‘Did he now? Which one?’

‘The Australian one.’ Spoken at the ground.

‘South African. Same difference. Come on.’ He made a clicking sound with his mouth like you would to a horse, gesturing to the steps. He seemed satisfied with the same test, the back-forth to the old walkway, as before.

Matty swam to the tyre in the middle. Hung there, one-handed. Last time had been a failure. But if Dad was here, in the water, then he needed to be found.

‘Wotcha.’ The boy, the slapping, swearing boy, was suddenly there, bobbing, a great grin on his face. Hair pasted down like weeds right in his eyes. Before Matty could answer, he sank down, let water pool into his mouth and spat it out again. ‘Going to try and drown again?’

‘No.’ It came out a bit higher than intended.

‘Skill,’ said the boy. ‘Let’s go up there.’ He nodded behind Matty’s shoulder.

Matty stared at the end of the diving board. Toes two centimetres from the edge.

The boy had already gone in, one high bounce and an almost vertical dive, and was treading water in a strange, manic fashion, looking up. ‘Come on, you big wimpy chicken-shit!’

Matty hadn’t ever dived before. Had jumped off the little pier north of Rimini plenty of times, but never gone in head-first.

‘Are you going in?’ A pale man with a soft Yorkshire accent was standing close by, at the head of a lengthening queue. ‘You can take the steps, you know.’

‘Scaredy-bollocks!’ shouted the boy from below.

Matty turned back to the pond. Bent both knees, like some of the men did, and bounced off the diving board, landing hands and knees first.

Whack. Nose like a Soda Stream.

‘That was pants,’ said the boy, in hysterics. ‘That was the shit-stinkiest dive in the history of diving.’

Matty swam back to the platform, not looking back, everything smarting. Hands, knees, cheeks.

On the platform, there was a warm arm suddenly around both shoulders. A black man in small trunks with a knobbly mass of hair on his chest. ‘Darling. Trust me, the entertainment was lovely, but you need a few tips there.’

‘Don’t listen to him!’ said the boy from the water.

The man’s upper arm was a solid weight. ‘All right. Next time, tuck your head under.’ He waved his index finger at Matty’s nose. ‘Chin right in. Keep them arms straight all the way, hands too, nice and flat. And again.’ He put a hand on Matty’s back and gave the most gentle of pushes.

Matty walked to the end of the diving board, wanting nothing more than to go home. The boy was swimming further away.

‘Daz, who made you queen of the queues?’ A portly man, his stomach hanging over tight orange trunks, a red face. ‘People are waiting here if you hadn’t noticed.’