They stood just inside the pub doorway, leaning against each other, speechless with laughter. Was there anything more irritating than other people laughing at something that wasn’t funny? The woman had little bells sewn on the frayed bottom of her jeans. What was the matter with him, that he was suddenly taking such a vast interest in other people’s clothes?

“I’m still disappointed they didn’t send it,” the man said. “What shall we do now?”

“It’s lunchtime,” said the woman, with great authority.

“Is it? Hooray. What shall we have?”

“Let’s get pasties and eat them on the wall.”

“And Mr Kipling French Fancies.” They were turning away now, their voices getting fainter.

“Oh, yes! Do they still make them?”

“Course they do. And then afterwards we can walk down and see… ”

Their voices were fading as they disappeared down the street. They were going to the Oggy Oggy Pasty Shop. The Mr Kipling cakes they’d have to buy at the Londis next door.

“Fuck,” said Donald out loud.

“What’s up?” Mike’s head popped round the door to the lounge-bar.

“Doesn’t matter,” said Donald.

“I could do with some pound coins if you’ve got them.”

Donald fumbled for an unopened bag, tossed it over to Mike.

“Twenty enough?”

“Plenty. Do you want a note back?” Donald shook his head.

Mike disappeared. Donald stared madly into space, chewing his thumbnail. He guessed – no, the hell with guessing, he knew, with the bone-deep certainty of infallible intuition – that the brother and sister with their ridiculous clothes and their strange hilarity and their plan to buy pasties and Mr Kipling French Fancies were the people who had commissioned George to build the beach hut down in the dunes. Which meant that, however much he’d liked their camper van, they were now his implacable enemies.

Chapter Three: 1983

Finn was lying quietly under the blanket staring at the ceiling when he heard the soft click of the door opening. He sat up at once.

“Ava?”

He could see her by the light in the corridor, tall and thin and pretty, her long hair tousled, flapping frantically at him to be quiet.

“Sorry,” he whispered. She rolled her eyes and put her finger to her lips. “What?”

“Shh! The house mothers are going to hear you!”

“I’m whispering! This is as quiet as I can be!”

She scurried into his room, pushed the door shut and sat on the narrow bed.

“You’ve got the loudest whisper of anyone I know,” she told him. “I bet there are people who can’t shout as loud as you can whisper. Can I get in with you? My feet are freezing.”

Finn obligingly held the covers open for her and she slid in beneath the sheets.

“What did you have for tea?” Ava asked.

“Fish fingers.”

“With chips?”

“Jacket potato. And baked beans. And ice-cream with sauce on afterwards. How about you?”

“Stew.”

“Was it nice?”

“No. The meat was grey and the dumplings were chewy. When we live by ourselves, I won’t ever make dumplings. They’re horrible and unnecessary. And when I make stew, it won’t have grey meat, it’ll be all pink and tender inside.”