‘That’s wonderful; he’d love doing that.’ She smiles, feeling more cheerful. ‘Martin’s been so focused on his writing recently, and I’ve been busy with long shifts.’ And sidetracked by fear; it’s all she can do to survive, let alone concentrate on her children. ‘We haven’t been there for him as much as we should.’

‘He reminds me a bit of myself at his age; it made all the difference to me when I discovered I was good with my hands. There are plenty more trees that need pruning at home if he wants.’ He smiles down at her. ‘Now, that swim. I’ll grab your case.’ He disappears, jogging lightly through the trees. The glass plates chime in the silence. She looks at the water by her feet, seeing Sorrel’s face with her eyes shut and mouth open, gasping for breath before she was pushed under again. How much longer would it have continued if Eric hadn’t spotted them?

‘I put your case in the shed where we change.’ Eric’s voice makes her jump. He nods at a small building in the trees. ‘You should find a towel in there, watch out for the ants.’

The green water is very cool. The stress of the past weeks seems to slide from her skin as she swims. She turns on her back, the white circle of sky between the pines is fringed with branches and criss-crossed by darting swallows. Small insects float by her face; a struggling wasp brushes her lips. Mosquitoes hum above her head. After a few more lengths she pulls herself from the water and sits on the edge. Eric hands her the towel from the chair.

‘I’d forgotten how much I love swimming.’ She dries her face. ‘I used to swim a lot.’

‘Back home?’

Home. People often ask that, as if it’s not possible for her to belong to more than one place or even to the country she moved to. ‘We couldn’t swim in the dams because of bilharzia, but I snuck into the pool of the hotel where I worked.’

‘You met Martin out there?’

‘I was working in the bar; he came in one evening when I was closing up.’

‘Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world …’

‘Exactly.’ How random it must sound to him, how ridiculous. Another night, a different shift and Martin wouldn’t have found her, they wouldn’t have fallen in love. They wouldn’t have shared their dreams and she wouldn’t have left her home. The smell in the garden reminds her of her grandparents’ village in Zimbabwe: sun-warmed pine, wild sage and the faint aroma of dung.

‘How old were you?’

‘Eighteen.’