CHAPTER ONE TAWRIE GUNN

CHAPTER ONE

T AWRIE G UNN

M ARCH 2023

Tawrie Gunn wanted her situation to change and understood that it was she who needed to change it. With an itch to her spirit and a restlessness to her bones, it was time she faced up to the inaction that had led to this feeling of stagnation. It was born, no doubt, of living in the same town, in the same house and doing the same job since school.

It wasn't so much that she was bored, rather she was curious about the world that everyone else returned to when they left her seaside haven. This curiosity was a fairly recent thing for her; she'd always assumed that because visitors were so keen to return to this little slice of North Devon, even shedding tears when they left, she must surely already be in the best place.

Standing at the foot of her bed, Tawrie rolled her shoulders and took deep breaths. She had seen athletes performing similar rituals prior to a big event so it felt awkwardly appropriate. In that moment she was rather glad of her single status, which left her free to act a little oddly, chattering to herself and bending this way and that, safe in the knowledge that no one would barge in on her.

Today was the day. March the fourteenth to be precise. The day she had chosen to take the plunge.

‘You're going to do what ?' her nan, Freda, had exclaimed when Tawrie had told her about her plan, pausing mid custard cream and screwing up her eyes, as she did when she wanted to hear better – as if her eyesight and less-than-perfect hearing were in some way connected.

‘Well, the simple answer is I'm going to swim! I'm going to swim and get better at swimming! That's it!' Tawrie flapped her arms and let them fall to her sides like a penguin.

‘Every day for how long?' Freda needed this confirmed.

‘Every day between March and September. Or at least, that's the idea.' She pulled a face and tried not to think of all the reasons she might fail.

‘It'll be a bit dark some mornings. Might even be raining.' Her nan, as ever, sipped from the negative side of the cup.

‘Yes, and it's not only the early start or the thought of rain that puts me off, or disrobing in public – not that there'll be many people around at that hour – but also I know the water is going to be cold! So cold!' She mock shivered inside her hoodie.

‘I'm not saying it's a bad idea ...' Her nan paused in the way she did when she was about to do exactly that. ‘... but let's face it, you're not that keen on jumping in when the sun's out, let alone at daybreak when even the spadgers are looking for a hat and scarf to ward off the chill! I mean, the summer will be all right, but March and September? No, thank you!'

‘Well, no disrespect, Nan, but I already figured you wouldn't be joining me. And you're right it might be a little—'

‘Seriously, Taw.' Her mother, sitting at the kitchen table, abandoned her eyeliner, put down her magnifying mirror, took a drag on her cigarette and joined the conversation. ‘What do you know about "winter swimming", "wild swimming" or whatever else it is they want to call it? Makes me laugh.' It was her mother's turn to pause in the way she did before going on to trash an idea or topic that clearly didn't make her laugh at all. ‘We've always just known it as taking a dip! Having a swim! I mean, seriously, when did it become a thing? Why do people have to hijack everything and try to make out they invented it? Why can't people just swim quietly, privately, without announcing to all and sundry that they're "wild swimmers" as if it's a superpower? I mean, anyone can shove on a cossie and get in the bloody sea, it's not that difficult. It's the same with vegans and dyslexics; just get on with it! Don't eat meat, don't spell things right, but for the love of God, stop going on about it!'

Tawrie was trying to think how best to respond to her noxious diatribe when her nan cut in.

‘You're not wrong about vegans. Everyone's a vegan nowadays. Mrs Frinton was only telling me the other day when I saw her in Lidl that her daughter has just turned. The poor woman was all of a dither over what to put in her sandwiches. Although she's still eating bacon at weekends, so it's a bit easier.'

Tawrie opened her mouth to explain that anyone who ate pig at weekends was not vegan. Her mother, however, wasn't finished.

‘And what does "wild swimmer" even mean? Are there tame swimmers too? What are they? Swimmers that don't bite you or ransack your picnic basket before shitting on the shoreline?' Annalee Gunn wheezed with laughter at her own joke. ‘Once upon a time we'd think folks needed their noggin looking at if they stripped off in winter, but now? It's all the rage, apparently. I'm not trying to talk you out of it, but what in the name of Larry is it all about?' Her mother's response was no surprise: disparaging with a heavy peppering of sarcasm.

