One

CORNWALL, AUGUST 1928

‘I can see your underwear.’
Skye Penrose knew that the ordinary response of a ten- year-old girl to such a statement would be to stop cartwheeling along Porthleven pier like a gambolling star and restore her skirt to its proper position. Instead she paused to change direction, then turned two perfect cartwheels towards the boy who’d spoken. In the rush of her upward trajectory, she lunged at him and gave his trousers a swift tug, dislodging them from his waist and popping at least one button in the process.

‘Now I can see yours,’ she said, giggling. She’d meant to run away immediately to escape his likely anger, but his face was so astonished – eyes wide, his mouth a well-rounded ‘O’, just the right size for throwing in a toffee if only she had one – that she grinned and said, ‘I’m Skye.’

He reinstated his trousers, stuttering, ‘I’m Nicholas Crawford. Pleased to meet you.’ He spoke oddly: his words sharp-angled rather than round, emphasis falling on different vowels so that the familiar became strange.

‘I thought it only fair, if we’re going to be friends, that neither of us should know more about the other,’ Skye said. ‘So I had to see your underwear too.’

Nicholas Crawford nodded as if that made perfect sense. He was taller than Skye, with near-black hair and striking blue-grey eyes, like the sea on an uncertain day. His clothes were clean and pressed, not grubby with play like Skye’s.

‘Friends,’ he repeated.
‘As long as you can keep my secrets.’
Curiosity shimmered aquamarine in his eyes. ‘What sort of secrets are they?’
‘The best ones. Come on, I’ll show you.’

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