Her hands were clammy, sticky on the wheel. She drove on a small distance, pulled the car over to the side, opened the window, breathed the air. In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four. There was an ice-cream van on the parade and a small queue had formed, holidaymakers in shorts and T-shirts, and children in flip-flops with sand on their legs. A little girl pulled the wrapper off her ice cream and walked towards the rubbish bin. She stopped, dropped the wrapper on the ground.

‘Pick it up,’ Dora called from the car. ‘You don’t want to be a litterbug.’

The girl looked at Dora. ‘There’s wasps,’ she said. ‘I don’t like wasps.’ She glared at her, ran away.

Dora opened the door, picked up the rubbish. ‘They won’t bother you,’ she called, throwing the paper in the bin.

She walked along the promenade, leaving the car door ajar. The tide was out, exposing rocks sharp as stalagmites. It was a long way to the sea, but there were dips in the sand where water had pooled. A mother was holding a baby, legs dangling in the water, splashing its bare feet. Dora heard the child’s chuckles. It had been an age since she’d heard that sound. She stopped and watched them, leaning against the sea wall, her breath in light, dizzy takes. In, one, two, three. Out, one, two, three.

The sirens of a fire engine sounded in the distance, and two police cars rushed past, klaxons screaming. Dora jumped. A couple were coming towards her, pulled a where’s-the-fire? face as they passed, laughed.

Agnes had been one of the first to leave, once the war was over. She’d stood there, papers stamped.

‘St Malo,’ she said. ‘First stop.’ She looked at Dora straight. ‘Like I said, two of a kind. You and me.’

They’d never talked about what had happened the night the baby died. No need to. Agnes was never one for small talk, and why bring it up?

‘Good luck,’ Dora had said, waved at her as she walked down the stairs. From the back, she was still a young woman.