Leon has arranged to meet Mr White on the pier. When we reach the seafront I let out an involuntary squeal of excitement. The pier stretches out into the grey-blue sea like this is a painting of one of those old seaside resorts where Victorians used to hang out in ridiculous knee-length swimwear. It’s perfect. I reach into my bag and get out my big, floppy, 1950s sunhat, yanking it on to my head.

Leon looks at me with amusement.

‘What a hat,’ he says.

‘What a day,’ I counter, spreading my arms out wide. ‘No other headwear would do it justice.’

He grins. ‘To the pier?’

My hat bobs as I nod. ‘To the pier!’

38

   Leon

We spot Johnny White without any difficulty. Very old man sitting on end of pier. Literally, right on the end, sitting on the railings with feet dangling over – I’m surprised nobody has had him moved. It looks pretty dangerous.

Tiffy, on the other hand, is not worried. She bounces, sunhat flapping.

Tiffy: Look! A Johnny White of my very own! I bet he’s the real deal. I can just tell.

Me: Impossible. You can’t win on first go.

But have to admit, Brighton-dweller is a better bet than weed-smoking Midlander was.

Tiffy is over there before I’ve had time to collect my thoughts or consider the safest means of approaching; she climbs on to the railings to join him.

Tiffy, to JW the Sixth: Hello, are you Mr White?

The old man turns. He’s beaming.

JW the Sixth: I am indeed. Are you Leon?

Me: I’m Leon. Pleased to meet you, sir.

JW the Sixth’s beam widens.

JW the Sixth: The pleasure’s all mine! Will you join me? It’s my favourite spot.

Me: Is it . . . safe?

Tiffy has already swung her feet over.

Me: Don’t people worry? About you jumping, or falling in?

JW the Sixth: Oh, everyone here knows me.

He gives a cheerful wave in the direction of the man running the candyfloss stall, who equally cheerfully flips him the bird. JW the Sixth chuckles.

JW the Sixth: So what’s this family project, then? Are you my long-lost grandson, young man?

Me: Unlikely. Though not impossible.

Tiffy gives me a curious look. Doesn’t feel like the time to fill her in on the many gaps in my family history. I shift, uncomfortably warm; the heat is stronger here with the sun on the water, and I can feel sweat prickling on my hairline.

Tiffy: We’re here for a friend. A . . . a Mr Prior?

A seagull caws behind us, and Johnny White the Sixth gives a little start.

JW the Sixth: You’re going to need to give me more than that, I’m afraid.

Me: Robert Prior. Think he served in the same regiment as you during the—

JW the Sixth’s smile drops. He holds up a hand to stop me.

JW the Sixth: If you don’t mind, I would prefer you stopped there. That’s not . . . my favourite topic of conversation.

Tiffy, smoothly: Hey Mr White, how about we go somewhere to cool off? I’ve not got the complexion for this sort of sunshine.

She holds out her arms to show him. His smile returns slowly.

JW the Sixth: An English rose! And what a beautiful one.

He turns to me.

JW the Sixth: You’re a lucky man, finding a woman like that. They don’t make ’em that way any more.

Me: Oh, she’s not—

Tiffy: I’m not—

Me: We’re actually just . . .

Tiffy: Flatmates.

JW the Sixth: Oh!

Looks between the two of us. Does not seem convinced.

JW the Sixth: Anyhow. The best way to cool off around here is to go for a dip.

He gestures towards the beach.

Me: I didn’t bring trunks.

But, at the same time, Tiffy is saying . . .

Tiffy: I will if you will, Mr White!

I stare at her. Tiffy is full of surprises. It’s rather disorientating. Not sure I like this idea.

JW the Sixth, on the other hand, seems delighted at Tiffy’s proposal. She is already helping him back over the railings. I rush to help her, what with this being a very elderly man, very near a sudden drop.

Walking down pier past rides and packed arcades gives me plenty of time to bottle it.

Me: One of us had better look after our stuff.

JW the Sixth: Don’t you worry about that. We’ll leave them with Radley.

Radley turns out to be man with multi-coloured turban running old-school Punch and Judy stand. Tiffy shoots me a delighted look as we introduce ourselves and dump our bags. Isn’t this brilliant? she mouths at me. Can’t help smiling. This Johnny White is fast becoming my favourite, I have to admit.

I follow Tiffy and Johnny as they weave their way between sunbathers and deckchairs on their way to the shoreline. Stop for a moment to kick off my shoes, the pebbles cool beneath my feet. Sun blazes low across the water and wet shingle shines silver. Tiffy’s hair burns red. Johnny White is wrestling off his shirt as he goes.

And now . . . Ahhh. Tiffy is too.

39

   Tiffy

I haven’t felt like this in way too long. In fact, if you’d asked me a few months ago, I’d have told you I could only feel this way with Justin. This rush of doing something ridiculously spontaneous – the total aliveness of whirling yourself off-plan and shutting up all the bits of your brain that tell you why this isn’t a sensible idea . . . God, I’ve missed this. Laughing, tripping, my hair in my face, I wriggle out of my jeans and duck as Mr White chucks his shorts in the direction of our impromptu clothing pile.

Leon is behind us; I glance back and he’s grinning too, so that’s good enough for me. Mr White is down to his briefs.

‘Ready?’ I yell at him. It’s breezy out here; my hair whips my cheeks and the wind tickles the bare skin of my stomach.

Mr White doesn’t need telling twice. He’s wading into the sea already – he can move very quickly for a man who must be at least ninety. I look back at Leon, who is still dressed, and looking at me in an unreadably muddled sort of way.

‘Come on!’ I shout at him, running backwards into the water. I feel giddy, almost drunk.

‘This is ridiculous!’ he calls.

I hold my arms out wide. ‘What’s stopping you?’

It might be my imagination, and he’s pretty far away to tell, but his eyes don’t seem to be spending all their time on my face. I supress a smile.