Bleary-eyed and immediately itchy, I stumble through breakfast with Mum and Dad and then stagger on down to the beach.
I expect to meet Grandma on the way but there’s no sign of her.
The deckchairs are looking perfect. Well, almost perfect. There’s a faint aroma of charcoal and one or two darkened struts, but they’re pretty good all the same.
Mr Fogg is sitting under his parasol sipping tea, and a lone family has set up camp and is building the first sandcastle of the day.
It is the picture of happy beachness. Except that there’s hardly anyone there.
‘Mornin’, Tom,’ says Mr Fogg.
‘Morning, Mr Fogg – are the inspectors here yet?’
Mr Fogg looks at his watch. ‘Due any minute now.’ And right on cue three people dressed in a most unbeachy way arrive at the top of the steps. A pointy woman with pointy glasses and pointy shoes, flanked by two men in grey suits: one carrying a camera, the other a picnic hamper.
I sit with Mr Fogg under the umbrella and watch.
Another family drifts onto the beach. I recognise them; they’re local.
‘It’ll be in the papers today,’ Mr Fogg mutters. ‘No one’ll come. You’ll see.’
For an agonising half hour, sun beats down on the sand and the inspectors sit in deckchairs surrounded by acres of space.
‘Perhaps it’s really good that it’s empty,’ I say.
Mr Fogg shakes his head. ‘Don’t think so.’
We watch the inspectors take samples of sand and water, examine the beach toilets, and then home in on the two families.
They’re just approaching the second family when Eric arrives and joins us under the brolly. ‘Not many people,’ he says.
‘No,’ I say, watching the embarrassing exchange between the inspectors and the people on the beach.
‘Never gonna win it – end of my career here and we’ll never win the prize.’ Mr Fogg lets out a long sad sigh.
And then something wonderful happens.
As if someone’s turned on a tap, family after family stream down the steps. Soon most of the available sand is replaced by towels and buckets and spades, and within minutes, the sea teems with splashing toddlers and children on inflatables.
‘Can we hire a pedalo?’ Petra Boyle rushes up to me holding out a five-pound note.
‘Er – yes,’ I say, pulling one from against the wall and heaving it down to the sea.
Eric hires out another one, and soon we’ve run out.
As the last beach volleyball set goes, Jacob arrives, ice cream in hand. ‘Wotcha – how’s it going?’
‘See for yourself,’ I say, scratching my head. ‘Have a good night’s sleep?’
‘Yes and no – your gran had me busy from six this morning.’ Jacob pulls a smug face. He knows something I don’t and he knows it’s annoying.
‘What did she have you busy doing, may I ask?’ says Eric, asking the question I want to ask, but don’t want Jacob to know that I want to ask – if you see what I mean.
‘Leafleting,’ he says. ‘An ordinary job for someone with such superior powers as myself, but, as she said – vital to the well-being of the town.’ The smugness is almost suffocating.
‘Oh?’ says Eric. ‘What were the leaflets for?’
‘Here’s one,’ says Jacob, pulling a scrumpled piece of paper from his pocket.
FREE ENTRY TO THE MODEL VILLAGE AND A FREE ROUND OF CRAZY GOLF FOR EVERYONE WHO GETS THIS STAMPED ON THE BEACH ON SATURDAY – AMALTHEA PERKS.
‘Flip!’ I say.
‘Wow,’ says Eric. ‘Wow and wow to the wow squared.’
‘Good old Grandma,’ I say, and feel about 100% good. And then I remember Dad and Mum and Tilly and feel about 78% good.
‘And good old me,’ says Jacob.
‘Of course,’ says Eric. ‘Good old Jacob.’