‘He won’t be. But if he is, I’ll find him. I can’t wait. The livestock, Ver, the bloody cows. I’ve already been away too long. It’s probably already too late, but I’ve got to try. We can’t afford to lose them. We just can’t.’ His face was contorted in worry.

As if from high up in a hot air balloon, she saw what a precarious state the farm was in. It would only take one thing to sweep it away. As he started wading she was immobilised by helplessness.

Peter stopped, came back. ‘Take this, you might need it. But eat something, for God’s sake.’ He put the silver hip flask into her cold, wet hand.

‘You might need it too!’ she shouted after him, but there was no sign of him in the darkness.

*

Second breach of the sea wall, halfway along the embankment

Rain was lashing the sails of the boats in the harbour and dripping off the guttering in Staithe Street when he emerged from the house of the spinster sisters, stuffed with the scones that they baked specially for his visit. He stood under the slight protection of their doorway lintel, peering down the street, which was lit from above by the yellow light from the sole street lamp, making strange shadows on the cobbles. It would have been easy to have dragged the bike round the corner to home but at the end of the street was the village hall. He could hear, just above the crash of the sea and the banging of Thurgood’s sign against the wall, the bee-bop of a jive. It was later than he’d wanted, already after six. He must have missed most of it, chit-chatting with the old ladies in their dark and musty rooms, while his peers were flinging each other around. Whenever there was a jive on the radio, it would only be a few bars before his mother switched it over, tutting about ‘black music’. He imagined the girls’ skirts flung out like fans, their feet a blur of taps and kicks, Verity’s dark hair swinging.

Arthur ran down the slippery street, past the dark windows of the milk bar and the butcher’s, tripping over his bicycle and his own feet in haste. He slowed on sight of the village hall and leaned the bike against the wall opposite underneath the awning of the haberdasher’s. He smoothed his hair, trying to catch his breath. The twang of the guitar floated over, through the rain. The music had changed. Now it was a crooning song. Inside, there would be slow, awkward dancing.