But their holiday is drawing to a close now. Their flights are booked for home and George is due back at the BBC the following Monday. There’s an air of dissatisfaction around the table; they would all like to stay longer. Really, none of them wants to leave.

‘Can’t we just cancel our flights?’ asks Nelson, popping the head off a grilled shrimp and tossing its torso into his mouth.

‘If only,’ replies Beverley with a sigh. ‘It has been magical, hasn’t it?’

‘Let’s just move here!’ suggests Achilles.

‘Our lives are in London,’ says George. ‘But don’t worry, we’ll do this again. It’s been tremendous fun.’ He glances across at his eleven-year-old daughter, who, while generally quite vivacious, has seemed rather quiet over the last half-hour. ‘Are you all right?’ he asks.

‘Yes,’ she replies, looking down at the table, unable to meet his eye.

‘We’re lucky, aren’t we?’ says Beverley. ‘To have such experiences. Well …’ And here her voice cracks a little. ‘I feel lucky anyway. To be with you, George. And you children. You’re all rather wonderful.’

‘Don’t get soppy, Mum,’ says Nelson.

‘Well, I mean it.’

‘You’re not all right,’ says George, frowning and leaning forward, noticing how his daughter is trembling slightly. ‘What’s the matter? What’s happened?’

All eyes turn towards Elizabeth and, in a moment, tears begin to roll down her cheeks. Her parents, her brothers, all stare at her. They’ve never seen her behave like this before. In a moment, both Nelson and Achilles each take her by a hand and pull her from her seat, dragging her towards the beach front, where George and Beverley can’t see them any more.

‘What on earth …?’ asks George, ready to stand up and follow them, but Beverley places a hand on his, telling him to stay where he is.

‘Let’s just wait,’ she says, her voice also filled with anxiety. ‘Let’s see what the boys do.’

It takes almost ten minutes but, eventually, all three children reappear. Elizabeth’s eyes are red, but she returns to her food without a word. Achilles looks confused and uncertain. Nelson looks furious. He’s the only one who doesn’t sit down and, when he walks back towards the bar area, both George and Beverley stand up and follow him, knowing that he’s waiting for them. Their eldest son. The responsible one.

‘That man over there,’ says Nelson, pointing to a table about fifty yards from their own, where a man in his early thirties is sitting alone, drinking beer. ‘He said something to her. When she went to the toilet.’

George and Beverley stare at their eldest son, taking his words in.

‘He said something to her,’ repeats Nelson, not meeting their eyes, clearly hoping that he won’t have to reveal what the man has said. It’s too embarrassing.