I am so sorry, I’m so very, very sorry to be leaving you like this – I wanted to see you grow up, to see you grow into the person I know you will be; strong, loving, responsible and selfless. I wanted to hold your child on my knee as I once held you – and I am so terribly sorry that I can’t do any of these things. I was foolish not to see where my actions would lead, so now I am doing the only thing I can to make things right. I am doing this so that no one else will have to suffer.

Don’t blame anyone else, my sweet. I have made my decision and I’m at peace with it, and please know, darling Kate, that I am making this decision with love – it’s a father’s role to protect his children, and so I am doing the last thing, the only thing, I can do to protect mine. I don’t want anyone to live in a prison of guilt, so go on: live, love, be happy, never look back. And above all, don’t let this all be in vain.

I love you.

Dad

There is a lump in my throat when I finish reading, a pain so hard and sharp that I can hardly swallow back the tears that are threatening to flood the page.

Because at last, seventeen years too late, I think I understand.

I understand what Ambrose was trying to tell Kate, and the sacrifice that he made. Don’t blame yourself. I am doing the only thing I can to protect you. I am making this decision with love. Don’t let it be in vain.

Oh God. Oh Ambrose. None of this makes any sense. What did you do?

My fingers are shaking as I take out my phone and text Fatima and Thea.

I need you. Please come. Hampton’s Lee, 6pm?

And then I put the letter into my pocket and I get myself and Freya out of that place as fast as I can. And I don’t look back.

IT IS 6.38, and the little coffee shop on the London-bound platform at Hampton’s Lee has shut up, drawing the curtains across the window and turning the sign to closed. Freya is sheltered by her pram and the sensible emergency fleece I shoved into the basket underneath, but she is bored and grizzling, and I am shivering in my summer dress, my fingers wrapped around goosebumped upper arms as I walk back and forth, back and forth, trying vainly to keep my blood moving.

Are they coming? They hadn’t texted by 4 p.m., but then my phone ran out of charge – too long in the beachfront cafe at Westridge, nervously checking my messages, refreshing my emails, waiting for their response.

When I sent the text I had no doubt at all that they would come. But now … now I’m not sure. And yet I don’t dare leave. Without my phone, I can’t text them another meeting point. What if they come and I’m not here?

I have reached the far end of the platform, and I turn and walk back, really shivering now, trying to ignore Freya’s increasingly fretful grousing. 18:44 says the clock above the ticket office. When should I give up?

The platform is deserted, but a far-off sound makes me cock my head, listening. It’s a train. A southbound train.

‘The train stopping at platform … two … is the delayed 18:12 from London Victoria,’ says the robotic voice of the announcer. ‘The front seven carriages only will be continuing to West Bay Sands, stopping at Westridge, Salten, Riding and West Bay Sands. Passengers for Westridge, Salten, Riding and West Bay Sands please use the front seven carriages only.’

I make up my mind. If they’re not on this train then I’ll get on board and head south myself to Salten, and phone them from there.

My fingers close over the envelope in my pocket.

Oh, Kate. How could you lie to us like that?

The train is getting closer … and closer … and at last there is the hiss of pneumatic brakes and the noise of wheels on rails, and it grinds to a halt. Doors open, people are getting out, and I scan frantically up and down the platform, looking for the little-and-large combination of Fatima and Thea. Where are they?

There is a beeping noise and the doors slide shut. My heart is thumping in my chest. If I’m going to go back to Salten, I have to go now. There won’t be another train for an hour. Where are they?

I hesitate a moment longer … and then I take a step forward, press the ‘Open’ button, just as the guard blows his whistle.

It doesn’t respond. I press it harder, banging it with my fist. Nothing happens. The door stays closed.

‘Stand well back,’ the guard calls, and the engine whine grows louder.

Shit. I have spent two long, cold hours on this platform and they’re not here, and now I’m stuck for another hour.

The train noise grows deafening, and it slides imperviously out of the station, ignoring my shout of ‘You absolute fucker!’ to the guard, who wouldn’t be able to hear it anyway above the sound of the engine.

There are hot tears on my face, chilling in the backdraught of the train’s passing, and then I hear a voice from behind me.

‘Fucker yourself, bitch.’

I whip round, and then my jaw drops, and I begin laughing – a kind of hysterical combination of tears and relief. Thea!

For a minute I can’t speak, I just hug her, gripping her neck. She smells of cigarettes … and gin, I realise, with a twinge of foreboding. I feel the crunch of a can in her coat pocket, and I know without looking it will be one of those pre-mixed G&Ts you can buy at Marks & Spencer.

‘Where’s Fatima?’ I ask.

‘Didn’t you get her text?’

I shake my head.

‘My phone’s out of charge.’

‘She can’t get away from the surgery until half five but she’s coming down on the train after mine. I said we’d find a place to talk, text her where to come.’

‘OK.’ I rub my arms. ‘Good plan. Oh, Thee, I’m so glad you’re here. Where shall we go?’

‘Let’s go to the pub.’

I look at Thea, at the way she’s concentrating slightly too hard on articulating her words.

‘Can we not?’ I say at last. ‘I – it’s not really fair on Fatima.’

I feel a twinge of guilt at using her as an excuse, although it’s true, I don’t think she would want to hang out in a bar.

‘Oh for fuck’s sake.’ Thea rolls her eyes. ‘All right then, we’ll go and get fish and chips. Assuming the Fat Fryer is still there.’

It is. In fact nothing has changed, from the lime-green melamine counter, to the stainless-steel display cabinets, where golden cod and battered sausages sit lined up in rows.

‘Pick a Pukka Pie’ reads the faded open-and-closed sign on the door, just as it always used to, seventeen years ago, and I wonder – do Pukka Pies still exist, even?

As we push open the door, a wave of warm, vinegar-scented air washes over me and I breathe it in, feeling the coldness begin to leach out of my bones. Freya has fallen asleep on the way to the chip shop, and I park the pram by one of the plastic tables and go and study the menu with Thea.

‘Portion of chips, please,’ she says at last to the red-faced, sweating man behind the counter.

‘Wrapped, or open?’

‘To have here, please.’

‘Salt and vinegar?’

She nods, and the man shakes it on, a shower of salt that skitters across the melamine, like snow, over the two pound coins Thea has slid onto the counter.

‘You can’t have just chips, Thee,’ I say, knowing I’m sounding like a mum, but not able to help myself. ‘That’s not a proper dinner.’

‘It’s two of the major food groups,’ Thea says defiantly, taking the chips back to the table and pulling an unopened can of G&T out of her pocket.

‘No alcohol,’ the man says crossly, and he points to a sign on the wall saying Only food and drink purchased from the Fat Fryer may be consumed on these premises. Thea sighs and slips the can back into her pocket.

‘All right. I’ll have a water. Can you pay for it, Isa? I’ll give you the money.’

‘I think I can stretch to a water,’ I say. ‘I’ll have … um … battered haddock please. And a small chips. And a side portion of mushy peas. Bottle of still water for my friend. Oh, and a Coke.’

‘Ugh,’ Thea says, as I slide into the seat opposite her and open up the peas. ‘Gross. Like snot in a pot.’

The chips are perfect: hot and slightly limp with vinegar, zinging with salt. I dip one into the peas and then bite into it, feeling it squish creamily against the roof of my mouth.