RICHARD

They were sitting on a bench that looked out over the sea. They’d met there occasionally, since the day down at the river with both of them screaming at the water. He walked along there more often than usual, hoping for a glimpse of her on the shoreline, hair whipped to the side, picking her way over the stones in heeled shoes, peach cheeks, her arms out to the sides balancing herself. She’d been there today and he joined her wordlessly on the same bench, feeling his insides glow as she turned, unsurprised, a smile suggesting she’d expected him.

She was reading a book, although she now seemed to be stuck on the same page, as he stretched out his legs in front of him. The beach curved around the bay, the rocky outcrop jutting steeply, casting a thick shadow over one end. Every now and again a car would appear on the coastal road above before disappearing down behind the line of trees on Countisbury Hill. Richard couldn’t drive but was fascinated by the automobiles parked up in the village, the shine of metal, the leather seats, the headlamps sticking out like toads’ eyes on the front. He was lost in a daydream, Abigail sitting alongside him in the passenger seat, a scarf holding back her hair, her skin flushed as they swept along the sea road, over Exmoor.

‘What are you thinking about?’

It was a moment before he realized she had put her book down, spine facing up, a smile playing on her lips as she raised an eyebrow.

‘Oh, I…’

‘You seemed to be on the verge of a great joke. Do tell.’

‘I was thinking about… Well…’ He was floundering. ‘An automobile…’

She rolled her eyes at him. ‘Oh dear. I thought it would be a state secret at the very least.’

He wanted then to share the image, to turn and describe their journey through Exmoor, past red deer, a hamper in the back bursting with a picnic, the automobile bouncing on tarmac as the wind rushed in through the windows and the landscape sped past. Devon seemed to have become a wilder, more romantic place these last few weeks.

On the promenade that ran along the beach he could make out a woman standing next to an enormous perambulator, the navy hood up as she stood looking out at the sea. The man she was with had stopped and was leaning over to look inside the pram; he gave a smile as he straightened and Richard lifted a hand in acknowledgement.

The toddler who had been circling the pram and his parents followed his father’s gaze, face melting into a huge grin as he started a bow-legged run along the promenade, looking as if he might fall to the ground at any time.

‘Bichard, Bichard.’

Abigail turned to him, an inquisitive look on her face. ‘A friend?’ She laughed as the plump toddler waddled up to the bench.

‘Definitely a friend.’ Richard grinned and bent down to scoop the young boy into his arms, making him shriek with delight as he lifted him right over his head and down again.

‘A’gen, ’gen.’

‘OK, OK.’ He repeated the move.

‘Abigail, this is George. George, this is Abigail.’

‘Hello,’ Abigail said, standing up from the bench, a sweet smile splitting her face.

The small boy scrunched himself tightly against Richard’s chest, slowly peeking at her with one eye.

‘Don’t pretend to be all shy now,’ Richard teased as the boy wriggled to get down, ready to run off for the next activity.

Abigail laughed as he whistled past them both, back behind the legs of the woman next to the pram.

‘Hi, Tom,’ Richard said, putting out a hand to shake the man’s hand. ‘How’s the new little man?’

The baby, eyes scrunched up, both arms flung above his head, a knitted blanket tucked tightly around him, looked utterly content.

‘Oh, he’s adorable,’ Abigail said, leaning in. ‘And so snug.’

The woman looked over at her, her cheeks pale and with bags under her eyes; she smiled at the compliment.

‘Abigail, these are our neighbours, Tom and Beth.’

‘Lovely to meet you. How old is he?’ Abigail asked. Richard was always thrown by her easy confidence.

‘Two weeks.’

‘He’s divine.’

‘Are you headed back?’ Richard asked, a thought springing into his head, keen for Abigail to come home with him, to meet his dad.

‘We were. George wanted us to make the world’s biggest sandcastle.’

‘Did you manage it?’

‘We got close.’ Tom laughed, two dimples appearing on either side of his mouth. ‘George wanted to make a moat, but it will be time for the little one’s feed and all hell breaks loose if we miss that.’

‘Sounds like you’ve had experience of that.’

‘I thought he’d shatter the windows. I’m amazed you haven’t looked at moving.’

They turned to head back into the village.

‘We’ll walk with you.’

Abigail had fallen into step with Beth. There were hushed giggles as they moved along the promenade together, Abigail placing one hand on the handlebar of the pram. Richard watched the curve of her waist, the loose strand of hair that she was tucking behind her ear.

Tom lifted his eyes at him, a small smile threatening to spill out.

‘Alright,’ Richard said, feeling his cheeks warm as he readjusted his flat cap.

‘Bichard, lift,’ piped up George, a welcome interruption.

He scooped up George and trotted with him along the promenade, the toddler gurgling with laughter, his feet encased in tiny leather shoes, his body bundled into a pea coat. Abigail looked back at them, her cheeks flushed from the walk, her eyes sparkling.

Richard put George down, caught her up. ‘Do you want to meet my father?’ He could see Beth behind her glance at him and then her husband, knowing what they were both thinking but not caring.

Abigail nodded once. ‘Absolutely, of course.’

He thought he’d never been this excited.