The horse blew out its nostrils. The boy made no sign of encouragement, apart from to point at Tom and then at the seat beside him.

Looking about for a car, Tom said, ‘I’m waiting for my uncle to pick me up?’

The boy simply repeated the gesture, in his slow way. Tom bridled a little, wondering if he was mocking him. ‘I … I don’t mean to be rude, but …’

Raindrops pattered his cheeks. There was a train back to London in an hour or so. He couldn’t see a pub or even a house, apart from a small dilapidated cottage, on which a sign said, optimistically: Ben’s Taxis. Airport Service.

From the back of the cart, a little head poked out. It was a dog; a lurcher, black-headed and white-throated, with soft, bright eyes. The rain was getting harder.

‘You’re from James Swinton, my uncle? I’m Tom, Tom Swinton. Thomas. Er, Thos.’ He wasn’t sure if you said that with a th or a t. Awkwardly, Tom stuck out his hand, but the boy ignored it, instead nodding slightly and gesturing again.

What choice did Tom really have? The worst that could happen would be that if he arrived at the farm and hated it, he could phone a taxi, if Ben wasn’t off delivering people to airports. So he glanced back at the platform. The ticket seller had come out and was standing stolidly, arms folded, with a vacant look on his face. The woman in the café was still scrubbing; she did not stop to watch. Perhaps she was used to horses and carts picking people up at the station.

Deciding, Tom swung himself up onto the seat, settling his bag under his feet, and turned to tickle the dog’s tummy. She stretched herself out delightedly, closing her eyes in pleasure. She had a little white star on the top of her head, and he scratched it, letting her lick his face.

The boy had remained entirely still for the whole time. He took the reins, and the horse, who clearly knew its driver well, turned heavily and clopped slowly out to the road.

They didn’t stay on it for very long, turning onto a broad bridleway a short way from the station. The sun was entirely hidden by clouds, but the leaves of the trees rustled and woodpigeons cooed. The rain tailed off.

The journey, to begin with, was silent. But as they moved further away from the station, the boy began to soften a little. After they’d trundled off into a single-track road, a holloway almost tunnel-like with green, he lifted his silver eyes to Tom and said, ‘Kit. I be named Kit.’

He had a low, strong Suffolk burr. The dog whimpered.

‘She doesn’t want to be forgotten,’ said Tom. ‘What’s her name?’