Helga is constantly amazed by the vitriol and indignation of the mainly white middle-aged man towards sea swimmers. Increasingly, she sees snippy clickbait articles about swimmers in the press – that always seem to be written by men – about people wearing Dryrobes for everyday tasks, as if going about your business in something cosy and waterproof is not allowed. They don’t seem to approve of the Dryrobes being worn for their intended purpose either. But then, throughout history, men seeing groups of women doing something brave has always caused a rattling of sabres. Helga thinks it’s rather wonderful that the sea swimming gangs on the beach are recognisable from their long hooded coats.

Helga gets changed quickly and watches as Maddy neatly stores her things in her bag.

‘See. The oystercatchers.’ Helga points to a group of birds with long orange beaks who land on the groyne ahead, as if they’ve arrived to inspect their group.

‘Is that what they’re called? I’ve never noticed them before,’ Maddy says.

‘Helga has taught me so much about the seabirds,’ Claire confides. ‘Every time we come I learn something new. Like those. Sandpipers, right?’

Helga nods, following her gaze to the speckled birds. She’s warmed by Claire’s praise, as they all get undressed. It’s no skin off her nose to talk about the birds. She’s astounded that people don’t notice the way they call out and communicate, the way they chatter and argue and play. In her opinion, watching birds is far better than watching any soap opera on the TV – the fights, the affairs, the love, the struggle for territory – it’s fascinating.

‘Is that all you’re wearing?’ Maddy asks, pointing to Helga’s costume and she looks down at her blue swimsuit, thinking that she really should get round to getting a new one. Where it was once taut and springy, the elastic in the material is now revealing itself in little white worms and the whole thing is baggy and saggy – rather like how Helga feels herself.

Maddy is wearing a wetsuit underneath her sweatshirt and sweatpants. ‘I feel overdressed. I borrowed this from my neighbour. It’s a man’s one, but it fits.’ She has a trimmed, toned body and Helga remembers having one of those herself. In a shocking flash, she remembers Linus pouring champagne into the dip of her belly button.

‘Whatever works for you.’ Helga’s not a snob about these things. People can wear what they want. Whatever gets them in the water.

Tor arrives in a hurry, clearly in desperate need of a dip, poor kid. Helga lives in fear of getting arthritis herself. Plenty of people her age are sufferers, but she hopes her lifetime in cold water has saved her that particular torment, for now at least. Something is bound to get her soon enough, though. Especially according to Mette. She still feels unsettled by their call earlier.

The tide is going out, the sun filtered behind the clouds, a shy bride behind a veil.