Palm tree island with embracing figures on thigh

The lido man finally let us borrow the big striped rubber ring, the one that smells of tar and cheap suncream, and we took it out past the breakwater on Tuesday with the tide still going out. Maureen wanted to sit on it like a queen. Pearl and I wanted to hold on. In the end all four of us piled on, it dipped so low the water came up to our chins, and nobody could stop laughing long enough to paddle back.

We drifted for what must have been an hour. Somewhere past the rocks the palm tree painted on the pier kiosk came into view, the one the council put up last summer to make Porthmellow look like Tenerife, and we decided that was our island now. Pearl named it Porthpalm. I said that was too grand for a bit of rubber. We agreed on it anyway.

Mrs Trevithick came down the slipway waving her binoculars and shouted that the coastguard would have us if we didn't come in. We didn't come in, not for a good while. We just lay there, four heads together, arms knotted over each other's shoulders, watching the gulls wheel, and I thought that if the grocer's boy had seen us he would have had plenty to say, and I didn't care one bit.

Mum's written to say the carnival is off again. Come home at Whitsun, she says, and bring Frank if he's stopped sulking. I'd rather tell you about Porthpalm in person, but you know what the sea is like in March. Keep the postcard. I'll bring the ring back in June, if Mr Pascoe hasn't sold it for patching.

Love, Dot