“Ava,” Mum says, looking up. “There you are. Are you feeling any better?”

I nod, walking down the steps to join them on the lawn. “What’s all this in aid of?”

She turns to see what I mean. “Oh, the lights? They’re for you. We wanted to do something to cheer you up a little. Difficult, I know, in the circumstances. But we must try nevertheless.” She gives me a watery smile, her face slipping with the grief lying just beneath the surface.

My dad, Kate, and Amanda’s parents are here, as well as Kate’s older brother Craig, his wife, Stephanie, and their four kids. Growing up, Craig was like an older brother to Amanda and me too, in that he both looked out for us and tormented us at the same time.

It’s a small gathering of people that I consider family, and it’s just what I needed.

“You guys are the best.” I smile.

“We know,” Amanda says through a mouthful of sausage. “What?” she says when we all look at her. “It’s quality control—I have to try them first.”

We sit around the table together and we eat—sausages and home-made salads and bread rolls—and it’s a pleasant night. I sit quietly, mostly, content to observe and listen to the many stories and conversations going on around me. The kids run around the lawn shrieking and playing tag and I remember similar occasions when I was growing up when I did the same. Barefoot on the grass, bellies full, the stars overhead. Soft music plays from the stereo inside, and the scent of the sea is particularly strong tonight. I feel at one with nature, connected to both the earth and the heavens, but then I guess I do have a foot currently in both camps. My dad sits beside me and I nestle in against his chest, his arm around me. My mother fetches a blanket for my knees; it’s more of a gesture because it’s not overly cold. She is looking after her daughter as best as she can.

“Do you remember when you got that scar?”

My dad’s gentle voice brings me out of my reverie.

He is looking at my hand, which is cupping a wineglass and resting on the table. I look at the scar he is talking about and realize I haven’t noticed or thought about it for a long time. Even though of course I do remember how I got it, I stay silent, hoping he’ll tell the story. He doesn’t disappoint.

“You were so tiny,” he says. “Only five or six. But you insisted on coming fishing with me, wouldn’t be persuaded against it. Your mother said if I let any harm come to you she’d kill me herself, with her bare hands. Luckily for me she wasn’t serious, eh?”

“I wanted to bait the hook myself,” I prompt him.

“Yes, you did. You certainly weren’t squeamish like some other little girls. You stuck your hand in the bucket of fish guts and chose the biggest piece you could find, then you stuck that hook in so hard—”