‘No, it’s fine. I mean, if it’s what you want?’

I nod and he grabs a sleeping bag then locks the car. ‘OK then.’

We trudge to the shore in silence, picking our way over the rocks and keeping our heads low to avoid the worst of the sea spray. Seagulls fly high above us. Buffeted by the wind, they squabble and pick at one another in mid-flight, their cruel squawks filling the air. Yanking up my shorts, I glance at Tom’s face. He probably thought he was going to some joyous family reunion. I bet he regrets offering to come with me now. But whatever thoughts are circling in his head, his expression gives nothing away. I don’t like keeping things from him, yet how can I tell him the truth – not just about what my mum said, but about everything?

7

The boat is sitting on a low metal frame, which is attached to the tractor. Behind it, the pebbly shoreline is covered with mounds of stinking brown seaweed, the sulphurous odour so strong I can taste it in the back of my throat. It reminds me of the horrible smell in the butterfly house and then outside the café, and I feel my stomach clench.

As we reach the end of the slope, I check the boatman for any signs of odd behaviour, but he seems normal – apart from huffing impatiently.

‘Come on. That’s it, this way now.’ He gestures towards a metal ladder at the rear of the boat and we climb the six steps and go aboard. At the front is a covered cab and along the sides are two narrow benches, their yellow paintwork rusted and peeling. It’s much smaller than it looked from a distance; I’m guessing it could carry a dozen passengers at most.

David follows us up the ladder and I offer to pay, but he refuses to take any money.

‘You put that away. Family’s different.’

‘OK, if you’re sure. Thank you.’

An odd look flashes across his face: pity mixed with anxiety. He turns away and then produces two lifejackets, watching as we put them on and then tugging at each of us in turn to check they’re secure. Seemingly satisfied, he goes to the front of the boat and ducks his head into the cabin. A moment later, he leans out and shouts something in Welsh. On his signal, the tractor pushes us down into the water. Once the boat is afloat, the engines grumble into life and the tractor reverses up the slipway, taking the trailer with it.

I hold on to the metal rail and peer over the edge. Waves slap and slop against the side of the boat, sea foam surging and dispersing amidst the swirling seaweed, the long brown tendrils wavering like the hair of drowned women. Tom sits on the bench opposite me and stares at his feet.

‘Are you OK?’ I ask.

He glances up and frowns. ‘Sorry, I’m not good with boats.’