And on the beach, with the tide in, it was still possible to feel optimistic about the town. The skies were the bright blue dye of the school shirts we had worn on the first day back in September. The clean air filled our lungs and made us buoyant. We walked towards the site of our burned-down pier, listening to the waves arrive so diligently, so faithfully. I told her the story of the bawdy comedian who some people suspected had set it alight. On the bay’s horizon I pointed out to Emily the mountains, the power station, the wide space where you could still see the cargo ships heading somewhere else to land. Though it was a clear, warm day we only met a handful of dog-walkers. We headed on and rounded the edge of the peninsula on the prom, past a statue of a woman and girl waving out towards Ireland. Bye-bye! Bye-bye! There was bunting strung up outside the amusement arcade, from the Queen’s ninetieth, I presumed, unless it had been put up that morning in celebration of the Leave vote. I pointed through the fencing to show Emily where the ships had docked and we walked on into the town, where we passed three men in stationary mobility buggies, smoking and talking. A smoking man in a jogging suit pushed a little boy wearing Fonzie shades. Seagulls the size of microwave ovens swooped from the sky and scrapped for chips. There was life on the high street, people queuing for cash machines, at the Iceland checkout. Schoolgirls with white legs, smoking. Smaller boys buzzed round them in blazers. A giant Asda cast its shadow over the smaller shops.

‘Pub?’ I said.

‘OK,’ she said. ‘I think today we can allow ourselves a few drinks.’

*

There was a party going on in the busiest pub in town. Beer mats objecting to Christine Lagarde winged through the air. The bar was packed deep. An incongruous hipster with full Edwardian beard and an arm full of sailor’s tattoos – a mermaid, an anchor, a leaping shark – dispensed pints as quickly as he could pour them. Plates full of the remains of fish and chips were being gathered by a waiter while another brought fresh ones out of the kitchen doors. Everyone smiled at us. ‘All right, pal, all right, bud!’

A TV without the sound on replayed the arrival of Farage in another pub very like the one we were in.

‘Do you want to get out of here?’ I asked.

‘No, no. Let’s soak up the atmosphere,’ she said.

‘Paul,’ said John from primary school, whom I hadn’t spoken to for twenty years. He shook my hand. ‘We did it,’ he said. His head was shaved and there was a scar running from ear to ear.

‘Yep,’ I said.

‘Are you back living here?’ he asked.

‘Nah, just visiting.’

‘Where from?’

‘London.’

His eyes went wide. ‘Rather you than me, mate.’