Irene made coffee, standing hunched in the galley. She rubbed on some of her factor thirty-five sun lotion which left her arms and face looking a dull white, like a clown before the red mouth is painted on, and then put on her hat and her dark glasses.

‘Here,’ she said as she re-emerged on deck. ‘Five coffees, that’s the one with sugar, and an apple juice for Katherine.’

‘Thanks,’ said Mickey, taking a sip of coffee then one of beer, making a face of mock surprise. ‘My God, what do you look like?’

‘Ridiculous?’

‘Is this a way of putting me off?’ he said in a low voice. ‘Because it’s not going to work.’

‘I don’t want to get burned, that’s all.’

He had long lashes, she saw, like a girl’s; a hairy chest that she turned her eyes from.

‘I’m sure we’ll get used to it. It’s like having a cute ghost on board.’

‘Drink your coffee,’ said Luke. ‘And then I’ll show you how to steer.’

‘There’s nothing to show,’ said Mickey. ‘You just hold the wheel, like in a car. End of story.’

Irene thought she sensed a faint antagonism between them, a tiny spark that died as soon as it was struck. She turned away from them both and looked out on to the banks of the canal. There were vast and knobbly plane trees on either side, whose roots had grown down into the water, making a kind of wall. They had been brutally pollarded and their branches were thick crabbed stumps, like an old man’s fingers amputated at the knuckles. Their bark was smooth, and dappled a silver and grey-green.

‘Look,’ said Luke. ‘There.’

Two herons, their long legs tucked back, their heads outstretched, flew overhead.

‘I should have brought binoculars.’

‘Here. Have a go with these.’

He passed them across and she took off her sunglasses and squinted through them, swinging them round to watch the herons beating their way across the blazing sky, and then pointing downwards to the swampy meadows on either side.

‘Look!’ she said. ‘White horses, there in the distance. Lots of them. Look, before they go. Can you see?’

‘So there are.’ Mickey stood very close to her, much too close, following the direction of her pointing finger.

‘It’s what the Camargue’s famous for,’ said Luke, standing up and steadying the wheel with his foot, shading his eyes with his hand. ‘I’ve been reading about it in my book. White horses, black bulls and flamingoes.’

‘How beautiful. Are they wild? They look it. Watch them go.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Beautiful,’ Irene repeated, sighing.

‘Do you want to steer for a bit?’

‘OK. Show me.’