Once she had found a battered copy of the Lives of the Gods in the Griseley Bookshop. Censoring all its more bloodthirsty details, Netta had prepared her story for this visit. The storytelling usually came after Gus had stuffed down his picnic in order to let his meal settle before they pedalled off on the rest of their day.

‘What’s it today? he asked, munching his apple. He knew their routine by now.

‘Another story of the old Gods and the rainbow bridge, I think. I thought we might look at one of their Goddesses for change… Freya, wife of Odur, who lived with their daughter Hrossa in Asgard. This is the story of Freya and the necklace Brisingamen.’ She told him the story of the young Goddess who, against her husband’s wishes, went off in search of the mountain of the Giant Women, the Goldsmiths of Middlearth, leaving her child with her husband in the palace. Freya was lured by dwarves who kissed and entrapped her. Then, when she found the Goldsmiths and they showed her that golden necklace, Freya clasped it and it seemed to make her more beautiful than ever. On her return to Asgard her husband had gone away in search of her and she was sorely distressed. She searched all over the earth for him but he never returned and she was left heartbroken.

‘What did she do next?’ asked Gus, puzzled.

‘She kept on searching and stood on the Bifrost bridge, the rainbow bridge between heaven and earth. Remember we’ve been there before? Some say she stood there weeping like a fountain until Goddess Frigga came out to comfort her and remind her that she still had a beautiful daughter, Hrossa, to look after. From then on Freya wore that cursed necklace, not out of pride but out of shame. When she weeps, her tears fall as rain on the earth and sometimes we see her rainbow bridge with all the colours of the world in it.’

Gus fidgeted, disappointed with this girlie story. There were no monsters in it… He munched the rest of his apple in silence before racing off again on his trike to lead the way to Carrick Sands, past the big house at Knockbrex which stood back from the rocky inlet like a toy fort. He wanted to see if the tide had washed up any messages in ships’ bottles on the beach opposite Ardwall Island among the seawood and flotsam, driftwood and metal strewn over the grey pebbles and sand. This time he was in luck.