, eaten so fast on the walk to the village green that a white river of Mr. Whippy ran down Elara’s wrist before she could catch it.

Windows down, the radio playing something old and forgotten. The smell of salt on her skin and chips in her hair. Her head heavy against the seatbelt as the last light of the day faded, and the first stars appeared over the rolling green hills.

The smell of burnt sausages and candy floss. The wobbly sound of a brass band playing “Jerusalem.” Elara came third in the under-10s sack race, but won a jar of homemade gooseberry jam for the ugliest vegetable. Her potato, which she’d named Gerald, had looked remarkably like a grumpy old man.

That click was louder than any calendar. It meant Mum was home from her job as a cruise ship nurse, and the long, grey stretch of the school year was finally over.

“When is it actually summer , Dad?” Elara had asked once, watching rain streak the window in late May.