Then came the fateful outing to the Yorkshire Show when he saw Ginnie Mackeever take a bad throw in the show jumping ring and rushed to give her first aid. Her father was distraught, worried that his only child should be seriously injured, but she must have had the devil’s luck and a spine of steel to walk away so easily from what could have been a wheelchair outcome.

Ginnie’s crowd was, at first, just the tonic Drew needed to complete his social life. Horsy but generous, with no bourgeois hangups about spending lolly by the bucketful: the eat, drink and be merry brigade who welcomed him into their charmed circle. Ginnie bubbled like pink champagne, dazzling his senses with her glamour and horsemanship.

He had ridden as a child of the Manse in Perthshire but needed many lessons even to begin to keep up with this crowd. How he’d got himself in to Fattorini’s the jeweller’s in Leeds to choose an engagement ring was all a bit of a blur. After some boozy party, no doubt. But Billie Mackeever had welcomed him as a fellow Scot and a tame quack in the family. Ginnie thought the whole romance a hoot. Why shouldn’t he enjoy himself after all those wasted years in the Forces? His parents sent a letter of congratulations from their clinic in the African bush, hoping Ginnie and Drew would make up the loving team needed to steer through the stormy waters of modern marriage. Ginnie had roared with laughter at their old-fashioned ideas.

As the time to make wedding plans drew nearer he felt anxious about the commitment he was taking on but relieved at least that young Ginnie was in no rush to canter down the aisle. Long might it continue.

*

When Netta walked past the bar, Drew was propped up there, close enough to touch her arm. ‘We meet again.’ He saw her mouth tremble. ‘Never expected to see you again. Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.’ He was grinning with amusement.

‘It’s not funny! You stood me up, as I recall, on Remembrance Day. I wondered what happened to you.’ She muttered the words like a ventriloquist’s dummy.

‘The usual, I expect. One too many, over the wall and far away. I came back but you were gone by then. Don’t look so po-faced.’

‘You’re drunk!’

‘I’m as sober as a judge but this sort of shindig always gets me reaching for the bottle. All this tartan glory makes my eyes water. Sorry, but it’s not my thing.’

‘Well, it was mine until you turned up.’

‘What brought you to Yorkshire?’

‘It’s a long story.’

‘There was a baby, I recall?’