Inside there were two big spaces of concrete open to the sky. The right-hand side seemed to be a changing area and the left-hand side had weightlifting apparatus in the middle. A few men were seated on the ground on towels, another on the weights bench, cricking his neck and smoking a roll-up, his back matted with ginger hair like an orangutan. A newspaper was spread out in front of one man, who wasn’t wearing any clothes, his willie flopped out on his thigh. Matty felt a surge of alarm and looked quickly away, walking over to the changing area, trying to be invisible.

It looked like it had been built a very long time ago, and not touched since. There were old, rotten-looking wooden benches with rusty corrugated-iron walls and awnings over the top, and a noticeboard and big blackboard at the end. A few jackets were hanging off hooks, and some piles of clothes sat above neatly paired shoes.

No willies here. Two old men sat on the benches in swimming trunks, one of them smoking a pipe, staring at the floor as they talked quietly. Damp patches around their feet. The one with the pipe glanced at Matty before going back to his conversation, which wasn’t in English and wasn’t Italian. In the furthest corner, a younger man was holding onto the green iron rail by the gutter pipe, pulling himself up, his upper arms fattening, going thin again, like a snake eating a rat.

Don’t look at anyone. Matty was already wearing football shorts, thin ones with blue piping. They would do. The T-shirt stayed on, like those men the other day. Rucksack bundled into the corner.

The Pond seemed much bigger than from the outside. Massive. Like the width of the River Kwai twice over. Straight in front was a slim concrete walkway with a low diving board at the end, and the water stretched wide and far to overhanging trees, a glossy grey-green. A few men queued for the diving board, and the concrete was dark brown and wet underfoot.

‘Hang on, mate, not so fast.’

Matty’s heart turned to clay, clammy and heavy.

A lifeguard was leaning on an oar in front of a big shed to the right by an older, wooden walkway. He wore wraparound sunglasses and a spray of hay-coloured hair poked out from under his yellow cap. He put his hands on his hips. ‘How old are you, then?’

‘Eleven.’

He looked at Matty. ‘Pull the other one.’

‘I am.’ Voice too high. Lower. ‘I just finished primary school.’

‘Can’t go in without an adult.’ He sounded Australian. ‘Where’s your dad?’

Heat, rising from stomach to throat. ‘There.’ A man with a bald patch who was waiting to dive in happened to be turning round and speaking to someone further away. ‘Hi,’ Matty shouted, putting a hand up.

The man looked towards them, beyond them.