‘Gambling!’ Shunty-Mae exclaimed in a melodramatic tone. ‘The work of the devil. Besides, once the summer season is in full swing, you’ll be grateful for some help.’

Imelda couldn’t deny it. As soon as she was old enough, she had always worked with her mother in the booth for the summer season, and often one of her mother’s sisters or cousins had helped too. Shunty-Mae had tried in vain to teach her sons to read the cards, but they had neither the interest nor the aptitude.

‘Well, it’s not busy at the moment, so why don’t you make yourself useful and take Grisha for a walk along the promenade?’

It was difficult to say who looked more horrified, Grisha or Shunty-Mae.

Imelda smiled and took hold of her mother’s arm.

‘As if I’d trust you with my precious hound!’ she teased. ‘Let’s all go next door and get some lunch.’

On the beach, the pebbles were peppered with stripy deckchairs. Many were occupied by bodies recklessly exposing varying expanses of winter-wan skin to a brutal midday sun. The tide was on the turn, and where the waves frilled at the water’s edge, children in swimsuits and sun hats splashed one another and squealed with delight. Sitting outside Jack and Diamond’s café, a serious-looking young man was scanning the faces of passers-by and circling words and pictures in the newspaper that was spread out on the table in front of him. He had begun frequenting the seafront just a few months ago, and always appeared to be engaged in some significant but incomprehensible task. Imelda had been curious and had sensed in him a desire for human interaction that would be satisfied by passing pleasantries, but possibly perturbed by any obvious attempt at friendship. She had begun gently – a simple greeting – and it had been gratefully received and readily reciprocated. Grisha wandered over to him and pushed his head under his hand, demanding to be acknowledged.

‘Good afternoon Grisha the Russian Dog Who Doesn’t Have Fleas.’ Imelda sometimes wished that Clive wasn’t so literal. When she had first introduced Grisha to him, she had joked that he didn’t have fleas despite being rescued from the streets. ‘Good afternoon Madame Burova, Tarot Reader, Palmist and Clairvoyant. Who is your friend?’

‘Good afternoon, Clive. This is my mother, Shunty-Mae.’

‘Good afternoon, Mother Shunty-Mae.’

Shunty-Mae smiled in response and hurried inside the café.

‘Jesus! He makes me sound like I’ve escaped from a nunnery!’

Imelda laughed. ‘You – in a nunnery? You wouldn’t need to escape. It’d be the nuns chucking you out!’

‘Who’s going in a nunnery?’ Diamond was standing at the counter buttering slices of bread.

‘No one. It was just something that Clive said to Mum on the way in.’

‘Bless him. He’s a strange lad, but a good customer and always very polite. Now what can I get you ladies?’