Peter had left Verity in her room with a book and a tray of tea and bread and butter that Mrs Timms had brought up for her. His sister was deathly pale and distracted. There was definitely something wrong; she might be sick, but he had no idea what to do about it. He felt the pang of loss of their mother, who would have stroked her hand at the very least. Verity always protested that Mother had been distant but it wasn’t how he remembered her. To him, their mother had been a barrier between him and his father. He wished… but it was pointless wishing.

Downstairs, he was pouring himself a second large glass of whisky when the doorbell rang. Mrs Timms had gone home. She said the snow was coming and she’d better go now or she’d get stuck. He had a funny image of the shapeless, furry brown hat like a small dog that she wore in the winter, sticking out of a snowdrift. Father was out cold on the sofa next to the fire. They’d spent the day repairing fences and had found the carcass of a rabbit stuck in the wire. Peter couldn’t think who on earth would be calling at this time but he took his drink and cracked open the front door.

‘Peter.’ Arthur was shivering in the doorway, shifting from one foot to the other in his greatcoat.

‘Hello, old boy. What are you doing here? Come in and warm up with a drink!’

‘No, I – I can’t come in. Listen, I wondered if there was any chance I could borrow your car?’

Peter frowned, bewildered. This was such an unexpected question. Arthur was talking hurriedly, as if desperate to get the words out. ‘Got some tricky deliveries, awful weather, but I don’t want to let them down, you see. The old dears.’ He trailed off. He was lying, Peter knew it. He fixed his eyes on Arthur. The lie hurt, but it made him alert. Arthur had been acting strangely ever since the flood. Something must have happened between him and Jack that night.

‘Yes, I see, right. Thing is, Arty, there’s absolutely bugger all petrol. Just used it up getting supplies for what’s left of the cattle, you see. Awfully sorry.’ Peter’s conscience was hammering on his skull. There was the emergency petrol store. He could give it to Arthur.

Arthur nodded slowly and rubbed his hands in the cold. ‘Right,’ he said at last. A gust of icy wind blew a few flakes into the hall. ‘Yes, I understand. I better get back then, can’t keep them waiting.’

‘You sure you don’t want a nip of whisky or nice juicy port to keep you going?’