The road blurred; my eyes filled with tears. I jammed on the brakes and slewed to a stop beside the road. I switched off the engine, got to my feet and bellowed to them.

‘Shut up! Shut UP!’

A hush fell. They stared at me.

‘Condoms!’ I yelled. ‘Ticklers! You shouldn’t know what a tickler is! It’s … it’s …’ My voice broke. ‘It’s too sad!’

A boy stood up. ‘Yes sir?’ he asked.

I stared. ‘What?’

He looked confused. Then the boy beside me, in the aisle seat, pointed to him and whispered: ‘That’s Tickler.’

There was a silence. ‘Tickler?’ I asked.

‘His name.’

I paused. ‘His name?’

‘It’s Featherstone,’ he explained. ‘That’s why.’

I stood still, looking down the coach, and stared at my son.

Quickly I turned away and sat down. I drove on. The coach was quiet. Ahead I glimpsed the sea, a silver thread; it glinted in the sun.

The boy in the aisle seat cleared his throat and said: ‘Excuse me, mister, but this isn’t the way to games.’

I slowed down, at a T-junction, and turned right. We were on the seafront road. There were just a few bungalows here, to one side. To the other was some rough grass, sand dunes really, and then the beach. I stopped the coach; the brakes squealed.

‘Let’s have games here!’ I called. ‘Let’s!’

A stunned silence, then a whoop. The boys jumped up and fought their way to the front of the coach. I reached under my seat and pulled out the football. I’d jammed it there, days before; it had been sending me mad, rolling about.

Edward was squeezing past, to get to the door. I stopped him.

‘Here, Tickler old chap,’ I said, and gave him the ball.

He grinned. I glanced at him, casually. He had a square, cheerful face and was covered in freckles—even more freckles than me. At first sight, and I didn’t dare look long, I couldn’t really recognize myself there. His hair was darker than mine had been at his age. Nearly as dark as Lesley’s.

He took the ball and ran across the grass with the others.

The wind whipped my face and the boys leaped and gambolled. Up in the sky the gulls were tossed to and fro, calling to each other. The boys shrieked with laughter; happiness swept over me. I tore off my anorak and flung it onto the ground. I lunged after the ball. We were breaking all the rules, charging each other like bullocks. The blood rushed through my middle-aged veins, I was eleven again, I was yelling raucously. We kicked the ball through the foam, it flew up into the air, the spray arching from it, sparkling in the sun. My face was damp and salty.