They played in silence. Nicole studied Charlie as they made words and kept score. She could tell when he had good letters, his left eye would crinkle ever so slightly at the edge, almost as if he were about to wink. When he was about to place a word across a triple score, his thin lips tightened just a little. Needing extra time to figure out his next move, his thick, wrinkled forefinger on his thick wrinkled left hand tapped the table.

There was no banter. None of their usual one-upmanship of meanings or origins of words. No interesting anecdotes. But it was peaceful and for that Nicole was grateful.

Charlie won once again and Nicole congratulated him with an extended hand, which he took, grasping it firmly as he would another man’s.

‘Thank you, Charlie,’ she said, but didn’t let go. ‘I don’t know if you were right. About not running. But I am going to think it through.’

‘I haven’t got much right in this life, my girl.’ He shook his head.

‘Well, there’s a first time for everything.’ She smiled.

‘Keep that phrase for if you ever beat me by more than a small margin,’ he said, packing away the board.

‘When, not if.’

‘Let’s not get carried away.’

‘Thank you also for sending Danny round. It helped. Talking to someone.’ Not that she’d told him anything. But it had given her pause. And she knew that if she ran, Mark would just find her again. There had to be another way.

Charlie shrugged. He headed to the door of the boatshed, but turned before going in.

‘I don’t know what any of this is about, young lady. But I do know one thing. If you want whoever this is out of your life, running doesn’t work. You’ve got to stand up for yourself.’

Nicole stared at Charlie. How could he possibly know?

The less you’re seen, the more you see.

How much did he see?

On the way back to the cottage Nicole took in a deep breath of warm air and allowed herself to smile and walk with her shoulders back. She had Charlie, and in the topsy-turvy world that was now her reality, that was at least something.

She had Charlie and Danny and Mandy and Ivy. And in this reality, where she’d lost everything else, that amounted to a big something.

2nd January, 1953

My Dearest Tom,

The Christmas stall was a great success. I sold all bar three of my sculptures. It will not be long before every house in the cove has an Ivy Wilson original on their mantlepiece or side table. Of course, once that happens my artistic career will be over with no new buyers, but that is the lot of a suffering artist, is it not? Yes, you are allowed to laugh.