Ciara steps out of the car and a cold sea wind catches her breath, whipping her hair across her face. After some manoeuvring, ignoring tuts from the passenger seat, she’s managed to squeeze her old silver Micra into a tight parking spot across the road from Skerries beach. The April afternoon sky stretches bright and clear. Above the rooftops of the sea-front terraces, gulls glide as if manipulated by invisible wires, their taut wings motionless.

The passenger door slams.

Ryan rounds the car, and she hears him open the boot. Ciara turns, pushing her hair from her eyes. Struggling against the weight of the wind, she hauls open the back door to a torrent of ‘Me first, me first, me first!’ Four-year-old Sophie has unbuckled her own seatbelt. She squeezes under her mum’s arm and jumps onto the pavement, dark pigtails flying.

‘Yes! The sea! Can we build a castle, Daddy?’

Ciara doesn’t catch Ryan’s reply. She’s too busy grappling with the buckle on two-year-old Ella’s grimy red car seat. This car needs to be cleaned. Deep-cleaned. Christ. That’s why they always take her old banger to the beach instead of Ryan’s pristine jeep. Finally the buckle opens. ‘Wha-la! There we go, missus. Freedom.’

‘Up, Mammy.’ Ella reaches out one of her chubby arms, still so young that she has dimples where her elbows should be. Her other arm is hooked as always around Hoppy the blue rabbit with the love heart sewn on his chest. Threadbare in parts, stuffing gone lumpy, he looks somehow both careworn and wise.

‘Come on up then.’ She kisses Ella’s cheek and nuzzles her neck, inhaling the faint smell of bananas and porridge.

Sophie has skipped ahead into the sand dunes with Ryan.

There’s something comical about their mismatched figures. Her fluorescent orange cycling shorts, butterfly top and sparkly hairclips, alongside his black T-shirt, pressed jeans, dark grey hair combed neatly in place. Despite her father’s grip on her hand, Sophie is still managing to dance.

Sharp blonde stems of sand reed scratch Ciara’s ankles as she weaves through the dunes with Ella on her hip. ‘You see the sea, Ella love?’

The strand curves in a crescent around the bay, striated with bands of crushed shells, driftwood, seaweed. RTÉ forecast twenty degrees for today. An April high, which clearly didn’t factor in the bitter gusts sweeping off the Irish Sea. Sunday afternoon, the beach is dotted with clusters of people huddling under coats or sheltering behind windbreakers, determined to make the best of it.

At the end of the boardwalk, her runners sink into the sand. When she’s caught up with Ryan she puts Ella down and stands beside him looking out to sea. ‘Tide’s out,’ she comments, for something to say.

Ryan turns to her. ‘I’m taking them swimming.’

His grey eyes study her face, testing her. He was in such good form this morning, when he announced they were going to the beach, but already something has changed. What has she done this time? Her heart begins to quicken.

‘Swimming? As in like, paddling? Sure they’ll love that.’

‘I said swimming. Proper swimming. They’re big enough.’

‘But they don’t know how to swim?’ She tries to laugh. ‘It’s bitter, Ryan. They’ll freeze.’

He folds his arms across his chest. His lips set in a thin, determined line. She hears her mum saying, Pick your battles, love.

‘Okay. Swimming. Why not. I’ll stick the wetsuits on them there. Girls! Come here to me, will you?’

The wetsuits are from last summer. Ella’s is so tight she can’t bend her arms. Ryan stands watching as she hauls Sophie’s back zip up, lifting her daughter off her feet. ‘Hey Mammy! Stop! You’re hurting me!’

‘There now hun, perfect.’ Sophie waddles away like a bad-tempered penguin. Imagine if Sinéad were here, how she’d laugh at the sight of her nieces.

Ryan is pulling off his T-shirt, frowning. ‘Did you not get them new wetsuits? I thought I gave you the money?’

She mumbles something about the suits being out of stock and busies herself unlacing her runners and rolling her black leggings up over her knees. Feeling his stare on her, she ties her hair back, zips up her pale-pink fleece.

Ella toddles up and grabs her hand. ‘Mammy, come!’

They leave their beach bags and rolled-up towels on the dry sand, above the hungry creep of the advancing tide. Her daughters pull her over the harder, wave-rippled sand, onto the place where the wet beach mirrors the sky.

At the first lick of the frothy waves at their toes, the girls squeal and run away. Ciara curses under her breath. It’s even colder than she expected. Waves slapping up her bare calves. The wind, menthol. What if there are jellyfish? Blooms of Lion’s Manes, drifting in Dublin Bay. Stepping deeper, into the tug of undercurrents, she imagines tentacles lacing unseen between her children’s bodies. God forbid any of them get stung. If anything happens to ruin this day, it will be her fault…