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then, “How do you know?”
    â€œThere’s a book in our house,” she said, after a moment. “About fossils.”
    â€œWhat’s your name,” said the boy briskly. It was clear that their relationship was getting on to a different footing.
    â€œMaria.”
    â€œMine’s Martin. Could I have a look at this book sometime?”
    Maria glowed, and could do no more than nod.
    â€œSsh,” said Martin with sudden urgency, though she was standing perfectly still and silent. She followed his gaze to a small bird slipping from branch to branch of a bush. They watched it until it flew off.
    â€œStonechat.”
    â€œWas it?” said Maria admiringly.
    â€œFemale. I say, what’s the time?”
    â€œQuarter past two.”
    â€œI’ll have to go back. We’re going somewhere this afternoon. Come on.”
    Maria followed him, although she had intended to continue with her exploration of the lower slopes of Black Ven. She walked behind him in silence, stopping obediently whenever he did, anxious to shed her reputation as a confirmed bird-frightener. Once, as they crossed the bed of a gully over a plateau of dried and cracking mud, he said, “It’s dangerous here when there’s been a lot of rain.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œThe cliff starts slipping. The water builds up on top, see, and then it all starts slipping and sliding down. Not usually in summer, though. February and March, mostly. This part can be all a kind of bog.”
    â€œDo you come here always?”
    â€œMost years.”
    Down on the beach he said over his shoulder, casually, “’Bye, then.”
    â€œâ€™Bye.”
    â€œI’ll come and look at that book sometime, I expect.”
    The rest of the afternoon seemed a little flat. Maria and her mother ate their sandwich tea. They read their books. Bravely, they bathed in a sea whose chill matched its stony colour. And as the sun began to sink in the sky Mrs Foster said, as Maria had known she would, “Well, I think we’ve had the best of the day.”
    Back at the house they found a note on the door-mat. Mrs Foster picked it up and they read, in large, loopy handwriting, “It occurred to me that you might care to borrow a small handbook to places of interest to visit in the neighbourhood, which I happen to have. Perhaps the little girl would kindly call over this evening and I will give it to her.” It was signed, “Hester Shand”.
    â€œOur landlady,” said Mrs Foster. “Would you mind, darling?”
    Maria did mind, privately. She had not taken an instant liking to Mrs Shand; rather the opposite, indeed. But there was no good reason to refuse without making her mother cross, and she preferred not to have people cross with her. “All right,” she said.
    Mrs Shand lived in a large, much-turreted house called The Victoria Private Hotel over on the other side of the road. A notice at the entrance to the drive said ‘No Turning’. A further one, halfway up, said ‘Residents’ Cars Only’. Small green signs warned you off the grass. There seemed to be much that was forbidden. A further notice beside the door of the hotel said flatly ‘No Children or Dogs’. Maria stared at it, thinking it pointless. There are, after all, both children and dogs – lots of them, all over the place. So there’s nothing to be done about it. You might as well say No Rain or Earthquakes. But what the notice meant, of course, was There Are To Be No Children Or Dogs Here. Which, Maria thought with a sudden rush of indignation, was rude. Nobody can help being a child or a dog, and indeed they’re not bad things to be, one way and another. She was just about to ring the large brass bell beside the door when a small nameplate caughther eye, with another bell below it: Shand, Flat I. Please Ring.
    She rang. After about a minute, a tube beside the bell, which she had not