The man put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed it.

“Damn right I will,” he said. “One day years from now. We’ll get drunk together and point at the walls and go on about blue stripes and drive everyone else mad. And you can show me all the best places to eat. It’ll be brilliant. Oh, hi there.”

“Hello.” Donald realised he had made no plan for how to open the conversation.

“I’m Finn.” The man held out a hand, then dropped it. “Actually, best not shake my hand, I’m covered in paint.”

“I’m his sister, Ava. Also covered in paint.”

Freckles of blue dotted her nose and cheeks and a long stiff strand of blue hung sharp and rigid among the rough tangle of her hair. A sudden painful memory of an afternoon with Ellen, painting Alicia’s nursery, paint dripping on her head. She’d had to chop a chunk out of her fringe. She’d frowned into the mirror and said, ‘I look ridiculous.’ He’d said, ‘You look beautiful.’ She’d said, ‘You’re just a man, what would you know.’ And he’d said, ‘I knew enough to knock you up,’ and put his hand on the stretched white dome of her belly. She’d said…

Not here. Not now.

“I’m Donald.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Ava, sounding alarmingly friendly. “Do you fancy a drink?”

“Um… ”

The beach hut door was still bare of paint. Her fingers left little blue smudges as she pushed it open. “We’ve got Diet Coke, cider, white wine or water. We might even have some ice cubes by now. Or tea and coffee if you fancy something hot.”

“How?” Donald demanded. From the corner of his eye, he could see Finn trying not to laugh.

“Camping fridge,” said Ava from inside. “And a camping stove. Run off a gas bottle. What can I get you?”

He peeked quietly inside, telling himself that he wasn’t being idly nosy, he was gathering useful information and scoping out the enemy. Two folding chairs and a folding table, boxes of books, stacks of paper, an ancient brown suitcase with clothes peeking out. A bunk bed, fitting so perfectly against the wall it must surely have been built by George. Two mounds of bedding topped by pretty patchwork quilts. An upturned wooden tea-chest with one side prised off. A stash of saucepans and a coffee-can crammed with cutlery. On top of the tea-chest, a two-ring gas stove. A blue glazed plant-pot with a miniature sprout of green curling from the black soil. The world’s most perfect Wendy house.

“No, really, nothing, thank you,” said Donald. What was this strange pair doing about washing? About using the toilet? The public conveniences were locked at 8pm.

“Are you sure?” Ava’s smile was quick and pretty. “It’s no trouble. We’ve got biscuits too.” Her biscuit tin had a picture of Winston Churchill on it. The chocolate HobNobs looked delicious. “They were only opened this morning, I promise they’re not soggy.”

“I should tell you I’m not here as a friend,” said Donald desperately, then blushed.