The shop is right in the middle of the row, one pink hut, one baby blue, one evergreen. Well, it used to be evergreen. Now half of it is bright red. She’s going for a bolder colour scheme in an attempt to draw in more people. The other huts will follow suit over the coming days, the pink one turning bright yellow, the baby blue a bright emerald. A white wooden picket fence forms a square around them, making it clear they’re all together. She still can’t decide whether to repaint that too. Above the middle hut hangs a sign: Caulfield Gifts. Est 1955.

Amber’s grandfather had opened it before passing it down to his daughters, Amber’s mother and aunt, when he died. But the two women had retired from the business eight years ago, meaning Amber was now in charge. It sated her hunger for some creative output. For December, she created a Christmas feel with stag emblems and snowy scenes, fir-tree bunting and icicle lights, the walls lined with shelves to display local artists’ creations. On dry days, Amber placed more product on the veranda outside on top of four crates she’d painted the same colours as the huts. It caught the attention of people on the beach and in the café nearby, drawing lots of tourists eager to take home keepsakes during the summer months.

But it was so quiet in the winter. So much so that her mother suggested she only open in the summer months, and find a winter job elsewhere. Amber liked the peace of the beach though, the feel of the biting wind against her face. It reminded her she was here, surviving, despite what had happened to her as a child.

She rubs her bad hand again before unlocking the padlock on the three shutters and yanking them up with her good hand. She leans down and switches on the fairy lights that hang across the ceilings of each hut, then sets up a chalkboard outside, declaring ‘Wonderful Winter Discounts!’

She pulls her stool out and sits on it, closing her eyes and enjoying a moment of peace before getting on with the painting.

‘Caught you sleeping on the job!’ a familiar voice rings out. She turns to see her mother Rita and her aunt Viv walking down the beach, bundled up in their winter coats, red hair like hers lifting in the wind. Their arms are linked and they’re both wearing long, fur-lined boots, woollen coats that reach down to their calves, and colourful scarves that seem to go on for ever, wound around their necks. They claim to be six years apart in age, but Amber sometimes wonders if they are secretly twins.

‘Not really catching me in the act if I wasn’t trying to hide it in the first place,’ Amber says, keeping her eyes closed just to prove her point.