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north-west now.
    ‘That’s Tom Willoughby’s place – Rookery Farm. Lives there with his wife and her sister. He’s a grand chap – you’ll like him.’
    To the south-west she could see another farm but it was further away – a good two miles at least. That’s Souters’ Farm,’ Matthew told her.
    Directly below where they were standing was the lane running alongside the dunes leading from the town of Lynthorpe to Fleethaven Point.
    ‘Come on,’ Matthew said, grabbing her hand and pulling her down the other side of the dunes. ‘I’ll show you the sea.’
    Esther found herself following him across squelchy marshland, jumping the creeks, wading through green spiky grass and skirting stagnant pools until they came to a lower line of sand dunes. Close by them a skylark rose into the air, hovered above its territory and then glided gently down trilling its song, plunging at the last moment towards the ground.
    ‘These dunes are just forming,’ Matthew was telling her as they climbed them. ‘A few years back the sea used to come right up here. There you are . . .’ As they reached the top, he waved his arm, triumphantly encompassing the view before them as if it were all his own handiwork. ‘There’s the sea.’
    The breeze was cool, but Esther lifted her face and sniffed the salt air and listened to the gentle lap-lap of the waves.
    They walked along the shore until they came to the place where the sea curved in to form the mouth of the Wash. Matthew led her along the dunes which ended in a promontory of land sticking out into the water. ‘We call this the Spit,’ he told her. ‘The tide’s high at the moment so the water comes right in on either side.’
    Esther found herself clutching his arm, afraid of slipping off the sandy bank and into the swirling water.
    ‘It’s what they call an intertidal marsh,’ Matthew told her loftily, airing his knowledge. ‘When the tide’s out, all this – ’ he waved his arm – ‘is thick mud.’
    Matthew let go of her hand and bent down at the water’s edge, cupped his hands together and sluiced the cold sea water over his face and head. His black curly hair shone. He shook his head, the droplets of salt water flying everywhere. Then he grinned at her and bent to pick up a flat shell.
    ‘Watch,’ he said and then holding the shell between his thumb and forefinger, he skimmed it across the water, the shell bouncing three or four times before it sank into the waves.
    ‘Here,’ he said, bending to pick up another. ‘You try.’ He took her hand in his own, shaping her fingers around the shell. ‘Now lean down slightly to one side and flick your wrist so that the flat side of the shell hits the water.’
    Esther tried to do as he told her, but the shell merely plopped into the sea and disappeared.
    ‘Look, I’ll show you again. Like this . . .’
    He made her practise until she could get the shell to skim the surface of the water a couple of times before sinking.
    ‘There you are,’ he said jubilantly, ‘now you can play ducks and drakes as good as the rest of us. Come on, now I’ll show you the Point where I live.’
    They walked back along the Spit and retraced their steps across the marsh coming out into the lane once more, but nearer the Point than Brumbys’ Farm. This line of dunes – formed many years before and now with trees and bushes well established – curved and formed a solid bank over which the road had been forced to rise.
    ‘We call this the Hump,’ Matthew grinned. ‘Poor old Will Benson always has a job getting his cart up here. Some days in winter, if its slithery, he dun’t make it and the women from the Point have to traipse across here to meet him when he blows his whistle.’
    They stood together on the top of the bank and Esther let her gaze take in the view in front of her. Matthew pointed to a building only a few yards to the left below the rise of ground on which they were standing.
    ‘That’s the pub – the Seagull.