“Now then,” Donald said to George’s back.

George looked around, and nodded. “Hello,” he said, and turned back to his task.

George had built what looked like a very small boardwalk, flat boards on stilts sunk deep into the sand. Donald knew without asking that George would have driven the stilts deeply and carefully enough to ensure the boards were perfectly flat and even. His meticulously drawn plans lay beside him, weighted with pebbles.

Donald had often thought he’d like to have some of George’s drawings framed and hung on the pub wall. He asked once if he could buy some, but George had replied, ‘No’, no equivocation, no explanation, just a simple flat ‘No’, and then a minute later, ‘Can I have a bottle of Heineken and a packet of pork scratchings, please’, which was the thing George always asked for, and which he always consumed sitting in the same chair, at the same table. Donald glanced at the plans.

It looks perfect, Alicia thought longingly, watching the foamy wave spill over and crash against itself. So perfect. And it’s bloody months until Easter. And he hasn’t really said yes to Newquay yet. All I can do until next year is bloody paddle. It’s not fair.

She sat down on the sand and tugged crossly at the laces on her trainers. Why was he so paranoid about her? Was it a dad thing? Or just a her-dad thing? Was it because he’d been a police officer? Or was it because she was all he had?

It’s not like I want to do anything he wouldn’t approve of. Alicia considered this for a minute, then conscientiously amended it: It’s not like I haven’t been doing plenty of stuff he wouldn’t approve of right here. Her summer had passed in a haze of guilt and bliss and thievery. If her father ever found out…

She stood up to let the sea wash over her toes and wondered how her life would be different if her mother was still alive. “George,” said Donald, “this looks like a beach hut.”

“It is a beach hut,” said George.

“But – why are you building a beach hut?”

“I saw this television programme,” said George. “A sort of kit you could order. I’ve been looking for a chance to try it out.”

“You bought a kit? You did? I don’t believe you.”

“No,” said George, patiently. “I made one of the kits. It’s a very clever system.”

“You can’t build stuff on a public beach without permission.”

“Look,” said George, offering a long slab of wood. “You take out the groove on the bottom, then the tongue on the top. They stack onto the corner posts.”

Donald looked. “Lovely, but George, you’re going to get into trouble.”

“It’ll be fine,” said George.

“Do you know how hard it is to get permission to put anything on this beach? Henry’s spent years trying to get permission for a new storeroom at the back of the café, and has he got anywhere?”