It took only days for the routine of home, of Noss Mayo, to be re-established. Merboy disappeared in water while his mother drank and men sat with her, slept with her, but he always came back to the tent to find her alone, reading, a glass of wine in one hand, the lazy, perfect smile on her lips. They both knew how life worked. Merboy chanced on a family who had water-skis and a speed-boat, made friends with them for more than a day, more than a week. He gripped the handle on his first run as the skis bobbled beneath him and muttered to himself, glancing at the blond teenage son. Better than him.

I can do better than him. But when the boat sped away, the rope snapped taut and Merboy’s legs spread, water slamming into his crotch as he fell. He swam back to the shore and tried again and again and again until he could skip the waves, dog-leg and turn-around.

More than all of this - more than the tiny fish swarming round his ankles, more than the feel of a windsurf flying away from him, more than the smell of fresh sardines caught by one of his mother’s admirers, cooking on a fire — were the evening trips to the sea. Late one day his mother packed a bottle of wine and a flask of coffee and told Merboy to get into the car. They drove down the coast as the sky slowly darkened to a blue that would not be dark unless it was the sky. His mother parked the car on sand, pulled the bag from the boot and motioned that Merboy should follow. The two of them shuffled upwards on dry sand, climbing a massive dune. For each step they took a shovelful of dry sand would appear and they slithered backwards. Eventually they crested the dune and slumped on the sand, laughing. And what did they see? They saw a coast that ran for hundreds of miles. They could see the lights of Bordeaux on the right and the orange glow of San Sebastian on their left — they could see across countries, they could see across Europe, across continents. Above them satellites wobbled in their various trajectories. Shooting stars of minute meteorites flashed and fell into the infinite, unquiet sea. They watched and wondered as they kept an eye on the affairs of state of two countries. Then the wine and coffee were poured and they both sank to lie on their backs staring at the wheeling stars and not a word was said because what would you say?

I have told already how Sonja and I slipped into the complacent years once we moved to Clifton. Now, lying on the sofa waiting for my scars to close, I think about just how deep that complacency has become for me. I’ve drowned in it. I was so sure of myself and of Sonja, so sure of our relationship, I was never aware of that drowning. Ever since my mother walked out and left me in my room at Tommy’s, twenty-eight years ago, I’ve been scared of change. Lying here I realise for the first time that change can mean difference, it doesn’t have to mean bad. More than this, I realise that I’ve changed without even noticing.