She fetched a coat, hat and scarf and ventured out into the sodden garden. Dark clouds blew across the sky and the day was bleak. The apple trees were torn and bare, the grass grubby with the same streaking of salt and sand as the fields. She swayed, slightly dizzy. The meat and pickle were sour in her mouth. ‘Come,’ she said to the empty sky. ‘Please come.’ In reply, a magpie squawked in a tree. She walked down to the end of the garden, across the stile and onto the first field. There were Gypsy and Heather as if nothing had happened, blithely chewing hay in the paddock. And to think she’d gone out in the middle of a flood for that horse! She stroked Gypsy’s mane and nuzzled into him. It didn’t matter. The horse was alive. She stayed like that for a long time, feeling the animal’s warm flank move beneath her, until she heard the crunch of steps behind her and swung round, heart in her throat, imagining Jack. It was Peter.

‘Funny, isn’t it? You nearly killing yourself and your horse is absolutely fine the whole time.’ He looked ravaged, she could see it now in natural light, his face hollowed out from physical exhaustion and worry. She felt guilty for wishing he was Jack but she still did.

‘I know,’ she said, ‘but I forgive him. It was stupid of me. I was worried about you too, you know.’ She looked down. It was more than either of them had said before.

He snorted. ‘I told you to stay in the house.’ But he didn’t sound angry with her, more weary, embarrassed.

‘Sorry,’ she said. There was a pause while they looked at the horses. She knew it was selfish to ask him but she had to. ‘Peter, I don’t want to ask but… do you know where Jack is? I thought he might have come to see me – you – us.’ She could feel the heat rising up her neck and she continued to stroke Gypsy’s coarse, thick mane with an insistent rhythm.

Without answering, Peter came into the paddock and brought some hay to Heather who already had enough. ‘I haven’t seen him. He’s probably at the base but the lines are down. Arthur’s been but Mrs Timms keeps turning him away. Bit rotten really. He found you, after all.’

Her hand stopped stroking and gripped onto the horse’s mane as if she needed something to hold onto. She faltered and her vision clouded. The horse whinnied and pushed his head at her. His glassy black eyes came into focus and she leaned her head against his muzzle.

‘But why hasn’t Jack come too?’