“Did you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“What time did I say?”

“Twelve.” Alicia favoured him with a brief, brilliant smile. “Bye.”

The trudge back up the beach seemed considerably longer. He had plenty of time to examine the anger that boiled within him. Why did he even care about the damn beach hut? He’d retired. It wasn’t his job to keep people honest any more. And besides, it wasn’t as if he was the only person who was going to notice. Plenty of people crossed the beach every hour.

(Although, now he thought about it, it was very well-positioned. It nestled into the dunes as if it had always been there. It would be out of reach of the highest spring tides, sheltered from the fiercest October storms. Had George chosen the spot, or was it buried somewhere in the letter?)

Who did they think they were, flouting the rules like this? What made them think they were so special that the law didn’t apply to them?

He glanced at his wrist. God, ten to eleven. Mike would have been waiting since half-past ten. First weekend of the autumn staffing rota. Just three of them on today, including him. Trade would be a fifth of what it had been a month ago, but the weather and the waves would bring the surfers far into the autumn, even without the lifeguards. Alicia could plead all she wanted, but her board was in the back of the cupboard along with her wetsuit and they both knew it was staying there. He could relax until Easter Day next year. Mike was standing on the steps.

“Sorry.” Donald fumbled with the keys. “Lost track of time. You won’t believe what George is doing this time.”

“He’s not started on that sundeck for the café, has he?” asked Mike.

“He told you about that too?”

“Oh, you know George,” said Mike gloomily. “Once he gets an idea in his head… he came in the other day looking for Henry, but Henry wasn’t around and he was in the mood to tell someone, so I copped for the lot. Mind you,” he added, “it’s quite a good idea. But I could have done without hearing about it for three hours solid.”

“Sorry about that.”

“S’all right. He’s always been like it. We’re all used to him by now.”

We, thought Donald, smiling to himself as he turned on lights and laid out clean towels. How long do I have to live here before I get to be we? It wasn’t that he hadn’t been made welcome. He was well-liked and respected, his daughter was popular and happy. But after nearly a decade, they still weren’t part of the landscape.

He himself had no chance. If he lived here until the day he died, the opening words of his funeral oration would be, “Donald Emory wasn’t born here, but… ” Alicia was a hybrid – capable of fooling tourists, but still slightly foreign to the locals, a visitor who might or might not choose to remain. Maybe if she married a local man and had a child, their child would belong, or perhaps her grandchild… although even then, he could imagine any mild aberration being explained by the sage observation, ‘Well, his grandmother wasn’t from round here, you know.’ He opened the cellar door and turned on the pumps.