His memory of the following morning was clear, although the remembering was shameful. Horribly hungover, weak, nauseous and sore, he’d promised his mother that he’d leave Alice alone even though he was desperate to see her.

He’d splashed cold water on his face, brushed his teeth until his gums bled, and showered, scrubbing himself raw. He’d put antiseptic cream and plasters over the cuts on the sole of his foot. Then he’d picked at the breakfast that Angharad had made for him, she insisting it would do him good, he thinking it would be impossible to feel any more wretched.

The day was already hot; a heat haze on the horizon; the sky a colour that was neither blue nor grey. The trees gave little shade. They were thirsty, their leaves losing their green. Some of the trees would never recover from the drought. Everything was changing, the season turning. In two weeks the children would be back at school and there’d be the taste of autumn in the air, and the T-shirts and daps they were wearing now would be replaced by woollen socks and jumpers. Fires would be lit and fallen leaves raked into piles.

For now, though, it was still summer. Will told himself it wasn’t too late. He told himself there was still time to make things right with Alice. He needed to be calm. He needed to show that he could be an adult.

He attended to his responsibilities. He limped to the swimming pool, unlocked the metal safety gate, switched on the pump and the crystal-blue water at the base of the pool shimmied, sending patterns of light into the arms of the trees. Will picked up the long-handled net and scooped out the insects and leaves that had fallen into the pool during the night. The net was heavy, and you couldn’t rush the job. He tipped the rubbish out onto the grass away from the sun loungers and the poolside showers.

After that, he swept the poolside, cleared away the glasses into a large plastic tray and straightened the sunbeds ready for the day ahead.

It was early. Few of the holidaymakers were up but the young father from Caravan 112, was walking lengths of the path, jiggling his baby in his arms, and some of the families who were leaving that morning, those who had a long way to drive, were unloading buckets and spades and bags of groceries onto the lawns outside their caravans. A queue was forming outside the park stores, people wanting to buy milk and bread, and the village women who came in on changeover days to clean the caravans and replace the linen were hovering in the service alleyways, the smoke from their cigarettes curling up into the blue sky.