Simon strides ahead, binoculars swinging from his shoulder. He’s wearing his new Barbour jacket. The tartan inside flashes at me as he walks. I let him go on, so I can swagger by Shane’s house slowly enough to see if he’s at the window.

There’s a twitch in his curtains as I pass. I let out a damp breath, flick my newly Elnetted hair, walk on with a slow swing, hoping he’ll follow.

Simon waits at the lane by the church. His watch slides up his wrist as he reaches for me. I stop far away enough for him not to be able to touch. ‘Come on, then,’ he says, ‘if you’re coming.’

He’s suggested we have an outside tutorial, despite the freezing damp. We can look for birds down at the pools, he says; the fresh air will do us good. But I know he wants to escape Sunday afternoon in our house. Who wouldn’t want to avoid Mum in her pink weekend jogging outfit (which has never been outdoors), the Antiques Roadshow and the Sunday supplements?

Down the pools, a line of wetness forms around my white slip-ons. Cold moisture oozes up from the ground, catching the bare twigs, making them sag.

A dog-walker stands and waits, looking off towards the cooling towers as if nothing’s happening while his pooch bends its hind legs and lets its behind tremble.

‘Here’s the look-out,’ says Simon, pointing at a wooden building that looks like a shed with a slit around it. Inside, the walls are covered with information sheets, telling you what kinds of birds you can expect. Each sheet has the power station’s logo in the corner.

I’ve seen the twitchers down here before. They have all the gear. Huge binoculars, and cameras with lenses like the fashion magazine photographers have, for snapping models. Zoom in, focus, snap. They sit there watching, waiting for their birds, lenses pointing. Primed and ready.

‘What are we doing here?’ I ask.

‘Observing the wonders of nature.’

I sit on the bench and look through the slit at the greyness outside.

‘And you can tell me what you’re doing in history, while we’re at it,’ Simon adds.

Everything’s going dark. The water looks like Simon’s mac: thick and heavy. The branches hang over it like they can’t wait to fall in.

‘We’re doing cholera.’

Simon raises an eyebrow. ‘Tell me about cholera, then.’ ‘You get it from dirty water. You vomit, and you shit yourself at the same time. Then you die.’

‘I see. And what’s this got to do with history?’

‘I was hoping you could tell me.’