His voice is more gravelly than usual. I wonder if he inhaled too much of the smoke at the site of the fire. I’ll see if Jo will make him some honey tea when we get back.

“Don’t give details, nothing like that. Put it simply. Then be there while it works its way through them. You’ll know when to leave.”

I’m not so sure I will. I stopped trusting my instincts a long time ago.

We leave the village and cross the small southern heath to the few houses clustered along the beach. Past their slate roofs, the sunlight glimmers off the sea. To the east, I see a trio of heads in the distance. Jenny Pike’s short blond hair is recognizable enough for me to identify the three women all the way from here. Jenny, Wendy, Liz. I’d thought they’d gone to Sunnan, but instead they’re on Lute, staring out at it.

The voices from Sunnan carry a little over the water here. You have to stop and really listen, though. I hear kids, high. One of the teachers calling to them.

I wish I knew them better, the mums. I was the outsider coming here, but I still should have made more of an effort to join in or at least return their small efforts with more enthusiasm. I was too confused about my role here, where I fit, and I hadn’t made new friends since college. I was rusty. I needed to warm up. Now it feels too late. There was a window, and I missed it.

Liz pours from a thermos into Jenny’s outstretched cup. They’re having tea, the three of them. I wonder what they’re talking about. Maybe they’re close enough to be honest, to say out loud what they’ve all got to be thinking, wondering whether this is the closest they’ll ever again be to their children.

I can’t believe they stayed on Lute. I can believe they sent their children off. It’s a postcard-perfect day, a day for paddling and tree climbing and harassing crustaceans in rock pools and skipping stones. They should be with them. Their responsibility is to their kids, living things they created, not to a bit of land jutting out of the channel.

As I follow Matty up an incline, losing sight of the mums, I try to soothe myself by picturing their children playing here again, but instead I find myself imagining that photograph come to life, Hugh, Matty, Andy starting Rec. Three boys with broad sunny-day grins.

“Were you friends with Hugh when you were little?” My throat closes up with panic as soon as I get the question out.

Matthew doesn’t react one way or the other.