‘Right. Party’s over.’ Dad’s familiar way of drawing a veil over all things emotional. He got to his feet with an almighty sniff, pulling a red and white spotty hanky from his pocket and blowing his nose hard. ‘Important to get it all out, though, every now and again,’ he observed gruffly.

Important to have a good sob, was what he meant. About Mum. Which I knew we’d both been doing, the weepy movie giving us an excuse. At least I’d never have to do that to get over my more recent bereavement, I thought. In fact if I did get out a movie, it might well be Put Out the Flags.

‘Where are the kids?’ Dad asked, stuffing the hanky back in his pocket and helping himself to a tumbler of Famous Grouse to steady the nerves. Not the first of the day, I’d hazard, and it wasn’t even eleven o’clock.

‘With Jennie.’ I leaned my head back on the sofa and looked up at him. ‘I couldn’t take them back in the lorry, Dad. No belts.’

‘Oh.’ His face fell like a child’s, as I knew it would. He was disappointed. Couldn’t understand why, since I’d rattled around in that lorry unfettered, my children couldn’t. No matter how often I told him about laws and fines, not to mention terrible injuries, he still didn’t get it.

‘But you were perfectly OK,’ he’d say. ‘And I drive safely …’

‘I know, Dad,’ I’d say sheepishly, scratching my neck, and never pointing out how irresponsible or uncaring he’d been, for Dad was neither. Although in the eyes of others he might be.

‘But I thought you could take them to the meet?’ I said to him now. ‘Maybe follow for a bit? They’d love that.’

‘And I’d love it too. Good idea. I’ll do that.’ He rubbed his hands together, pleased. ‘Now. Come on, let’s go and see what I’ve got for you.’ Cheered immeasurably by a bloody good cry, the whisky and the prospect of a day out with his grandchildren, he made for the back door and his boots.

I got to my feet hurriedly. ‘You mean, you’ve definitely got me one?’

‘Of course I’ve got you one. I’ve got two. You’re spoiled for choice. Come on, they’re in the yard.’

I felt a flutter of excitement as I followed him outside. Dolls, ponies, boys – these apparently mark the three stages of girlhood: the definitive rites of passage. And although I would never regress to Tiny Tears (having said that, on occasion I have found myself on Clemmie’s bedroom floor, brushing Barbie’s hair with a gormless, faraway expression on my face), in moments of crisis, or general barrenness on the man front, I can quite easily resort to horse flesh to make my heart beat faster. Like my father before me, I find the equine world not only more reliable and dependable, but infinitely more sensitive. It was with a quickening pulse, therefore, that I swapped my shoes for one of the many pairs of boots by the back door and scurried after Dad to the yard.

At this time of year most of his horses were rugged up and grazing in the fields, having been in all night, but sure enough, in the otherwise empty row of loose boxes, occupying the nearest one was a good-looking bay, his head over the door. He watched as we approached. He had a kind, intelligent face and his ears were pricked. My ribcage hosted another little dance.

‘Ooh … handsome brute.’

‘Isn’t he just?’ Dad said softly. ‘Dutch Warmblood. Bags of breeding.’

We stopped at his stall and I stroked his velvety nose as he blew into my hand. ‘What’s his name?’

‘Well, his full title is Thundering Pennyford, but he answers to Thumper.’

‘Thumper,’ I echoed. God, he was gorgeous. Sleek, dark and delicious. Quite big too, I thought nervously as I looked down his arched neck to his shapely quarters. Another head appeared next door.

‘And this one?’ I moved on to the adjoining stable where a smaller, scruffier piebald, with a wall eye and a back so broad you could lay it with knives and forks, had come to see what all the fuss was about.

‘Agnes. The safer bet.’

‘Ah.’ I gave her nose a stroke too. ‘Thumper isn’t safe?’

‘Oh, he’s safe, but he’s fast. He’s a thoroughbred, Poppy. Got more temperament.’

Temperament. On my first hunt. Did I need that? Or did I need Agnes? Safe and solid? Thumper was rather splendid, though. And I’d look so much better up there in skintight jodhpurs and shiny leather boots. Which was surely the point. Agnes was sweet, but nevertheless had a touch of ‘Where’s the cart?’ about her.

Dad was already putting a bridle on Thumper. ‘Want to try him?’ he asked casually, leading him out.

‘Sure. Why not.’ Equally casually.

Dad swiftly added a saddle.

