The euphoric thrill of being back in Wynmouth, along with excitement derived from making the rash request to lengthen my visit, stayed with me all of that day and part of the way into the next. Had I not then been confined to barracks because of the relentless rain and biting wind, I daresay the feeling might have stayed with me even longer, but by the end of Thursday, having struggled to keep my hands off my phone and having read the rest of Mum’s first couple of diary entries, I was feeling pretty low.

There was a level of acceptance and resignation as Mum described her feelings about seeing Dad out with another woman and I found that more depressing than anything. She had obviously been so in love with him that she was prepared to put up with the humiliation and I hated the fact that not only had her life had been cut so cruelly short, but that the last few years of it had been so miserable. If only she had confided in me . . .

Without the benefit of my regular work routine or the sunny beach to walk on and now more of Mum’s sad words ringing in my ears, my mood had become as dark as the inside of the cottage and I was tempted to retract my request of a month’s rental, but I didn’t.

‘You’re just going through a period of readjustment,’ I told myself, as I returned the diary to the drawer and stoked the fire. ‘You aren’t used to such a dramatic drop in your activity levels and you’re bound to feel overwhelmed by these shocking revelations.’

I lay, curled up on the sofa under a blanket and gave the weather beyond the window a hard stare. This was not what I had signed up for. I toyed with the idea of going back to the pub for a few hours. I could take a book and pretend I was reading as I watched the world go by. At least there were other folk there, even if they were few and far between, but then, given everything else I had to deal with, I reckoned I didn’t need the distraction of the beguiling green eyes which belonged to the lovely landlord on top of everything else.

A spark of attraction had been the last thing I had expected to feel when I rushed to confirm my cottage reservation, but the touchpaper had been lit and the sensible thing now was to stand well back because even my no-strings fun ethos had occasionally been known to tie itself up into unwelcome knots.

*