The lifeguard frowned. ‘Show us your skills, then.’

Matty gazed at him, not quite daring to believe that it had worked.

He sighed, and waved a finger between the two walkways. ‘Swim to there and back again.’

Up close, the pondwater was like army camouflage, splodges of black, green, brown. The lower parts of the metal steps became softer and more mossy. A little breath as cold water reached ankles, calves. The lifeguard was chatting to a swimmer, but still watching.

On holidays in Rimini, Dad would watch from the beach, occasionally looking over his sunglasses as Matty splashed about in the waves next to the Italian kids, even more occasionally putting down his local paper, which he couldn’t properly read because it was in Italian, and jogging over to dunk himself in, or chuck Matty over his back. He would demonstrate a bit about breathing, nose in the water, bubbles coming out. The taste of salt.

Now, it was a swallowing-up. Not freezing, but cool enough to make you feel wide awake. Matty did quick breaststroke arms and scissor-feet for the few metres across to the wooden walkway and back to the concrete one and back again, grabbing onto the rail and climbing up to look up carefully at the lifeguard.

He didn’t seem that interested. Gave a thumbs-up and waved his hand at the same time and carried on talking to the man. Matty sank back and headed out into the open water, following in the wake of the pretend-Dad, and feeling every cell burst into a little smile.

You couldn’t see anything in here. You couldn’t see past your hands, let alone the bottom. The bottom could be just under your toes or miles deep. Maybe it was bottomless. There were monsters in here, and pike and piranhas and barracudas. Nuclear submarines.

Dad, swimming here. It was hard to imagine. Moving slowly, like the old man in front with the swimming hat that made him look like a clown. Or slicing up and down like the man at the far end, who took tiny breaths but mostly kept his head in the water. Doing a spinning barrel jump like the teenager on the diving board, which earned him a clap.

White rubber rings were dotted over the Pond. Matty aimed for the nearest one, then another, not straying too far from the platform side and looking for a sandy-coloured head, although if Dad’s hair was wet it would be as dark as the water. He wasn’t here. But some of these men might know him.

There were specks of white fluff on the water. And tiny weed-sticks, lying crossed over each other to make crucifixes.