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over this a white knitted jacket, the sort that people bring home from holidays in Ireland. The jacket was unbuttoned, flying open in the wind, and a red and white handkerchief, like a gipsy's, was knotted around his throat. His head was bare, his hair very dark, and though he did not appear to be in any sort of hurry, he was covering the ground at considerable pace.
    He looked, I decided, a man who knew where he was going.
    Now he had come to the far end of the seawall. Here he paused and looked out over the dazzling water, shielding his eyes from the glare. A moment later he moved on once more, and it was then that he spied me, sitting there in the long grass, eating my apple, watching him.
    I thought that he would probably walk past me, perhaps with a casual "good morning," but as he drew level with me, he stopped and stood there, with his back to the water, his hands in the pockets of that voluminous jacket, his head tilted back. A gust of wind ruffled his dark hair. He said, "Hello."
    His voice was boyish, his demeanour youthful, but his thin, brown face was not a boy's face, and there were strong lines etched around his mouth and his deeply set eyes.
    "Hello."
    "What a lovely morning."
    "Isn't it?" I finished my apple and tossed the core away. A gull instantly pounced on it and bore it off to consume in private.
    "I just got off the train."
    "I thought you must have. Are you going to walk back to Porthkerris?"
    "No, as a matter of fact, I'm not." And with that he began to climb the grassy slope, picking his way between the bramble patches and the clumps of bracken. When he reached my side, he collapsed, a sprawl of long boney limbs. I saw his old canvas shoes had holes in the toes, and the warmth of the sun made his jacket smell sheepy, as though it had been knitted straight off some oily fleece.
    I said, "You can walk by the cliffs if you want to."
    "Ah, but then you see, I don't want to." He spied my sketch pad and before I could stop him had picked it up. "That's very nice."
    I hate people looking at my work, especially when it's not even finished. "It's just a scribble."
    "Not at all." He surveyed it for a moment longer and then laid it down without further comment. He said, "There is a deadly fascination about watching a flood tide. Is that what you've been doing?"
    "For the past hour."
    He felt in his capacious pocket and brought out a thin packet of cigars, a book of matches, and a dog-eared paperback, obviously much read and consulted. Interest stirred when I saw that it was Vanishing Cornwall by 
    Daphne du Maurier. The book of matches had "The Castle Hotel Porthkerris" printed upon it. I felt like a detective and as though, already, I knew quite a lot about him.
    He selected a cigar and lit it. His hands were beautiful; long and narrow, with spade-tipped fingers. On one wrist he wore a cheap and unremarkable watch, on the other a chain of gold links, very old-looking and heavy.
    As he put the matches and the cigars back into his pocket, I said, "Are you staying at the Castle?"
    He looked up in surprise and then smiled. "How did you guess that?"
    "Deduction. Matches. Sharp eyes."
    "Of course. How stupid of me. Well, I spent last night there, if you can call that staying. I came down from London yesterday."
    "So did I. I came by train."
    "I wish I had. I got a lift. I hate driving. Hate cars. I'd much rather sit and look out of the window or read a book. Infinitely more civilised." He settled himself into a more comfortable position, leaning on an elbow. "Are you on holiday, or staying here, or is this where you live?"
    "Just staying."
    "In the village?"
    "Yes. Right here, actually."
    "What do you mean by right here?"
    "In the house up there."
    "Holly Cottage." He began to laugh. "Are you staying with Phoebe?"
    "Do you know Phoebe?"
    "Of course I know Phoebe. That's why I'm here. To see her."
    "Well you won't find her just now, because she's gone to the Cottage Hospital in an ambulance." He looked horrified.