‘Jesus, he’s not going to stop …’

Ted doesn’t move. Grim-faced, he stands fast, blockading the road. There is not enough room for Gordon to safely skirt around him and yet the motorbike roars closer.

In Jack’s mind, it takes minutes. He watches in abject horror as at the last second – just as Ted flinches, preparing for the impact that must surely come – Gordon hauls the motorbike away. The machine skids across the road, toppling sideways as its front wheel smashes into the hedge. Tom flies into the air like a rag doll. Gwen screams his name.

Jack’s chest explodes as he races to the boy, curled up on the verge amongst the hedge garlic, knapweed, and nettles.

‘Tom! Tom!’ He collapses to his knees, feeling more fear than he thought possible. With infinite care he lays his hands on the child who has come to mean more to him than he dares confess. When Tom whimpers, he chokes on his tears. ‘Tom?’

‘Daddy.’

Unfurling like a blossoming flower, Tom rolls over into Jack’s waiting embrace. He is too dazed to cry; he simply wraps his arms around Jack’s neck and clings on so fearfully that Jack can hardly breathe.

‘I’ve got you,’ he whispers. ‘Do you hurt anywhere, lad? Your head, your legs, your back?’

Tom’s face crumples as he nods. Jack takes off the aviator cap and throws it into the brambles. Gently easing the boy away from him, he clasps his grazed face in his hands, checking him for damage.

‘Tom!’ Gwen crashes down beside him. ‘What hurts, darling?’

‘I’m sore, Mummy, and the nettles have stung me.’ He starts to cry, but to their relief he shows no sign of serious injury as he crawls into his mother’s arms, sobbing against her chest as she rocks him. Gwen’s own tears form runnels through the dust that coats her face. Jack pushes himself up and helps Gwen to her feet. She brings Tom with her, his legs wrapped around her hips, his arms looped around her shoulders, his head buried in her neck.

‘Get him inside,’ Jack says softly.

She nods and starts to make her way across the lane. The shocked men from the thresher fall back, clearing a path for her.

In the verge, the motorbike’s wheels continue to spin, willow-herb and cocksfoot tangling amongst their spokes. Petrol fumes sully the air. Allingham, partially pinned, groans and curses as he tries to push the machine clear of his body. Ted crosses to him without hurry, his expression dark as night. His great paws grasp the upturned handlebar and the freshly crumpled fender.

‘Keep still,’ he growls as he pulls the bike up onto its tyres. He has only just rolled it clear when Jack throws himself upon its stricken rider. Grabbing the sheepskin lapels of Allingham’s flying jacket, he hauls him from the verge.