There's a man in a work jacket at the entrance to Memorial Lane, just standing there, staring back up the slope towards the main street. Teenagers hang around the Co-op's doorway or sit on benches in the park, swinging their feet by the memorial stone. "We're gannin' to the big park, man," someone shouts from the path. "Yer kiddin'? I'd just got comfortable here."
There's a football pitch at the end of the path, and a woman throwing a stick to a dog. I look back. The yellow jacket hasn't moved. The sea is long and flat and empty.