‘It’s not too bad. Warmer than this rain.’ She’s barefoot and her skin is damp. Despite the climb from the beach, she is barely out of breath.

‘I think I’ll leave it,’ Isla says.

They stand together under the trees, looking out at the yard. The bunting droops low across the back of the house.

‘Not like the British rain,’ Louisa says. ‘The British rain got under your skin. I don’t think I dried out till I’d been here a year.’

‘Do you miss it?’

‘England?’ Louisa laughs. ‘Not any more. I can’t imagine why I ever wanted to go back.’

They watch the rain fall. Isla has heard the story many times of how her mum, overcome with homesickness, ran back to England with Isla when she was small. Only to find when she got there that it wasn’t home any more. That she’d made an awful mistake. And Joe had begged her to come home, saying he couldn’t live without her. So the story goes. Isla’s memories of her time in her grandmother’s house are of snow drifts and frozen pipes; wind blowing down the chimneys, filling the rooms with smoke. Missing her dad.

‘How did you do it?’ Isla asks. ‘The time we went to England.’

The ocean roars behind them. ‘What do you mean?’

‘How did you pay for the flights? You can’t have earned much back then.’

Her mum bristles beside her and Isla looks down at her feet, the water seeping into her old canvas shoes. This is not the correct version of the story. This is its dark underbelly; the chapter that was scrapped.

‘I withdrew all the savings,’ Louisa says. ‘There was a lot of money in the account. Your dad had been saving for a car.’

‘And he didn’t try to stop you?’

‘I hid the savings book. By the time he found it we were gone.’

Isla stares at the rain. ‘I can’t believe you did that.’

‘I felt like I had no choice.’ She is quiet for a while. ‘I don’t suppose you can imagine what it’s like, to be dependent on a man for money.’

‘I guess not.’

‘I remember your dad had to write a letter, giving his permission to name me on the account. So I could pay money in from my wages,’ Louisa says. ‘It was unusual back then. Bank accounts were for men, not their wives.’

Isla keeps her eyes on the back of the house. Next door, Carol Taylor slams her kitchen window shut.

‘I betrayed his trust,’ Louisa says, rubbing briskly at her hair with her towel. ‘He’s never quite forgiven me.’

‘When did he start pushing you around?’

Louisa swings around to face her. Her towel falls to the ground.

‘Is that why you left him?’

She picks up the towel and shakes it vigorously. ‘He’s never been an easy man.’

‘I know that.’

She shakes the towel again. Dirt and wet sand cling to it. ‘I gave as good as I got,’ she says.