Tawrie stood her ground. ‘I read about it a while ago and I've seen a few people taking a dip, even in the rain. Apparently there are loads of benefits to getting into colder water: it raises your endorphins, improves circulation and can help ward off the winter blues, plus it's a good way to burn calories. And I'd be happy with any of those right now.'

‘You feeling a bit low, little love?' Her nan's voice echoed with genuine concern.

Her mother had gone back to her eyeliner, while blowing cigarette smoke from the corner of her mouth. This was typical behaviour: spouting her piece before disengaging completely. The verbal equivalent of throwing a rock into a quiet pond and then legging it to avoid looking at the ripples as all the little fish and frogs ran for their lives. Or swam – swam for their lives.

A bit low ... How could she best explain it without giving her beloved nan any cause for concern? The truth was she wasn't low exactly, certainly not depressed, but neither was she happy, nor excited, nor hopeful. No, low wasn't accurate, she just wanted ... more.

Tawrie found herself stuck in the middling lane of mediocrity, plodding, looking left and right without the first clue where or how to turn. Life at this stage was, for her, a little disappointing. Stuck in a familiar groove and aware that she'd left school, blinked, and suddenly she'd be turning twenty-eight next birthday.

She carried the nagging feeling that she was missing out. She had loved to study and never found her school work a chore. With good grades and a love of biology, she'd dreamed of becoming a midwife. But responsibilities and circumstances had conspired against her. Her cousin Connie had offered her a job in her café, only ever as a temporary measure, so she could be close to home. Now here she was, about to clock up a decade of service at the Café on the Corner. Life had sidetracked her, and the fact that it was easy, familiar, meant she had seen no real reason to change. Until recently, when the walls that had kept her confined, safe, suddenly seemed a little oppressive and she was finally plucking up the courage to peer over them.

She'd watched enough clips of people in dry robes or with towels around their shoulders extolling the virtues of wild swimming to want to give it a go. She was envious of their rosy complexions and the smiles on their faces as their eyes danced lovingly over the water. Could it be that jumping in the Atlantic, which was right on her doorstep, was the solution? And how crackers would it be if it turned out that the answer to feeling like she was caught in the nets had been right there all along? She was at least willing to give it a go.

‘I just think it might be good for me.'

‘I don't like the idea of you getting in the sea on your own, I really don't. Can't our Connie go down with you?'

Tawrie snorted her laughter at the very thought of her cousin agreeing to jump into the sea and ruin her make-up, or even give up sleep to watch Tawrie paddle. It wasn't going to happen. Plus, and she wasn't sure how to explain it without sounding a little mean, she liked the idea of making new friends, doing something that was only hers.

‘I'm not going on my own, Nan. You can't go into the sea alone in all weathers, it's rule 101 of wild swimming: don't go alone.'

‘Who's going with you then?' The old lady stared at her.

‘I've ... I've joined a club, actually.' She hated the embarrassment that surrounded her admission. The Gunns weren't ‘club' people. They mocked clubs, teams and anything that required group participation. The unwritten rule was that it was better to run your own race, rely on yourself and crack on.

‘What kind of club?' her nan barked, with an edge that made the whole affair sound slightly nefarious.

A chess club! What do you think? Tawrie's mouth twitched into a smile at the prospect of sharing this thought with Connie later in the café.

‘They're called the Peacock Swimmers and they meet at Hele Bay Beach every morning and look out for each other, and then they just ... swim!' She raised her arms and let them fall by her sides, aware of sounding vague and ill-informed. When it came to the actual activities of the Peacock Swimmers, she was both.

Messages had been exchanged via Facebook, where the photographs of the gang's activities were shoddy and not that helpful: arty-farty close-ups of foaming seas and an image of a lost flip-flop found on the beach wall, along with a list of dos and don'ts when it came to wild swimming. The list was surrounded by a purple floral frame that to her untrained eye looked to be Easter-themed and seemed a little incongruous to the safety message. Their exchanges had been sparse and to the point: time, place and suggested swimwear.

‘The Peacock Swimmers, eh? Well I never did!' Her nan shook her head, whether in admiration or horror it was hard to tell.

And here Tawrie was. Day one.

Her bed looked soft and welcoming. She felt drawn to the space lurking beneath her carelessly flung duvet, the spot where her mattress carried the almost imperceptible sag, the springs that had supported her in gentle slumber for the last fourteen years or so now a little worn. The temptation to fall back on to it was strong. She walked to the window where the sea sat bleakly and in shadow in the distance. Another few shoulder rolls and deep breaths helped her focus and find the resolve to commit to her plan.

