I’m hoping I’ll get a balcony too, but I’m disappointed to see my small single room is in the attic. Mother and Father tell the owner the room is fine – I think so anyway, Father is speaking in German so I don’t really understand. I want to say No, it’s not fine, it’s small, poky and too hot. Mum looks worried.

‘Will you be all right here on your own, Arnold?’

Dad ruffles my hair. ‘Of course he will. It’s exciting, isn’t it, Arnold? I’d have loved to have had a room of my own at your age.’

I give a feeble smile and nod.

‘Yes, thanks. It’s nice,’ I lie.

The owner’s showing us something across the landing. It’s the bathroom. At least there is a bath, though goodness knows how you use it. I don’t even know what the German for ‘cold’ and ‘hot’ is, and I’m too embarrassed to ask.

Then I’m shooed back to my bedroom. Mother and Father want some ‘quiet time’ for a couple of hours.

‘We’re all tired after the journey,’ says Father. I want to say I’m not, and that I want to go out and explore the cliff lift, but even I know there are times when children have to just shut up. ‘We’ll come and get you at half past three, Arnold, and we can go out for a walk before finding a café.’

‘That’ll be nice, Arnold, won’t it?’ says Mum, trying to chivvy me along. She probably saw I was on the point of crying. She tries to give me a hug but Dad pulls her away and they’re off clattering down the steep stairs, as though they can’t get rid of me quick enough.

I slump down on the bed face up, wipe my eyes, and stare at the ceiling. There’s an awful sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach – that lurch when you’re ill, just before you’re going to be sick. I’m not going to be sick, but I’ve realised all my hopes for this holiday, all the build-up to it in my head, it’s all going to be dashed. I’m going to hate it all, I know I am.

*

I must have dozed off because when there’s a knock on the door I wake with a start, confused at first. That sometimes happens when I stay the night at Nana’s. When I wake I can’t understand why I’m not in my own bed. There’s another knock – louder, more impatient. I look at my watch – the one Nana gave me – thinking I’m late to meet with my parents. But it’s only one o’clock: only half an hour has passed since we arrived.

Then a voice, shouting through the door. A girl’s voice, in broken, guttural, fierce English.