‘Just take him for a spin in the paddock over there, then, and see how you get on.’ In one deft movement he’d done up the girth and was holding the stirrup leather to steady the saddle.

I jumped on, pleased I could still do that without a leg up, and, as I say, Thumper wasn’t small. Then I found my other stirrup and trotted off smartly. Should have walked first, obviously, and Thumper got a bit of a start at being asked to trot out of the yard from a standstill, but, apart from a slight jolt, he mastered his surprise beautifully. Terrific manners, I thought, as we glided on and he succumbed to the bit, which I was pleased to see I could still ask him to take, arching his neck accordingly. Fantastic suspension, excellent brakes, no rushing. But then Dad had only the best in his yard. In the paddock I let the throttle out and asked for a canter, which was never going to descend into a gallop, I decided, then changed the rein and did it all the other way round. I came back to the gate flushed and elated. Puffing like billy-o too, and sweating profusely.

‘Not as fit as you used to be,’ my father observed with a grin, leaning on the gate.

‘Nothing like! Since when did sitting on a horse take it out of you?’

‘That’s what they all say. But you won’t need to be fit on Agnes. You really will just sit there. This one’s more of a ride.’

‘But he is heavenly, Dad.’ I leaned forward and stroked his neck.

‘Oh, he is,’ he agreed cheerfully.

Once again he’d done his bit: exercised the note of caution by proffering the Datsun, but secretly hoping I’d go for the Ferrari, which, naturally, I did.

‘You don’t want to try her, then?’

‘Not sure I’ve got the energy.’

‘You’ll need a bit more puff for a few hours’ hunting.’

‘I know,’ I said breezily, ‘but the adrenalin will kick in.’

‘And I have to be honest, Poppy, I don’t know if he’s hunted. I bought him as an eventer. Thought he might do for the Wilkinson girl. No idea if he hunts.’

‘Don’t worry; if he events, he’ll hunt. It’s all hedges and ditches, isn’t it? It’ll be meat and drink to him.’

I vaulted out of the saddle. Who was this woman? Assuring her reckless dad, a man who lived by the seat of his pants and on the smell of an oily rag, that he was fussing unnecessarily? That life, in fact, was a breeze? Leaping on and off strange thoroughbreds when she hadn’t ridden for ten years? Abandoning her children to her neighbour yet again, in order to do so? A woman who’d had a sniff of another life, that’s who. An intoxicating whiff, from beyond the village green, of a life where women wore grey cashmere a lot, hunted weekly, shopped in Fortnum’s and, more importantly, snared attractive men. Hope, Emma … I gritted my teeth. A woman who, after that phone call with Sam the other day – me in my cold little cottage, if you recall, him on his hunter in his wet shirt – had gone to bed every night since imagining galloping behind fawn and black hounds at the front of the field, tucked in behind the pink coats. Sam and I leaping a hedge side by side, grinning delightedly at one another as we landed, him admiring my seat, and then, perhaps at the next fence, Sam looking at me so admiringly he bogged it, misjudged the take-off, came off. Away I sped to catch his loose horse. Led it back to where he was staggering, muddy and abashed, to his feet. Held it, prancing, while he clambered on, a gash to his head, a breathless ‘Thanks, Poppy!’ before we cantered off to join the field again: me, glancing over my shoulder to check he was OK; him, slightly dazed – could have been my beauty, could have been the bump to his head – but desperate not to let me out of his sight, not to let me get away.

I’d turned into a woman with a mission. But that, I told myself, was all I wanted. An admiring look, a sniff of another life, then I’d drop it. Because, frankly, I could take it or leave it. Could go back to my other life, my cottage, my children, their head lice, happy in the knowledge that I’d drawn admiring gasps from Sam and the rest of the village. Oh yes, naturally they’d all be watching, standing at that particular hedge as if it were Beecher’s Brook. Happy they’d all seen me in a different light, in a ‘Wow, who’s that girl?’ light. That was all I needed. Honest.

We’ll see.

My father and I shared a quick lunch, courtesy of our old friend Mr Heinz – Dad doling it out with a spoon that had more than a sporting chance of having just doled out the cat food – and then, when I’d admired the new canary singing his little heart out in the bathroom, I made a move. Together we loaded Thumper into the lorry – obviously he went in like a dream, no digging in of heels in a Thelwell-like manner for him – then mentally ticked off a list of everything I needed.