I must have fallen asleep, because when I wake I’m on my own and in the distance I can hear the canoe club packing up. The tide’s out and members are climbing into the Land Rovers. Vicky’s helping a frail elderly guy into the passenger seat and I wonder if he’s her grandfather. I give her a wave and she pats the pockets of her white trousers, which seems to be a kind of sign. For a moment I can’t work out what she means, then I feel in the pocket of my jeans and there’s a scrap of paper. She must have written a note for me while I was still sleeping. Next Saturday? See you here?

I beam. The sort of beam that you’d get from a lighthouse, which would shine out across the Irish Sea between here and Dublin.

The next Saturday high water is mid-afternoon, but I get there straight after the morning tide. Vicky didn’t put a time on the note and there was no phone number. I guess she wouldn’t want a scally with my sort of accent calling her at home, in case her parents answered. I wonder what her house is like and if there are servants to take phone calls. They’d certainly have a cleaner – someone like our mam. Anyway it might not be lucky. The weather’s not as good as it was the weekend before. It’s a bit damp and murky. Suddenly she’s there, walking across the island towards me. She’s wearing baggy trousers, rolled up to her knees, so I can tell she’s crossed the channel barefoot, and a jersey and an oilskin jacket. She’s carrying sandals in one hand and in the other a big brass key, which she dangles from one finger. It will let us into the Canoe Club.

Inside, the hut smells of wood varnish and damp. I’ve never been in a boat, but that’s what it makes me think of. There’s a bunk room with blankets neatly folded at the end of each bed, and a common room with squashy old chairs and a long table. Vicky opens cupboard doors until she finds a bottle of whisky. I’ve never drunk whisky before, either.

I ask her about herself. Not to be polite or because that’s the way I think I’ll get inside her knickers, but because I’m really interested. Her father’s a lawyer, not working in the criminal courts but advising businessmen on contracts and trusts. She goes to Calday Girls’ Grammar School, which is what I’d guessed, and she’s doing O levels, like me. Mostly languages. She doesn’t mind Latin. Then she grins. ‘But I didn’t come all this way to talk about fucking Virgil.’ It’s the first time I’ve heard a girl swear. This is a day for new experiences.

We pull two mattresses onto the floor of the common room and lie there, the bottle in easy reach. We’re still talking, but about stupid stuff now – favourite colours and food, favourite books – and we’re touching and teasing. I pull her jersey off and see that she’s wearing a blouse underneath. I start undoing the buttons. That’s when she says she has to get back before the tide. ‘So get a move-on with those buttons, Anthony Murphy.’