‘WHERE DO YOU LIVE, DEAR?’ shouted the wife, slowly and emphatically.

Grace responded at the same volume and speed. ‘ABOUT FIVE MINUTES’ WALK FROM HERE, DEAR.’

‘Aw, she’s just taking the mick now, Lyn,’ said the man.

‘Dad, can we get ice-creams?’ said one of the sons.

‘Yeah, go on, Lyn,’ said Grace. ‘Bugger off and buy your sons an ice- cream.’ She pulled her portable changing room – essentially a long, home-made towelling poncho – over her head, and started taking off her bathing costume. Lyn was clearly torn between staying put or joining her family, who were now bored with the whole pensioner-rescue thing and heading off up the beach. It was Grace who helped her decide, smiling inanely she whispered, ‘I’m completely starkers under here now, Lyn. D’you fancy a gander?’ The woman needed no more encouragement, turning on her heel and stomping off, the sand impeding her steps. ‘Honestly, you try to help some people!’ she mumbled indignantly.

Grace laughed to herself as she pulled on her knickers and bra with well- practised ease, her head poking out the top of the poncho as she dressed quickly underneath. She’d always said that when she reached ninety, if she made it that far, she hoped she’d be able to walk without a stick and fasten her bra. She’d surpassed that ambition, for sure: as well as her swimming, she still did twice- weekly yoga, could easily climb the steep hills of Dylan’s Quay, and drove to Aberystwyth once a month. The staff at Cadwallader House – a local residential home very close to her heart – never tired of saying, ‘Grace Meredith, you’re a phenomenon, and an inspiration to us all.’

She rubbed her head with a towel, combed her hair and gathered her things. Licking her lips, she savoured their saltiness before slathering them with lip- salve. She loved the feel of her skin after sea- swimming – it invigorated her, made her feel alive, which these days she didn’t take for granted. Reaching the top of the beach steps, she sat on the brightly painted bench, caught her breath and surveyed the view – Dylan’s Quay, her beloved home town for more than five decades. There was no other place like it on Earth.

Unzipping the side pocket of her little rucksack, Grace retrieved the greetings card she’d been carrying around with her for the past two days and stared at it for the umpteenth time. The picture on the front was taken from a painting of the Brecon Beacons – a winter view with snowy peaks and crisp, stark lines. But it wasn’t the picture that held Grace in its thrall: it was what was printed on the back of the card. That name.

Shutting her eyes for a moment, she drew breath. It was no good. The thought just wouldn’t leave her alone. It had plagued her, given her sleepless nights, and she needed to share it with someone else, get a fresh perspective. Much as she dreaded doing so, she would have to talk to John. And thrusting the card back into her rucksack, Grace began striding up the hill.