Romantic old fool, she thought. What’s so special about the place anyway? Fifty acres of sandstone at the mouth of the estuary, and it only becomes an island at high tide. Not a proper island. Not remote at all. Only three miles from the biggest tourist town in North Devon.

But whatever she made herself think, she knew that the pain of rheumatism in her hips and her spine disappeared as she drove along the river to meet the Land Rover, and that the real reason for tolerating the dreadful flat on the sea front was that at night, from her bedroom window, she could see the light of the Gillibry buoy.

It was a pleasant walk down the hill from the main road to the quay. A breeze blew from the sea. The two young men had hitch-hiked from Gillicombe, but were content to walk the last mile.

“I don’t understand,” said the tallest, lazily, “why you keep coming to the island. You were never that keen on ringing, even when we were kids. Now you hardly ever bother to come out with the North Devon Ringing Group. I don’t even know if you’ve still got a valid ringing permit. But you’re still a member, still pay the subs, and now you’re on the committee.”

“I’m on the committee,” said the other, Mark, “because you co-opted me.”

“I mean, I understand why it’s so important to me. I’ve got that boring job in the shop, most of my friends—like you and Jon—have gone away to college, and there’s not much else to do round here. But you’re different. You’re into all sorts of things—music, politics. You’ve loads of friends at university.”

“I suppose so. But it is special, Gillibry, isn’t it?” He seemed ashamed then of being so serious, and when a motorbike—apparently without a silencer—drove so fast down the lane behind them that they had to climb into the hedge, he was pleased to be distracted.

“Wasn’t that Charlie?” he asked.

Nick, the tall one, shrugged.

“Probably. He’s an appalling driver. He’ll get himself killed one day.”

“What happens to the island if he dies?”

“Didn’t you know? He’s left it to the observatory in his will. It’s the sort of grand gesture he’s good at.”

“Do you think he’s mad?”

“Of course he’s mad. Mad as a hatter.”

“No, I mean medically mad. Certifiable.”

Nick shrugged again.

Mark continued: “I don’t suppose that he can be. If he were properly mad he wouldn’t be able to make that much money.”

“It’s an odd way to make a living, writing daft children’s stories. Have you ever seen them?”

“Yeah. I think they’re really good. But I suppose if he had been medically mad his family would have locked him up years ago. He always was the black sheep, wasn’t he? Until he got rich. Then they decided that he was just eccentric.”

Nick shifted the rucksack on his back. He had his own view of the Todds.

“It’s your first committee meeting, isn’t it?” he said. “ I hope that you don’t find it too boring. They’re all the same. Nothing ever happens.”