The man called Daz put his hands on his hips. He looked very lean and strong. Matty wanted to look as strong as him. ‘Oh, I had noticed,’ he said. ‘Worst bloody chorus line I’ve ever seen. Police line-up, more like. It’s going downhill round here. Better in your day, Ivor, wasn’t it?’

The lifeguard with the aviator sunglasses intertwined his fingers on top of his stomach. ‘Shut it.’

Daz turned back to Matty. ‘On you go, lovie. No panicking now. Do me proud.’

A sheen of expectation on the water. In the air too, it seemed, though in truth most of the men in the queue were chatting to each other. Just Daz, stretching and pretending not to watch.

‘You can always try again,’ Dad would say, after a bad maths test, or a skateboard crash. ‘There’s always a second chance. Apart from where Barnet are feckin’ concerned.’

Matty stuck both hands up, flat. Took a gulp of air and held it. Dived.

A mouthful of water and a glimpse of the boy and Matty’s head was above the surface again. The diving board was still rocking.

Daz was clapping from the platform. ‘You were like a bleeding arrow. Beautiful!’

‘He’s lying his arse off,’ said the boy, who was suddenly right there. ‘But it was better. Come on.’ He headed away, not making a single splash.

‘Why do you wear a T-shirt?’ the boy said.

Think, quickly. Shoulders turned in. ‘Jewish.’

He screwed up his nose, eyes closed and face tipped towards the broad blue sky. ‘Weirdo.’

Matty had dived seven more times, each one mostly better than the last, apart from the horrible, fizzy hit up the nose and the stinging eyes. Even the man with the big belly and the orange trunks had given up his place in the line. Now the two of them sat to the side of the walkway on the concrete strip, legs dangling in the pond.

The boy’s hair was beginning to turn gold as it dried. His skin was buttery, almost green, like he’d been holidaying in France for a month. He probably had. It’s what posh boys did. Though his shorts were old-fashioned and yellowish-brown, Matty was fairly sure that this boy had the sort of family who went skiing and had another house in the countryside where they rode ponies.

‘Toffs,’ Dad had said, while they were watching a news article about people who had phones that they could carry around with them. ‘The flipside to you and me and every other working, ordinary person. Except there’s millions of us and about ten of them, owning everything.’

It was hard to tell how old the boy was. About the same age, or maybe a bit older. He sat up on his heels, arms stretched straight out in front of him, balancing. ‘Who are you, then?’

Matty didn’t answer. Sometimes it was hard to know.