‘What’s that for?’ he asked.

‘To say thank you!’ she shouted, into the wind.

‘Did I ever tell you about my brother Iggy and the crate he found washed up on the beach?’

He had, the last time they’d met, but she didn’t mind. The open section of beach took only a few minutes to cross, and then they returned to the promenade and walked arm in arm towards the pier, heads down against the weather. The turnstiles at the entrance had been wired shut; beyond them was a stretch of churning sea, the planking above it removed so that there was a gap of forty feet between the land and the rest of the pier.

‘To stop Ay-dolf hitching his yacht there,’ said Mario. Though the Führer would still have been able to use the helter-skelter and the shooting galleries and the concert hall at the far end. Vee thought of a painting that Noel had once shown her in a book – stiffly grinning soldiers seated on a merry-go-round, the wooden horses galloping in an endless circle from one war to the next …

Just across the road, two of the GIs were queuing for fish and chips, and Vee and Mario joined them, and afterwards idled around the souvenir shops before meeting the others in a pub. Vee sat with a half of shandy next to a decent fire, and let the conversation roar above her, Mario – as always – at the centre, the genial uncle, larger, older than the rest. ‘You didn’t get conscripted, did you?’ she’d asked him, once. ‘I mean, you’re not the right age, are you?’

‘No, a cousin of mine told me they wanted truck drivers, I thought I’d get to see a few new places – you know, I didn’t join so as to kill anyone and I sure as hell didn’t mean to kill anyone …’ It was one of the few times she’d heard him sound serious, his broad face suddenly sagging, wet washing on a line. ‘Hey,’ he’d added. ‘Did I ever tell you about the guy who smuggled a monkey on to the troop ship …?’

The sleet had turned to a pattering of rain as the party straggled back towards the station and then, just as they reached the section of open beach, there was a shift in the clouds and the sea lit up like a silver tray.

‘I said I’d get Noel some seaweed,’ said Vee, pausing. The water was actually changing colour as she watched, navy blue spilling across the dark surface, as if someone had kicked over a tin of paint. ‘Do you mind if I have a look?’

‘Plenty of trains,’ said Mario.

One of the GIs came with them, and Tooth-Stubs Tommy, still grinding out his terrible jokes; the three men clattered down the series of ridges that led to the water – now much further away than before – while Vee walked more slowly, eyes to the ground, failing to find any seaweed but stooping to pick up a long, smooth shell, shaped like the spine of a book and shining as if varnished, and an odd papery oval, as light as a slice of toast, but rough to the touch. Noel would know what it was. She wrapped both objects in a handkerchief and put them in her handbag, next to the butter knife Mario had insisted on buying for her, with ‘A Present from Brighton’ painted on the china handle.