‘Give me the keys, Jim,’ Ted says, walking towards the driver’s side with more concentration than should be necessary, banging into the front wing as he misjudges his way. ‘I’ll drive.’

‘The hell you will,’ Jack grimaces. ‘You’re three sheets to the wind as well.’

‘I’m perfectly capable—’

‘And I’m more capable.’ Jack wrestles open the rear door and, with some rough guidance and a bit of shoving, he manages to fold the drunken farmer inside. Jim slumps across the back seat. Jack curses under his breath as he slams the door and makes his way round to the driver’s side. ‘I’m driving.’

Ted looks set to argue. Jack draws himself up to his full height, preparing to square up to him, but at the last minute, the other man relents. Slurring some derogatory comment, Ted staggers back to the passenger side, one hand on the bonnet to steady himself. Jack gets in behind the wheel.

He grinds the gears and almost stalls the engine, out of practice and unfamiliar with the car. It’s some time since he pootled around the shipyard in a borrowed truck, but before long the natural rhythm of the dance returns to him and soon his feet coordinate effortlessly with the shifting stick.

The night swallows them. The moon is waning, lying on its back as if it too has imbibed too much and toppled into slumber. Jack peers through the windscreen as he struggles to decipher the dimly lit road before him.

‘She died eleven years ago today.’

Jack snatches a look at the man beside him. Ted’s expression is shrouded in shadows and his voice is thick with alcohol and sorrow.

‘Jim’s Vera. Gwen’s mother. My wife and child had died just a few months earlier. All of them TB.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘So, you’ll forgive us if we take a few pints this night in memory of what we’ve lost.’ His words are edged with bitterness.

‘That’s why Gwen wasn’t sure …’ Jack is almost unaware he has voiced his deduction, until he senses Ted looking at him, ‘… about going out.’

‘The ball was bad timing – tonight of all nights. But I say there’s nothing wrong in honouring our loved ones’ memories.’

Jack twists round briefly to take in the comatose figure sprawled across the back seat. He returns his focus to the road.

‘He’s blind drunk. He’s hardly honouring any memory getting into a state like that.’

‘But he doesn’t drink to remember …’ Ted’s stare drills through the gloom. ‘He drinks to forget. Ah, you can sit there all superior. You’ve no idea what grief does to a man.’

‘Don’t presume to know me. You don’t know me at all.’

The car’s wan headlights fall on the garden wall of Ted’s farmhouse. Jack pulls on the handbrake, but leaves the engine ticking over.