Hers was a room with an enviable vantage point: a perfect view of the quayside and the Hillsborough Nature Reserve, known locally as Elephant's Head, to the right. A curious name, inharmonious even, for this peninsula on the North Devon coast, until you stood at a precise point further up the hill and saw the sleeping elephant in all its glory as the dramatic rockscape wound its way around the coast. Her family home, Signal House, was perched on a terrace behind Fore Street, which ran all the way from Ilfracombe High Street to the harbour, and was home to three generations of Gunn women. Tawrie, who would be twenty-eight next birthday, her mother Annalee, who would also, at her own insistence, be twenty-eight next birthday, and her nan, Freda, who unlike her daughter-in-law, found her age to be a source of pride and was about to turn seventy-three.

It was a strange thing, a unique thing, and a much celebrated thing that the three Gunn women were all born on September the fourteenth. Freda delighted in the fact that she'd been sent a granddaughter on her birthday! Tawrie was the only child of Freda's eldest son, Daniel, who had been married to Annalee. This special day, for as long as Tawrie could remember, was one of celebration, culminating in a bonfire and a gathering at Rapparee Cove, an event that was known by all and sundry as ‘the Gunn Fire'. No one was invited, no one turned away, yet each year they gathered: friends, family, the odd tourist, and neighbours, all looking for one last burst of summer, one last dance under the stars, one last night of carefree laughter before the sharp winter winds took the heat, laissez-faire days of plenty and the tourist pound, spiriting them out of reach for another season.

From a distance, their house on the hill smacked of opulence, boasting turreted attic rooms, floor-to-ceiling gothic framed windows and a wraparound porch. Close up, it was easy to see that its best years were probably a century or so behind it and what was left – a rather weathered building full of holes with wobbly windows and ill-fitting doors – clung to its former grandeur with as much vigour as it clung to the cliff into which it was hewn. But it was home. It had always been home and probably always would be. That was how things worked in this harbourside town.

In truth, Tawrie Gunn wasn't a woman who had desired travel or to gather mementos from the far corners of the globe; she had never longed to sample food made from unfamiliar ingredients and didn't feel the need to regale strangers with tales of her wanderings. She was a home bird, a proud Devonian, who might best be described as contained. Her tone was measured, her back straight, hair dark and wild, eye contact level, and her inner circle small. Minute, in fact. She served hearty breakfasts to fishermen and lifeboat crews in Connie's café down on the quay year round, and to tourists and day trippers throughout the season. Connie's dad, Tawrie's Uncle Stanley, known to all and sundry as ‘Sten' on account of their surname, summed up life with his favourite phrase: ‘It's the four Ps, Taw! That's what counts. It's all the Gunns need to be happy! Pasty, pint, paddle and a piddle – it's the secret to a contented life!'

And yet she wasn't content, not really. Hence the itch to her spirit and the restlessness in her bones. Maybe Sten was wrong, it might actually require five Ps to make her happy: pasty, pint, paddle, piddle and peace ...

As she looked out of the wide window she again hoped she might find answers in the ocean. If nothing else it felt like a fine place to start, and that began with finding the confidence to get into the water. Stuffing a towel, wetsuit, swimming hat and goggles into her duffel bag, Tawrie rattled down the stairs.

‘Where you off to at this hour, little one?' Her nan, always an early riser, was sitting in her armchair wrapped in her tartan wool dressing gown watching the news. She still addressed Tawrie as if she were a child, not that Tawrie minded, knowing it was a hard habit to break.

‘I told you, Nan, I'm going swimming.'

‘You really meant it?' Her nan twisted in the chair to stare at her, open-mouthed.

‘Yep, of course I meant it! Every day, in all weathers, from March to September. Starting today.' She tried not to look at the bruised sky beyond the wide sash window.

‘Oh my goodness, Tawrie. I'm not sure I like the sound of it now I know you actually mean it. There's other ways to lose weight! Who said you're fat?'

‘No one!' She balked at the assumption and how quickly they'd got there.

‘Good, cos you're not. You're really not. Just ignore them. And if anyone is picking on you, then you tell me!'

Her nan's words were formed in a mouth that recited only love, no matter how wide of the mark.

‘First, Nan, I'm twenty-seven; if anyone picks on me then I can deal with it myself. And second, I don't think I'm fat; I mean, a bit wobbly in places, but ...' She reached back and grabbed her bum cheek, feeling it squish generously in her palm, and was forced to admit, to herself at least, that anything that helped her feel happier with her body would only be a good thing.

