He had said that he would see her again on this shore some day, before the feeling and the scent whipped away like sea spray.

She sold her house, she said, and packed the kids – teenagers by then – off to her brother’s. People grumbled. She bought this caravan, had it moved here by a haulage truck, and had lived here ever since. And every day, morning and night, she walked on this beach, in case it was the day he would return.

‘One day he will, probably when I can hardly stand upright.’

There was a clock made of driftwood leaning on the kitchen top. It ticked loudly every other second, like it had a limp. Outside, I could see Finn jumping off a rock, a foot landing in the pan, small black shapes scattering.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

She let out a melodic sigh, as if she’d been for a long, satisfying walk and had just got home. ‘No need for you to be sorry. It’s the way of it. Most people would say I’m crackers. Pining this long. But I know what happened that night. I see things.’ Another unblinking look, but kind, half-smiling. ‘Like you do.’

My skin pin-pricked all over.

‘You should look again at the story you think you know.’

I took a breath, felt it swell and move seawards. ‘Do you mean – it wasn’t him?’

She cupped one palm in the other, her thumbs slotting together. ‘I just know that he was a good boy. He doted on that wee lassie.’

I’ll see you again on this shore some day. Her words had been like the end of a simple song. They fluttered in my skull as we headed back, Finn’s boy-angst music streaming along with us. I wanted to believe what Gran-gran had said about Jim. Maybe there was more to it. I tried to think who else might have been here that long, far back enough to tell me something more.

I squeezed Finn’s sides when we’d passed through the centre of the village. ‘Can you drop me?’

He swerved alarmingly, did an emergency brake and craned his head round. ‘Your wish, my command.’

‘Thank you.’

Finn tapped his cheek with one finger. I kissed it and slid off. He gave me the brightest, most filthy of grins as he looped round and chugged away.

Johnny’s house looked as if it cried mascara tears. There were long, dark swipes on the outside walls, dusty windows, and a motley collection of umbrellas in a plastic bucket by the front door. The doorbell had an old-fashioned clang.

No answer. I peeked through the kitchen windows and walked round to the patio doors, wisps of dandelion fluff breaking up and joining the midges. With my forehead to the glass, I could see a grand, sunken sofa, old-fashioned zigzaggy wallpaper, a line of glossy rocks on the mantelpiece above a gas fire. Next to it, framed photos of boats and groups of soldiers, a girl – maybe his German sweetheart. I cupped both hands tightly around my face to block out the light and stopped breathing.