Kate had walked a mile along the green banks, carefully looking at the grazing sheep and the fat summer lambs, seeing no signs of illness or trouble. She had sat on the turfy cliff edge, swinging her boots and enjoying the fresh wind on her cheeks, and watched a line of barges chugging up the river. Laden with massive mahogany logs from the rainforest, they turned into the canal entrance to wait at the lock gates and then unload their cargo at the timber mill.

Parallel to the sheep pastures, on slightly higher ground, was the land belonging to the racing stables, a circuit of it expensively fenced with post and rails to make a ‘gallop’. Kate hadn’t had much experience of racehorses and she was eager to see them. The horse she was petting suddenly raised its head and whinnied loudly. Along the lane came a man riding an elegant dappled grey racehorse and leading a second one, a glossy bay with a black mane and tail.

‘Hello there.’ He paused, surprised to see the dark-haired, dark-eyed girl sitting on the gate. Kate flashed a smile at him, and he smiled back. He had very white teeth and black merry eyes.

‘Hello.’ Kate jumped down from the gate and went to stroke the two tall horses who arched their necks graciously and blew in her hair. ‘Are they racehorses?’

‘Yes – both, in training for Cheltenham.’

‘They’re so beautiful,’ breathed Kate. ‘Are they yours?’

‘Yes. Bred them both, I did,’ he said proudly, smoothing the neck of the grey horse who stood staring thoughtfully into the distance. ‘I’m Ian Tillerman. And you are?’

‘Kate Loxley.’

‘Ah – a Loxley.’

‘I’m Don Loxley’s niece.’

‘Just on holiday, are you?’

‘No. We’ve come here to live at Asan Farm with my uncle. Mother, Dad, Ethie and me, from Hilbegut in Somerset.’

Ian Tillerman’s eyes brightened with interest. He looked intently at Kate who, he thought, exuded confidence and sparkle as she stood looking up at him.

‘Want a ride?’ he said impulsively. ‘Can you ride?’

‘Ooh yes. I love riding.’ Kate beamed. ‘But I’ve never ridden a real racehorse. I’d love to.’

Ian Tillerman kicked his feet free of the stirrups and jumped down. He stood gazing at Kate for a moment. ‘Are you used to galloping? These horses are fast, believe me.’

‘Yes,’ said Kate firmly, even though her nerves were on fire with excitement.

‘You ride the bay. She’s called Little Foxy, and she’s a good girl. She’s fine as long as she doesn’t see a motorbike. Just let her have her head. We’ll do two circuits of the track,’ he said. ‘Keep her level with me, then I’ll know you’re all right.’

He gave Kate a leg up onto the horse, a bit too vigorously, so that she nearly shot over the other side.

‘Whoops. Steady on!’ she laughed loudly and Little Foxy flicked her ears back to listen to this new rider on her back, a girl with a bird-like voice and kind hands that smoothed the crest of her neck. Kate adjusted the stirrups, and took the reins.

‘I can see you’ll be fine,’ said Ian Tillerman. He vaulted onto the grey horse and they set off at a sedate walk, through the gap in the hedge and into the gallop circuit. Kate was thrilled. Little Foxy was quivering with excitement, knowing she was going to gallop like a wild horse. She began to dance sideways, her muscles rippling in the sunlight. Ian Tillerman glanced at Kate and raised his black eyebrows. ‘Ready?’

‘You bet,’ she said, and before he could say anything else she had let Little Foxy go and was galloping ahead of him, her hair streaming back as she crouched low over the horse’s neck, her knees gripping the leather saddle, her heels well down. He tore after her, his heart pounding when he saw the risk he’d taken so impulsively, letting a perfect stranger, a girl, ride his expensive, corned-up racehorse. Supposing she couldn’t cope and had a terrible accident? It would be his fault, and Don Loxley would never forgive him, and neither would his father.

But Kate was exuberant, loving the feel of the powerful horse, the wind whipping her cheeks to flame, the ground speeding past. She flashed a smile at Ian Tillerman as he thundered up beside her, and urged Little Foxy even faster, the two horses flying over the turf, their nostrils flared, and hooves kicking up lumps of mud. Beside them in the wide river, the fast running tide glittered as it raced up the estuary under a wild and shining sky.

Freddie drove his lorry slowly down the wooded hill into Yeovil, past the hospital and on through the streets of terraced houses, looking for George’s motorbike. When he saw it propped in the front garden of a red brick house, he parked at the kerb, got out and walked through the overgrown garden. He knocked at the door with his fist and waited, glimpsing a movement through the front window. George was at home, watching him behind mustard-coloured curtains. Freddie knocked again, louder, and eventually George came to the door. The way he opened it a crack and peered out reminded Freddie momentarily of Annie, the same fear in the same eyes.

‘Oh, ’tis Freddie.’ George opened the door fully. He looked rough and unshaven, his clothes smelled fusty, and he wore battered leather slippers with a hole through which a calloused and grubby toe protruded. ‘You better come in,’ he said, and led the way over bare floorboards into a room with mould up the walls and stacks of yellowing newspapers. One was spread on the floor with some oily black bits of an engine on it.

‘That your lorry?’ George pointed to the dirty window where the bulk of the Scammell lorry glowed red.

‘Yes,’ said Freddie shortly.

‘Bet you haven’t paid for it.’

Freddie ignored the jibe and sat down on a rickety kitchen chair.

‘I’ve come to see you about Mother,’ he said.

‘What about her?’ George sat back and folded his arms across his chest in a defensive stance.

Freddie was silent. He tried to get eye contact but George wouldn’t look at him, and everything Freddie had planned to say was suddenly useless. So he stayed quiet and waited, thinking he had to approach George from a different angle.

‘So what about Mother, then? Not ill, is she?’ George asked, and Freddie could see that his silence was unnerving. He maintained it until George’s questions started to disintegrate into stumbling attempts to reconstruct the armour he’d always worn in front of his brother.

‘We’re brothers, George,’ said Freddie very quietly, ‘and I’d like us to be friends.’

‘Ah.’ Finally George met the steady blue gaze of Freddie’s eyes. They were full of light and a deep mysterious peacefulness that George didn’t have. He didn’t feel good about the way he’d treated Freddie. Right from the start he’d either ignored or teased him, jealous of the way his mother had been so besotted by the waiflike blond child who had grown into this quiet, confident young man who was offering him friendship. George crumbled. His big hands shook and his eyes glistened. He took a fag from a squashed packet and lit it, offering one to Freddie.

‘No thanks.’

‘’Tis hard,’ said George. ‘I miss the old man. And ’tis lonely here, see? I do care about Mother. It’s just – well, ’tis hard, a hard life I got. I’ll tell ’e, Freddie . . .’

Freddie kept quiet and listened attentively. George was talking to him for the first time, telling him about his job at Petter Engines, sharing his dream of having his own garage, the pains in his legs and shoulders, and how he hated living alone. And right at the end of the tale he said sadly, ‘I were all right, see, ’til she went off.’

‘She?’

‘Freda. My lady love. Oh, I loved her. Lovely girl, lovely she was. A singer and a pianist. Play anything she could – make that piano dance, she did. I give her everything, Freddie, everything, and she just upped and left me for some fancy boy from London. Nothing I could do. Nothing. You wait ’til you’re in love, Freddie. Then you’ll know.’