The farmer and a middle-aged woman emerge from a doorway to the right, where the hall broadens out at the foot of the stairs. The woman clutches a duster, which she shoves into the front pocket of her floral housecoat, visibly paling at the sight before her. She pushes past the farmer.

‘Can you manage her upstairs?’

‘Just show me where,’ Jack says.

‘Shall I go for the doctor, Muriel?’

‘Let’s have a look at her first, Jim. No point fetching him if she’s only fainted. Can you hear me, Gwen, love? This way,’ she says to Jack, starting up the stairs. ‘Did she hit her head?’

‘I don’t know.’ Jack treads carefully in her wake, ensuring his balance with each step, aware the girl’s father is following close behind. ‘She’d fallen by the time I got to her, but her foot was caught in the stirrup. She was awake, like, but getting dragged about a bit by the horse. It was a delivery van going like the clappers that scared the poor creature, I reckon.’

‘A delivery van?’ Her father makes no effort to contain his fury. ‘Did you catch the company? More’s the bloody pity,’ he spits as Jack shakes his head. ‘I’d give them a piece of my mind, I tell you.’

They reach the landing.

‘In here.’ Muriel leads him into a good-sized room dominated by a brass bedstead with a light blue blouse hanging off its bottom post. She bustles forward to remove a splayed book from the crumpled pillow, before straightening the eiderdown and stepping back to make way for Jack.

He places Gwen gently upon the bed, sliding his arms out from underneath her, his focus lingering longer than it perhaps should. He is relieved when she mumbles drowsily, the tip of her tongue tracing the swell of her bottom lip.

‘Dad …’

‘I’m here, love.’ The farmer’s voice softens as he nudges Jack aside.

His eyes still on the girl, Jack backs away. He bumps into a dressing table set before the window, causing the array of perfume bottles clustered on its top to wobble and chink. He whips around to steady them, his large hands oafish against the delicate glass. He is momentarily distracted by the framed photograph of a woman with a little girl on her lap. The child bears such a strong resemblance to Gwen that he knows at once it is her. The woman in the photograph, though, is not the same woman who is clucking over her now, exclaiming at the sight of her swollen cheek, as she meticulously searches her scalp for injury. Gwen weakly protests at the fuss being made.

‘I’m fine – the shock of it all just made me lightheaded. Where is Arthur?’ She struggles to rise, but Muriel pushes her back down.