The Mercedes careered off the road towards the hedgerow. But instead of hitting it, the car took a nosedive into the ditch, jarring to a stop with a crunch. The airbags deployed, saving them from breaking their faces on the dashboard and steering wheel. There was a low growl of crunching gravel. The combine harvester’s thresher struck the back of the car and raked its many fangs across the black paint, slicing to the silvery metallic meat underneath.

  Rigid with shock, Michael’s hands white-knuckled the wheel. He seemed to have forgotten to breathe and gasped. Time sped up, and death withdrew serpentine behind the shadows of perception. Their incongruous state suddenly made sense, and he remembered Sam, like a new gadget he wasn’t used to having in his possession.

  ‘Are you alright?’ He didn’t touch the boy. Was that the right thing to do? It seemed wrong, but the alternative also seemed impossible. Instead, Michael just looked at him, as though his “gadget” was expensive, and luckily, he hadn’t dropped or smashed him. His contents insurance wouldn’t cover it.

  Sam’s cinnamon skin had greyed and momentarily, the sullen teenager was a little boy all alone in the world. He swallowed and nodded.

  Outside, a door slammed shut. From the road, behind the upended rear of the Mercedes, someone shouted. ‘What the bloody hell do you think you are doing?’

  ‘Wait here.’ Michael unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the door.

  The ground was uneven; he had to lunge up out of the ditch and rounded the back of the car.

  ‘What the bloody hell am I doing? What were you doing?’ he fired back, rage flaring as the full damage to the car became apparent.

  The farmer was inspecting the thresher, like the teeth of a pedigree before a dog show. ‘You’ve no business driving down my road. You’ve damaged my machine. What are you taking pictures of?’

  ‘The pictures are for the insurance claim you’re going to pay, and if you don’t have insurance, then it’s for my lawyer. And you don’t own the road, I do. So, you’re a liar as well as a maniac.’

  The ruddy-faced farmer took a step towards Michael, who started switching the camera to video to record the impending assault. The big man halted. Above a piggish nose, his eyes narrowed, looking Michael up and down before squinting at his face as though he was peering at the sun. Suddenly, the big man relaxed, and his frown became a tentative smile.

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  ‘Mikey? Mikey Lorimer?’

  Now, Michael was the one scrutinising the man opposite, searching memories as much as his face.

  ‘Toby Tunstall?’

  The farmer lunged at Michael, and he half-readied for a fight, but Toby Tunstall grabbed him warmly by the biceps.

  ‘Bugger me with a pitchfork! Little Mikey Lorimer, as I live and breathe. I haven’t seen you for... How long has it been?’

  ‘Twenty years.’

  ‘No, it can’t be.’ Toby still held him in his enormous labourer’s hands, and his face darkened as quickly as thunderheads sometimes roll in from the sea on a calm day. ‘Not since your father and...’

  He let go, dropping his eyes in embarrassment. Pulling a bandana from the back pocket of his jeans, he wiped sweat from his neck. ‘I was sorry to hear about your mum. Lady Lorimer, I mean.’ He screwed the bandana in his fists, not lifting his head, looking every bit the peasant caught poaching on his lord’s lands.

  Michael didn’t reply. He should have done, but his anger hadn’t fully abated. Anger that wasn’t all to do with Toby and his continental driving habits. Sam got out of the car and climbed awkwardly from the ditch and stuffed his hands into his pockets as he shuffled closer.

  ‘Sam, come meet Toby. We grew up together. His family have farmed the land as long as the Lorimers have lived here.’

  ‘Longer,’ Toby said without missing a beat.

  Sam bobbed his head in acknowledgement and awkwardly offered his hand. A small bubble of pride popped in Michael’s chest.

  Toby looked at Sam but didn’t take his hand. ‘Who’s he?’ The farmer looked appalled.

  ‘My son,’ Michael bristled, jaw tightening. Christ! He wished little England backwaters would drag themselves out of the 1950s. He was so annoyed he missed the fact that this was the first time he’d called Sam his son out loud.

  ‘But he’s...’

  Sam put his hand down and retreated a step.

  ‘Black?’ Michael said flatly. ‘Yeah, so was his mother.’

  ‘No. I didn’t mean... no... I mean he’s--’

  ‘I think we’re done here. Sam, we’ll walk the rest of the way.’ Michael tried to shoulder past Toby and nearly bounced into the ditch off the flannel shirted wall of muscle and fat.

  ‘Mikey, wait. What are you here for?’

  Michael stormed off down the road towards the telephone box and didn’t look back. ‘Selling this shithole.’

  ‘But you can’t!’ Toby said.

  ‘Watch me.’ Michael marched around the bend with Sam trailing behind.

  As they rounded the corner, Michael caught a glimpse of Toby’s face out of the corner of his eye. He wrung the bandana in his hands and looked pensively between the beach house and the Tunstall farm up on the hill. It was a little late to be worrying about pissing off the Lord of the manor.