‘That's right, you're not fat, and don't let anyone tell you different. Big across the shoulders like your great-aunt Heidi and robust of leg, yes, but there's no shame in that, Tawrie Gunn. We're working stock and proud of it! Not for the Gunn women a pretty seat and needlepoint. We're log-shifters, hole-diggers, net-menders, barrel-hefters, fish-gutters.'

‘Yes, thank you, Nan, I get the message. But I'm not doing this to lose weight. It's about challenging myself, changing my routine, committing to something.' She felt any previous confidence flutter out beneath the whistling gap at the bottom of the front door.

‘That's the spirit, you keep telling yourself that! And where are you going to swim to, anyway?'

Tawrie exhaled and looked out over the sea, her eyes coming to rest on the spot where, in daylight, a shadowy land mass sat on the horizon. An island no more than one point four square kilometres and a place of fascination for Tawrie for the last twenty years. A mound upon which her gaze liked to fall as she walked. An island landscape that filled her dreams with imagery so strong, it roused her from sleep in the early hours. A marker in the expanse of ocean, a place of great significance, in her mind at least: the island where she dared to dream she might find her dad.

‘Lundy. I'm going to swim all the way out to Lundy Island.'

‘Lundy? Good Lord! How many miles is that?' Her nan sat back, her hand at her throat, gathering the braid-edged collar of her dressing gown to her chest.

‘Twenty-three, twenty-four miles,' she guesstimated.

‘Well, make sure you're back in time for your shift. Don't want our Connie on the phone, you know what she gets like.'

‘Yep.'

Tawrie made her way out into the early morning, thankful for the Victorian cast-iron street lamps that helped light the way. Her nan's casual observation had made her laugh; the very thought of her swimming all that way, even if it were possible to navigate the rocks, wrecks and shipping lanes that lay between the mainland and the island was ludicrous. It was a feat only achieved by one or two people at most, ever, and they had started their swim further around the coast from Hartland Point. As she'd be swimming from Hele Bay Beach, not only would she be on the wrong side of the peninsula, but it was an almost impossible distance to swim, novice or not.

On her sturdy bike, she navigated the back roads, lanes and snickets of the town. There was something thrilling about being out and about at this hour, as the town was still waking; it changed the way the place felt. The streets were quiet yet familiar, curiously intimate and with a peach glow not dissimilar to the wintry evenings of her childhood. It reminded her of walking home from school in all weathers, running to keep up with Connie and her lipstick-wearing, boy-chasing friends who ignored her. It also evoked memories of her dad, and with this thought came the curious smell of nail polish.

‘Time heals all wounds ...' It was a familiar phrase, and countless were the times she'd heard it mouthed by good-hearted acquaintances. It had been hard to understand the meaning of it when her dad died when she was only seven. And when finally she reached an age when she did understand it, she also knew it to be utter crap. Time did not heal her longing to be back in his arms, to hear him laugh, to ask him all the questions that she didn't know she had to ask, to dance with him in the kitchen, to ask his advice, to have his presence on birthday and Christmas mornings, smiling, proud ... Healing didn't come into it; it was more a case of muddling through and hoping things might get easier, that she might ache for him a little less.

Kitchen lights popped on as she cycled by, no doubt followed by the click of a kettle for that first cuppa and the rubbing of eyes as Ilfracombians got ready for the day ahead. Georgie, who delivered the milk, lifted his hand in a wave. It was nice to see him; usually the only sign of his presence was the crate of semi-skimmed and full-fat left at the back door of the café – an order that quadrupled in the summer months. Georgie was one of the happiest people she knew, having arrived in the town only a year ago. He and his wife Cleo lived in a bungalow on the outskirts of town. He was always smiling and never more so than when he got the opportunity to show her a picture of his little boy – a beaming toddler called Tommy who looked just like his milkman dad. His paternal pride cut her with a knife made of longing.

Making good use of her robust legs it felt like no time before she pulled out on to the top of the slipway that took her down to Hele Bay Beach. Leaving her bike on its side, she tiptoed across the wet sand and shingle, feeling the crunch underfoot as she listened to the ocean jump against the rocks. Its roar and the fine spray of water it threw into the air seemed to her to be, if not a statement meant to challenge her, then certainly a question. Despite the fact her eyes had become accustomed to the shadowy morning, it was hard to see too far out into the bay. She was, however, acutely aware of the vast body of water that both called to and repelled her. This body of water that had swallowed her dad whole and failed to spit him back out. Who in their right mind would want to get into it?

