommy can come back next week, and ride with Diana.’

‘He’ll bloody well ride now,’ says Daddy.

‘Oh, come off it, Jim. Let’s go inside. I’ve got this tea but Cook can make us a proper pot and a sandwich or two. I’m sure Diana would like to meet Tommy.’

There is nothing that Tom wants less in the world than to meet another person his age, particularly a girl. He gives Vulcan another desperate kick and the pony lifts its head resignedly and begins to trot. Tom is upright, his feet are in the stirrups, his back is straight, but his left hand isn’t working properly. In fact, it isn’t working at all. Tom tries to gather the reins in one hand but as he is groping for them, Vulcan increases his speed a little and Tom finds himself slipping. He tries to hug the pony around the neck but Vulcan’s coat is slick with water and he cannot find any purchase. Down he goes, until, still hugging the pony’s neck, good hand wrapped tightly around bad wrist, he is being dragged along between the beast’s legs. Finally he lets go, and watches the pony’s shaggy, muddy belly pass above him, like a drowning sailor looking up at a passing ship. Then Daddy is bending over him. His collar is grabbed and he is hauled upright by the scruff like a naughty puppy.

‘You’re a disgrace, Tommy. A damned bloody disgrace. You’ve let me down.’

‘Come along, Jim!’ Mr Symington calls. Daddy waves cheerily to him, then turns back to Tommy.

‘I’m ashamed of you. D’you hear? Ashamed.’