As they cycled, he standing on the axle holding onto Peter’s lanky frame, the sun burned through the haze and the rain held off. The evening sang with sound and life. They flew down the country lanes to the Hall and he closed his eyes, listening to birdsong and the squeak of the tyres. He wondered how Verity was going to get there but he couldn’t ask, he had to concentrate on holding tight to Peter who swerved alarmingly close to the ditches on every corner they turned. He had his answer when they finally arrived at the entrance to a grand house at the end of a long gravel drive, flanked by poplar trees on either side. Gaggles of brightly dressed girls were emerging from two coaches, like princesses from carriages, in dresses of yellow and pink and green. He felt a violent desire to get off the bike and run back to the safety of the town. But Peter was veering in wide parabolas across the path. For a fleeting moment, it was the two of them on a bike freewheeling down Leafy Lane as children and he opened his mouth to whoop in the boyish joy of it.

Peter turned his head to shout back to Arthur, ‘Look at those peacocks!’ In the same moment, he lost control of the bike and they fell sideways, scraping onto the gravel, skidding into the line of poplars.

The two of them sprawled where they had fallen, legs under the wheels, bruised and groaning. They weren’t boys any more. Someone came crunching over the gravel. ‘Peter, is that you?’ There was a pause. ‘Oh, for goodness sake.’

Arthur tried to sit up. It was Verity. She was standing in a shiny blue ballgown, a gauzy shawl around her shoulders, staring at them both. ‘What on earth have you done?’

‘Oh there you are, Ver, help me up, will you?’ Peter held out his arm.

‘God, Peter, you stink of alcohol. They won’t have it, you know.’ But she knelt to help him.

‘Poppycock, just a little stiffener, dear sister.’ Peter straightened his long body and ran a hand through his sandy hair.

‘So bloody dangerous, what if this had happened out on a proper road?’

‘Blimey, Ver, you sound like an old woman. Let me have a bit of fun, will you?’ Arthur cringed at the hurt in Peter’s voice. He levered himself up, trying not to wince in pain. He avoided catching Verity’s eye.

‘I would have thought you’d know better,’ she said to him and he was forced to look at her.

‘He’s worse than me, you know that,’ said her brother.

‘I do not. Come on, Arthur, you can take me in.’

He shrugged apologetically to Peter and, not quite believing it, took her arm. She turned to her brother, still standing with his bike. ‘Girls won’t dance with you, you know. Not if you’re drunk.’