Jimmy dragged me towards a table stall stacked with bottles. ‘Orange juice . . .’ he said, with an expectant grin. It was only when we got closer that I noticed the stall was manned by Melissa Blackman. Just as we approached, her husband appeared and my heart sank. I had no desire to face the man I’d come to think of as Eli’s enemy number one, but Jimmy was determined.

‘Hello, laddie,’ Mr Blackman said, with a smile that seemed to have been pasted on at the last minute. ‘And Miss Molly. What a pleasure.’

‘Can we buy two bottles of orange pop, please?’ I asked in my politest voice.

‘Well, my dear, the drinks are not for sale, I’m afraid. It’s a kind of tombola, you see. You have to buy a tuppenny ticket and see it if matches the number on a bottle.’

‘And if it doesn’t match?’

‘Then I’m afraid you get nothing. It’s like a lucky dip, if you like,’ he explained, enunciating over-carefully. I hated it when people patronised my brother. Jimmy didn’t understand, of course, and insisted on buying a tuppenny ticket, which to my astonishment turned out to match one of the bottles, except that it was a bottle of home-made beer.

‘Could we swap it for orange?’ I asked.

‘Sorry, the rules are that you can only take the bottle that matches your ticket.’

I considered asking him to show me the book of rules – which he had no doubt written in triplicate – but thought better of it. He was already holding out the beer bottle. ‘Your father will enjoy it,’ he said. He certainly would, I thought to myself, if I let him near it. Which I wouldn’t.

Jimmy took the bottle, clasping it to his chest like a prized possession. ‘Drink it now?’

‘No, Jimmy, it’s beer. Alcohol. Not suitable for children. Let’s go and find you some orange juice instead,’ I whispered, taking his hand.

‘No, now. Thirsty,’ he said, his feet planted firmly on the ground and his face crumpled. He was building up to a proper tantrum. ‘My drink,’ he shouted.

‘I said we’ll get you something else. Look, over there.’ I pointed to the refreshments tent.

‘No. Won’t.’ He stamped his foot and tossed the beer bottle to the ground, the cork blew out and brown fizzy liquid sprayed out all over the grass. Good riddance, I thought. At least I wouldn’t have to hide it from Pa. A gang of boys nearby turned to watch and started giggling.

‘You okay?’ asked one. ‘Anything wrong?’

‘No, there’s nothing wrong,’ I snapped back, the flush rising on my cheeks.

It was only once the boys moved on that I realised the one who’d spoken – and I’d snapped at – was Robert, Kit’s friend.