‘You don't have to do this, Tawrie. You can chicken out. No one cares,' she whispered.

But that wasn't strictly true.

She cared.

Looking around, she was slightly surprised to realise she was the first to arrive. Surely the seasoned Peacock gang had not cried off today of all days. Although she had to admit it was a sound excuse for abandoning her mission, and she decided there and then that if no one else arrived, she would take it as a sign from the universe that she'd be better off in bed, and trudge home, showing mock disappointment.

‘Hello, dear!' She heard the voice before she saw the wiry form of an old woman walking slowly up from the shore.

‘Oh, hello!' She waved. With at least one other Peacock here, this was happening! Her gut bunched with nerves.

It was only as the woman drew closer that Tawrie noticed she was not just old, but really old. At least a generation older than her gran. She was also not alone, as an elderly man followed a few paces behind. Of similar stature, both were wearing thick vintage-style wetsuits that came over their heads and zipped up under their chins, allowing their faces to peep through. She did her best not to reveal the mixture of surprise and admiration she felt at their age. They looked like bowlegged Jacques Cousteau impersonators, with inflated pink floats dangling from their waists to their ankles.

‘Are you Tawrie Gunn?'

‘I am.' She gripped her duffel bag to her chest as if it were a shield.

‘You must be related to Freda then?' The woman smiled as much as her tight hood allowed.

‘Yes, my nan.'

‘I know her from the doctors'; we've chatted there in the waiting room a couple of times. She's friends with Mrs Tattersall over in Combe Martin, isn't she?'

‘That's right.' This wasn't uncommon in a small town, everyone keen to join the dots, find a connection.

‘Well, we live next door to Mrs Tattersall's son Henry.' The woman pointed up towards a row of cottages a stone's throw from the beach. Tawrie envied their front-row seat and view of the water.

‘Ah yes, I know Henry.' The man sported a fierce moustache, which must take a lot of work to maintain.

‘And Henry went to school with our daughter Alisha, who now lives in London. She's a physiotherapist.'

‘Oh great!' This passing of information, too, all quite standard. It was the showing of credentials, proof that you belonged. It also left her with the tang of envy on her tongue: lucky Alisha to have upped and left, followed her dream ...

‘She's divorced.' The woman's mouth narrowed in disapproval and Tawrie felt a flicker of pity for Alisha, the London-living physiotherapist, who she suspected might be on the receiving end of that tight, disapproving expression more often than was fun when it came to the subject of her marital status.

Her body gave an involuntary shiver.

‘Anyway, welcome to the Peacock Swimmers!' the woman yelled with her arms held out, full of energy despite the early hour. Tawrie wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

‘Thank you.' Looking over the woman's shoulder as the old man came closer, she wondered where everyone else was.

‘I'm Maudie and this is my husband Jago.'

‘Hi there.' She smiled at the diminutive man who bobbed his head in greeting in return.

‘I'm Jago!'

‘Yes, hi.' It felt rude to say that Maudie had already given this information.

‘He's as deaf as arseholes!' Maudie pointed at him.

‘Oh!' She didn't know if it was rude to laugh at Jago's expense or rude not to laugh at Maudie's humour.

‘How are you feeling? Excited?' The twinkle in Jago's eyes suggested he might be speaking for himself and had clearly not heard Maudie, more than proving her point.

‘Nervously cautious, I guess, and excited, yes.' She over-enunciated. Loudly.

‘Good.' He nodded and exchanged a look with Maudie, suggesting Tawrie had inadvertently passed a test.

She was actually a tad more than nervously cautious. She was afraid. Not that she was about to share this with the primary members of the Peacocks. It was ridiculous really, considering she had always lived in Ilfracombe, woken each morning of her life and looked out over the sea. Some, she knew, opened their eyes to stare at a wall or a building, a park or a forest, a busy road or a lane, a shop, a hill or mountain, but it was the big, big sea that was her next-door neighbour. Her constant companion.

