Bill tallies off the names of those who will be dropping the wreath. To my surprise, five of us shared Thursday evening around his dinner table.

‘And the sixth?’ This from Nathan.

‘Sylvester. My son. If he deigns to show up.’

The news that Sylvester may be joining us is totally unexpected. I’d somehow assumed that he was far too busy to bother himself with a provincial occasion like this but, minutes later, he proves me wrong. Bill spots him first, a tallish figure in a track top and shorts, moving at some speed along the promenade. On the beach, he bounds across the pebbles to join us. He, too, is carrying a rolled towel and – to my surprise – is barely out of breath.

‘Sorry, Pa. Misjudged the time.’ He’s looking at Bill.

‘Again.’

‘Again. Mea culpa. Lovely day. Perfect.’ He looks around. He has his father’s beam, his father’s seeming openness. ‘Enora!’ He gives me a hug. ‘We must talk about that lovely boy of yours.’

We must indeed, I murmur to myself, but not quite yet. Bill is already marshalling what he calls his ‘Adieu Team’ and leading them down to the waiting boat. Christianne’s swimming chums, meanwhile, are getting changed. They, it turns out, will be escorting us out towards the deeper water where Bill intends to drop the wreath. We all clamber aboard the boat while everyone else clusters around the stern to push us off. One by one, the swimmers don their tight white caps and wade into the sea. Then, on a command from the skipper, a mighty collective heave launches us off the beach. Christianne’s fellow swimmers are breast-stroking gracefully seawards as the skipper throttles back to slow us down. Sylvester happens to be standing beside me.

‘You brought a towel.’ I nod at the water. ‘Not tempted?’

‘Later.’ He smiles. ‘Once everyone’s gone.’

‘You swim a lot?’

‘Most days, as long as I can find a pool.’

‘You find it helps?’

‘Worse than that, I have to do it. Some days it’s a penance. Other times, it makes me feel great. Today will be one of those days, I know it already.’

‘Have to do it?’

‘Yeah. I’m in training.’ Another grin. ‘An iron-man triathlon. Only career masochists need apply.’

Iron-man triathlon? My knowledge of extreme sports is very limited but even I know that triathlon is code for a great deal of pain.

‘Pa says you’re giving us a reading.’ Sylvester, like his father, knows exactly when to change the subject.

‘That’s right. It’s an excerpt from a letter. Your dad wanted something in French and I’m very happy to oblige.’

I have the text in my pocket. It was Pavel who first drew the letter to my attention, and since then it’s travelled everywhere with me.

Sylvester is looking at the dog-eared fold of paper. He wants to know more.