Peter looked surprised. ‘I should have, old man. Just clear forgot about it to be honest. Been up to my ears in farm business. The accounts aren’t squaring. Ver doesn’t know this, so keep it under your hat, but I think Father’s been off on one of his jaunts again and I can only think he’s gambled some of the profits. Feed costs are going up all the time and we have less and less to cover it. I don’t know what to do.’

‘Have you confronted him about it?’

‘How can I? You know what he’s like. It’d push him over the edge.’

Arthur did know. Mr Frost had always been a drinker but since Mrs Frost had died, Peter seemed to be taking on more and more of the farm business and putting off making any decisions.

‘Look, there he is. Lucky I remembered, otherwise I’d have looked like quite a fool.’ Peter looked away, tugging at his collar, and, for once, appeared uncomfortable. Arthur realised that he was actually embarrassed about introducing someone new to him.

Away across the fairway, a speck in the distance, a figure was walking towards them. When the figure was close enough, Arthur saw he was strolling, relaxed, in pale yellow trousers and a dark navy polo shirt, his golf bag slung over his shoulder.

‘Jack!’ Peter walked forward towards the newcomer with his hand held out in greeting. Arthur stayed back and surveyed the interloper. He was medium height, probably about as tall as he was, but with a litheness and a swagger that spoke of complete confidence. His face was slim and with a pointed chin and eyes that creased with his wide grin. But the most obvious thing about him was the strange red-gold of his hair. It shone like a beacon against the green of the range and the pale blue of the sky – a flash of deep orange, drawing attention to itself, demanding that they all look. He felt a shiver of something close to dislike and, aware of it, he consciously readied his own face to brighten into welcome.

‘You must be the famous Art,’ said the American and Arthur wondered where the man had got that nickname from. No one called him that. Arthur wasn’t the sort of person to give others nicknames and was irked if anyone shortened his, with the exception of Verity and Peter. Even in the service where everyone had a nickname, he was still known as Arthur. He extended his hand and Jack took it. The hand was small and cool but with an insistent grip and he felt the American’s almond eyes focus on him until he had to look away.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said.

‘Let battle commence,’ declared the American.