Sometimes in the café, she'd hear those that didn't know the ocean talking about it as if it were nothing more than salty water where their cod lived before it got slapped into a box with chips and smothered in salt and vinegar. Tawrie knew it was so much more than that. She had long held it in fascination, the shifting landscape a moving picture. She captured it each morning in her mind: sometimes brown, often green, occasionally blue with white crests and foaming arcs, or flat ripples and wide waves; floating weed and brown sticks, softened glass and stripped wood, and the redundant shells it spat on to the shore. It was a changing thing that called to her in soft murmurs as it kissed the wet sand. She heard it roar in fierce winds, dousing her in winter and calming her in summer. It was a barometer of life. As well as being a powerful force that could just as easily take life. This much she knew.

She had, contrary to her mother's observation, always paddled, idled in its embrace. The earliest photograph of her was taken right there on Hele Bay Beach, sporting a fat nappy, hanging low on those barrel-hefting legs, a smiling face and a handful of sand held up to the camera. She wondered now who had taken it. Her dad possibly? She liked to think so. Liked to think that he carried the image of her looking up at him in her happy place, right there on the sand.

‘Right then, dear, you get yourself changed and we'll meet you on the shoreline. And don't be nervous, this is a magical day! It'll change your life!' Maudie spoke with authority and Tawrie felt the stab of hope that it might just be true.

‘Okay.' She let her duffel bag drop at her feet. ‘What time will everyone else arrive? Do we have to wait for them or do you just turn up and plop in one by one? Like those penguins who tramp for days looking for food and then jump the moment they get to the water's edge.'

Maudie stared at her, looked towards Jago, then back again. ‘What do you mean everyone else?'

Tawrie's heart sank and her stomach dropped to her feet as she realised that Maudie and Jago were the Peacock Swimmers. All thoughts of making new friends and enriching her pretty non-existent social life carried away into the sea spray.

‘Oh, I just thought that ...' She paused, wary of causing offence. ‘I figured that maybe ...'

‘Come on! Time and tide and all that!' Jago clapped, seemingly keen to hurry her along, like she was a dog that needed geeing up a bit.

As she struggled into her wetsuit, she watched Maudie and Jago plod along side by side, exactly like two little penguins returning to the water. Her gut stirred with doubt, questioning why she was getting involved at all. But also with something that felt a lot like envy at the sight of the couple, living their best peacock life.

Hesitantly, she kicked off her trainers and peeled off her thick socks. The cold hit her feet and she shivered, feeling every bit of her skin goosebump as her muscles bunched and her jaw tensed. Next, she stepped out of her tracksuit bottoms and shrugged her arms free from her hoodie, revealing her racing-back swimming costume, which she'd had the wisdom to put on in the comfort of her bedroom. With her wetsuit now clinging to her skin, goggles in place over her swimming cap, she trod with caution to the water's edge, feeling the bite of sharp stones on the tender soles of her feet. The second the white foam tickled her toes, she jumped back.

‘Shit!'

The cold was on another level. It wasn't the best start. She was, however, thankful that no one other than Maudie and Jago were around to witness her rather embarrassing debut.

‘Don't overthink it, dear! Just wade on in!' Maudie called from the water where she and Jago bobbed, shoulders submerged, like two bright-eyed seals. They made it look so easy.

She knew she could simply turn and run back up the beach and shove on her fleece-lined dry robe; no one would ever know. Apart from maybe in the weeks to come when her nan encountered Maudie in the doctors' waiting room. She could even say she'd done it! Make out she'd dived in, given it a go. Trouble was, Tawrie Gunn was many things but she was not and never had been a liar.

But it all seemed like too much too soon. Swimming felt risky – too risky – and her heart thundered with fearful anticipation as she wondered what it might have felt like for her dad. Had he been cold, afraid ... and all alone? Did he know he was about to take his last breath or was he dead before the sea claimed him? She shook her head to clear her mind, deciding there was no reason she couldn't step in and let the salt water lap over her shoulders, count to three and run out again.

‘That's it, Tawrie! You're already up to your knees, that's a quarter peacock!'

This crazy commentary was enough to make her laugh hard, and that alone was something that had been missing of late, as the years marched on and the fear of life passing her by had intensified. With her numb feet pushing onwards and her spirits lifted by her laughter, she realised that this was exactly what she had wished for, even if it wasn't quite the club she had envisaged.

‘Your waist, Tawrie! It's up to your waist! Once you've got your bits and pieces in that's the worst of it over!' Jago called, and she laughed even harder. It might be bloody freezing, but she was, by her reckoning, now at least half peacock. And that was a start.