Mother dragged us to the sea-front every year. It was abominable, but she said that it was all that she could afford since Father left. We weren’t allowed to talk about Father, we were always to say that he was dead, killed in the war. We didn’t know what war it was supposed to be, but nobody ever asked.

We knew he wasn’t dead.

We didn’t like the seaside because everyone stared at us. At home,
people were too polite to stare, or point, or whisper as we passed. There were too many sideshows and fun fairs at the sea-front.

Everyone thought that we were part of the attractions.

The last time we ever went, mother took us to the edge of the sea late at night. She said we were there to meet Father. He lived in the sea.

We couldn’t wait to go back the next year.