Women walk with parasols along the shore, dressed in black or white. There seems such a definiteness to that. No in-between. As if the women, like the men, have all been sorted now and allotted their status. Edie feels, watching the women, that she’s not certain to which camp she belongs.

“It’s the uncertainty that’s so difficult to live with, isn’t it?” says Clara. “It’s all the questions that you ask yourself. The constant needling of the doubt. The being unable to focus on anything else. It’s just so exhausting, isn’t it? I understand that. My father was reported missing in the spring of 1918 and we heard nothing for ten months. There was just no news, a complete absence of information, but then he turned up in a prisoner-of-war camp. And now I have to say that I’m not sure which was worse, really: the not knowing, or having him back so changed. That sounds awful, doesn’t it? It must sound terrible to you. But he’s in a neurasthenic hospital now. He came back to us, but the father that I knew is still missing.”

Edie shakes her head. “I’m so sorry.” She looks at the woman in black at her side and realizes that this is a sort of mourning.

“He doesn’t know me any longer. He doesn’t remember his own name. The doctors say that he’ll probably never come out of the hospital.”

Clara stares at the sea, then turns to Edie and shrugs.

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

“Daddy’s war probably won’t ever end, and there’s so little I can do about that.” There is a conclusiveness in Clara’s voice, as if she’s spent a long time coming to this decision. “We shouldn’t linger in these places unless we have to. Don’t let doubt eat you up. I know it’s not easy, but try to think about other things. Occupy yourself. Look for the positives and look forward. This war has taken enough already, hasn’t it?”

Children dip in the shallows with fishing nets. A group having a swimming lesson splash and laugh. A yacht with orange sails comes to the shore and men heave it up onto the beach. Donkeys repeat the same path up and down the length of the sand. It is only the children on their backs that change. They tread endlessly through their own hoof marks. Edie considers whether Clara is perhaps right.

“Are you leaving today?” Clara asks.