‘I can’t help it,’ Cecily said. ‘Oh, look, the Merry Maidens, I love them. Do look. I always mean to write a story about them. I might start it later.

After I’ve written in my diary, of course.’

She sighed, and was silent again, as they approached Newlyn. Louisa raised her eyes at her brother, but he did not respond. Already Cecily’s diary was turning out to be a wearisome feature of the holiday, with pointed references to one person’s inclusion or not in its pages, the lists it contained, and its role as a worthy receptacle for Cecily’s world view. Last night, over fish pie, she had treated the table to a lengthy description of some girl at her school and how one day, she would definitely be sorry for being mean to her, Cecily.

‘Why, Cecily?’ Arvind had asked. ‘Why wil this girl be so terribly afraid of your diary?’

The others around the table were surprised. Arvind normal y didn’t speak at meals. Cecily had turned to him, brimming with excitement.

‘Because, Dad, one day I’l be a writer and this diary wil be famous. And she’l be so sorry she was mean to me. And cal ed me names.’

Louisa and Miranda had snorted loudly in unison, and looked up, surprised, at each other.

Now Louisa said to her brother, ‘We should plan some things for the boys. For the chaps. Ask them what they want to do.’

Jeremy nodded. ‘I thought we could go to the Minack Theatre one night.’

‘Yippee, yes, please,’ Cecily shouted from the back. ‘Oh, do we have to?’ Louisa sighed. ‘Theatre’s so incredibly boring.’

‘But the Minack is great,’ Jeremy said, laughing at his sister. ‘They’re putting on Julius Caesar. We can walk to Logan’s Rock, they’l like that.

Go to the pub for lunch, maybe. And I wondered if Aunt Frances would let us have a midnight picnic on the beach, cook some food on a campfire.

It’s the last year we’l al be together for a while, you know. Seems a shame not to make the most of it.’

‘What do you mean? The last year? Summercove’s not going anywhere, is it?’

Jeremy was looking in the mirror. He didn’t reply immediately. After a while he said, ‘Just – I just sometimes think, it might be different next year. We’l al be off doing different things. And Franty won’t want us coming down every year.’ He looked uncomfortable. ‘Just don’t know if we’l go there every year.’

Louisa looked slightly alarmed. ‘I can’t imagine us not coming down here every year,’ she said. ‘I love it.’ Cecily’s face appeared again between the seats.

‘I used to think that, now I don’t,’ Jeremy said. ‘That’s why I want to make the most of this summer.’

Cecily opened her mouth and shut it again. Her eyes were huge. But Louisa was watching her brother, who never expressed an opinion about anything. She patted his arm.

‘I think the Minack’s a great idea,’ she said. They were on the outskirts of Penzance now, every other house a B&B or a café. Holidaymakers were walking along the harbour front, carrying buckets and spades. The outdoor seawater pool behind the harbour was in ful swing, girls in bikinis and perfect hair demurely dangling their feet into the water. A group of boys lounged against a few motorbikes, parked up by the boats. They were smoking, in black leather jackets, their hair slicked back, and they stared at the car as it shuddered past them. Cecily stared out at them, fascinated.

‘Mods are so passé. Honestly, Penzance is so out of date,’ said the worldly Londoner Louisa, glancing scornful y at them as they drove past.

‘Bet they’ve never even heard of Bazaar.’ She smoothed her hair behind her ears, anxiously, as Cecily watched in fascination. ‘Come on, Frank.

Hurry up.’ She corrected herself. ‘Jeremy, sorry.’

Jeremy laughed, and his brow cleared. ‘Don’t worry. Look, here we are now.’

Cecily got out early while Jeremy parked the car. Louisa was by this point actively anxious, looking at her reflection in every window they passed, even the glass of the ticket office at the end of the platform, much to the bemusement of the bulbous-nosed ticket officer who stared at her. It was a hot day, hotter in the station than outside, where there was a cooling breeze from the sea.

‘It’s strange being in a town on a boiling day like this, after a few days at Summercove,’ said Jeremy, running his forefinger around the col ar of his shirt. ‘Actual y does make you realise how lovely it is to be there.’

‘I know,’ said Louisa. ‘It is the most beautiful place. And we are lucky. I shouldn’t be rude about them. I do love Franty. I love being there. Joining in – al of that.’

‘Such a little homemaker,’ Jeremy said, nudging her. ‘Love it when everyone’s al together having a wonderful time, don’t you? Even when they’re not?’

Louisa put her hands on her hips. ‘Be quiet, Jeremy. That’s rubbish. I just like . . . I like the idea that we’re al together. And then we get here and . . . it’s not how I expected.’ She shrugged. ‘But hey-ho – let’s go onto the platform, shal we?’ she said, squinting at the train track.

