The vehicle bounced over a pothole. Through the window, I could see a field of rippling pink and purple tulips, their blousy heads and pale stalks quivering. A tractor lumbered along the field’s edge, harvesting the nodding flowers which were sold at the local markets or transported to mainland supermarkets. It was a bucolic scene, belonging to a bygone era, a different world entirely to the very modern one I’d inhabited until a few days ago.

‘I wish you’d said something. You could have at least given me time to come back for the funeral.’

Bram sighed. ‘Sorry, Feine. We thought about calling, but you’re always so busy with work. We didn’t want to interfere. Also, when I tried to convince you to come to the school reunion you said you’d need to have a damn good reason to come back. We know you loved Dad. But we didn’t want to put you in a hard place. We thought it would be best if you didn’t know.’

His words staunched my outrage. If he had called to tell me Tomas Lange had passed away in his sleep, would I have booked the first flight to Texel? Or would I have made excuses about getting caught up in work? Would I have sent my condolences and promised to light a candle in his honour, organised a floral wreath to be sent on my behalf? Perhaps the unpalatable truth was clearer to Bram than it was to me. A remarkably preserved silk dress that was nothing short of a modern textiles miracle and an appeal for help from my former best friend had been enough to convince me to return to the place which held so many memories, good and bad, of my past life. But I should have come back much earlier. In my mind, everything in Texel had stayed the same.

Nico was waiting outside the clubhouse when we arrived. Bram parked the car on a thin strip of gravel between two bright blue shipping containers. The clubhouse, a squat, grey building with a flat iron roof, was almost indistinguishable from the industrial offices pressed on either side of the narrow service road leading to the dry docks. The only clue giving away its true purpose was a faded purple sticker plastered to the window advertising Lange’s Dive Shop in De Waal.

‘Dad sold the shop when Mum got sick,’ Bram said, following the direction of my gaze. ‘Tourists seem to be more interested in seal-watching these days, anyway. They love pizza, though.’

Nico was talking on his mobile as we climbed out. I extracted my suitcase as he hung up and wandered over to join us.