We stopped at a rest spot on the side of the motorway for lunch, and, after we ate, we found a path through a cluster of trees that led to a small beach. Not really a beach, more a spit of coarse sand. The water here was deep and iron-red. It moved quickly, was ripped in a pattern of sharp ridges of white water. Your mother spread out a blanket and I lay on my back, rested my head on my arms. I closed my eyes and felt the hands of the sun settle on my face. I was just about to tip into sleep when you landed on my chest, forcing the breath out of me. You climbed me like a lion cub, pulling my nose and ears, your elbow in my face, your knee in my stomach. You travelled over my face and there was the tang of urine. I shrugged you off on to the sand.

‘Bear,’ I said, ‘did you have an accident?’

You sat up, sand in your hair, trying to hide the wet patch between your legs. ‘No,’ you said.

‘You did, I can smell it. Merete,’ I said to your mother. ‘He’s pissed himself.’

‘So take off his trousers,’ she said. She was also lying on her back, holding a book up with one straight arm. ‘You can wash him in the river.’

‘Can you not do it?’ I asked.

To this, I got no reply. I made a big deal of sighing and puffing, and picked you up by the waist and carried you over my shoulder like a sack of flour to the water’s edge. Tilda had already made her way over to a low-hanging suspension bridge that crossed the river twenty or so metres upstream, and was halfway across, bouncing, the bridge rippling under her. As soon as you saw this, you tried to abscond, but I caught you by the waistband of your trousers.

‘Come here, you rascal,’ I said. You squirmed in my arms and began to cry, reaching your arms towards your sister, as if she could rescue you. I pulled off your shoes and socks, stuffed the socks carefully in the shoes, and placed them neatly side by side on the sand. This distracted you enough that I could pull off your wet trousers and underpants. You immediately covered your bits with both hands.

‘Since when are you shy, Little Bear?’ I asked, dousing your clothes in the cold water. I scooped a palmful of the pebbly sand to scrub the gusset of your trousers. ‘Nobody’s interested in your fishing tackle,’ I said.

You looked at me doubtfully, and I scooped up more water to wash between your legs. You wouldn’t let me though, and so I left it. ‘Suit yourself,’ I said.

‘Pappa!’ you squealed. Your modesty no longer important, you pointed with both hands at the river. You were jumping up and down. ‘Look at the fish!’

I turned quickly to look, but of course, the fish you had seen was already gone. The jumping fish gives you one chance only. As does the shooting star. Or the baby kicking inside the womb. I stood staring at the moving water, hoping the fish would surface again, and when I looked back at you, you had gone up the beach towards the bridge. I watched you scramble up the bank and stand at the end of the bridge. I watched your sister run to the far side and I watched you try to follow her. But you fell, the motion of the bridge too much for your short legs. Tilda ran back to you and instead of helping you up, jumped with knees bent so that you bounced like a doll. I watched you two, your sister laughing and you crying and frustrated, and I knew I should go to you but you were both too beautiful and strange with the sun shining on you and the river surging past, not more than three metres below. I didn’t want the moment to end.