They waited in the covered station until the train chugged slowly into view, past St Michael’s Mount in the distance, the granite castle out to sea glowing strangely gold in the midday sun.

‘There it is!’ Louisa cried. ‘There it is!’ She stared at the black engine hoving into view, as if she expected Frank and his brother to be standing on top of it, waving placards. ‘I can’t see them!’

‘Of course you can’t, you ninny,’ Jeremy said, shaking his head at his sister. Goodness, girls were such idiots about chaps. There was Frank, a perfectly decent sort, nothing wildly eccentric or unusual, and Louisa was completely gaga over him. It made him almost uncomfortable, he didn’t know how to talk to her about him. She’d even used the word ‘marriage’! Louisa, who he’d always thought was a sensible sort of girl, the kind of sister one didn’t mind having, the sort who got scholarships to study sensible things like biology . . . And it turned out she was just like al the others, obsessed with weddings and babies after al . Jeremy didn’t know what Frank would think about that at al . Yes, girls were odd sometimes, even one’s sister.

The plumes of thick white and grey steam cleared, the doors opened, and there was mayhem. Porters scurried to help the first-class passengers, elderly gentlemen in tweeds and their immaculate county ladies in neat hats and gloves carrying crocodile travel cases. Cross, important-looking City gents in bowler hats, their starched col ars wilting in the heat, clutching furled umbrel as and briefcases.

Louisa and Jeremy peered past them as the first-class section gradual y dispersed, but then instead of two young men came endless hordes of families, struggling with battered, heavy suitcases and screaming children, lots of boys with Beatles-style mop-top haircuts, sweating in polo necks, girls in pretty cotton dresses and low heels, cardigans draped over shoulders, housewives in headscarves, carrying their shopping in wicker baskets, farm workmen, officious men in suits with efficient moustaches, lounging men, old men . . . but no sign of Frank and his brother.

As the masses subsided into a trickle, and then to nothing, so that the platform was empty once more, Louisa and Jeremy looked despondently at each other. ‘Perhaps they missed the train?’ Louisa said, her mouth turned down. ‘But wouldn’t they have at least telephoned, to let us know?’

‘I should have thought so,’ Jeremy said. ‘Not like old Frank to leave us waiting.’

Louisa glanced desperately down the platform once more. ‘Perhaps they’re . . . perhaps they’re chatting with the driver.’

‘Lou, I don’t think so,’ said Jeremy. ‘They’d know we’d be waiting. Old Frank wouldn’t leave us hanging here while he swapped horror stories about Dr Beeching with some railway bod. Perhaps their old man’s been taken il again, he wasn’t wel before Easter, I wonder if that’s it . . . Hul o!

Who’s that? Frank!’ he said with relief, as someone poked him in the ribs. ‘Oh, dammit, it’s you. Hul o, Cecily.’

Cecily’s face fel as she saw his expression. ‘Hel o, Jeremy,’ she said in a smal voice, blushing to the roots of her hair. ‘I got my book and my new diary. Look.’ She held up a Georgette Heyer in one hand and in the other, a simple red exercise book, with a stamp on the front: Name, Class, Subject.

‘ The Toll-Gate,’ Jeremy read aloud. ‘Right. Sorry, Cec. Thought you were Frank,’ he added, not seeing the look of anguish on her face. He turned back to his sister. ‘I’l just check with the chap at the ticket office. Perhaps there’s a message for us, but I doubt it. Wait here.’

Louisa’s keen eyes missed nothing, and she nudged Cecily after he’d gone. ‘I can’t believe you’re blushing, Cecily. You’ve got a pash for Jeremy. Ha!’

‘I haven’t!’ Cecily cried, hitting her on the arm furiously. She stamped her foot, her face stil red. ‘Shut up, I haven’t!’And she crossed her arms, blinking back tears of mortification, like every other teenager before and since.

‘Sorry, Cec,’ Louisa said, feeling guilty. ‘That’s your new diary, is it? Gosh, you’ve written a lot, to be getting a new one already. Are you enjoying it?’

‘Yes,’ Cecily said, standing up straight again. ‘I love it. This new bit wil be even more private, I can say what I like because I’ve finished the school project.’ She hugged both books to her.

‘No sign,’ said Jeremy, appearing again. ‘I must say,’ he repeated, ‘not like him, leaving us high and dry. I thought old Frank—’

‘Oh, shut up about damned old Frank,’ said Louisa, turning on her heel. ‘They’re not coming. Let’s just get back home, for God’s sake.’

‘Yes,’ said Cecily, imitating her with a flounce. ‘I want to go home too.’