I’m humming a little tune and my teeth are chattering. I wish I’d put on my cardigan. The water swells around my ankles, then draws out again, sucking me down an inch or two into the sand with every step. I glance behind me to check I’m not leaving a trail of footprints, the wind whipping my hair across my face. With every wave that rolls in, with every footstep washed away, it’s as if I never even existed.

Claire watched me like a hawk when I set off, but she isn’t any more. It’s just her bright green towel left on the sand as she leaps in the surf with Nick. Everyone knows she fancies him.

I’m going to buy ice cream, and no one can stop me!

‘Ha ha,’ I call out to a dog as it gallops past me in the breakers. ‘I’m off on my own like you.’ Its owner trails the dog’s lead in the water as he plods along.

I’m running! Running like the dog, bounding through the waves in my plastic sandals, water splashing up everywhere. Up ahead on the flat expanse of beach, the sand blows in horizontal streaks as if it’s coloured with pastel chalks and someone’s smudged their finger through it. The pound coin is hot in my salt-sticky palm.

Rum and raisin or chocolate?

I glance back at the others again for good luck. They are dots in the distance now and my heart picks up speed as I wade knee-deep in the sea. ‘My sea’, I told Claire, as we raced down to the shore after our picnic. ‘My sea and I’m in it first.’

‘Stupid Len-monster’, she called out and I’d laughed, falling head first into the waves. ‘You’ll get a stitch swimming so soon after eating, silly!’ She only said it because Mummy always does.

Why are they always so worried about me? It’s not as if I’m going to die.

There aren’t many people on the beach today. It’s too windy, though the holiday season has begun – swarming with tourists, Mummy told me, as if they were insects. They pay her money to stay at the farm – Trevellin Farm Bed & Breakfast, £18 per person per night. We get a lot of guests in the summer. There’s that weird man in the lilac bedroom at the moment. He smells of wet dogs and always has crumbs stuck in his beard. Claire says he’s saving them for later. She also says that he’s come away for a dirty weekend because she found a rude magazine under his pillow when Mummy made her do his room. Claire gets a pound every time she makes a bed and wipes around the bathroom.

I wade out of the water and head inland across the ridged sand.

‘Where you off to, young lass?’

My heart leaps. Don’t speak to strangers. I glance sideways at the man, breathing a sigh of relief.

‘To get ice cream,’ I tell Mr Headley. He’s the headmaster at my school. My cheeks flush red because he’s looking at me in my swimsuit – Claire’s swimsuit – and it’s a bit big. I clamp my arms around my chest.

‘I’m off to get a breath of fresh air,’ he says, as if there might be one tumbling along the sand.

‘I hope you find one,’ I say, and begin walking again. But Mr Headley grabs hold of my arm, making me swing around on my heel.

‘How’s your mother?’ he asks. There’s a glint in his eye.

‘She’s fine, thank you.’ I remember to be polite even though he’s hurting me.

‘Send her my regards, then.’ When he lets go, I run off without looking back until I reach the scratchy grass up on the sandbank. Only then do I turn, panting, hands on knees, looking down at the beach. Mr Headley is nothing more than a speck on the sand.

The marram grass stings my bare legs as I push through. I step over it like a circus pony – big high strides with my skinny legs. Finally, I reach the road. To the right, the track stretches back towards the rocky cliff end of the beach near where the others are. I could have come that way as it would have been quicker, but Claire said not to take the cliff path. It’s perfectly safe after a quick scramble up the scree track, which is just plain fun, taking three giant leaps up and sliding back another couple on the slate chips. Your toes go dusty blue.

I look both ways and cross the road. No cars except for the ones parked outside the row of shops opposite. There’s the ice cream shop, which is quite famous – people come from all over to buy their Cornish ices. Imagine owning a shop that sold only ice cream. I know what I want to be when I grow up! Then there’s the little café that Mummy won’t go in because Daddy fell out with the lady. Although Claire says that it’s because Daddy likes the lady in there, what with her blue spotty dress and pinned-up hair and her thinking she’s a movie star even though she just serves tea and scones and has jam on her apron. There’s a newsagent shop where Claire and I sometimes come to fetch milk or bread, and then there’s the surfers’ shop that has giant, colourful boards outside on the pavement, all standing upright in a giant toast rack.

Nigel, the surf shop boy with curly blond hair, is standing in the doorway. He smiles and waves at me. He’s smoking a cigarette. ‘Where’s your big sister?’ he asks.

‘Down on the beach. I’m getting ice cream.’

‘Choose wisely, then.’ His long hair blows across his face and gets caught in the tip of his cigarette. ‘Fuck,’ he says under his breath.

I go inside the ice cream shop, tucking my salty, tangled hair behind my ears. The glass freezer counter stretches the width of the shop and there are a few little round tables in front in case you want to eat your ice cream sitting down. I like to eat mine walking along. It tastes better with every step.

‘Hello,’ the lady says. ‘What can I get for you?’

‘Not sure,’ I say without looking at her. The tubs are arranged in colour order – from the palest, most delicate lemon sorbet on the left to the deepest double chocolate on the right. In-between is a rainbow of tastes – pink, blue, green, red, yellow, beige, orange. My tongue fizzes at the thought of them all.

‘What’s that?’ I ask, pointing to a bright blue one.

‘Bubble-gum heaven,’ she says. ‘It’s new.’ She’s holding the scoop. Water drips off it.

‘Can I have a scoop of that, then,’ I say, ‘and a scoop of rum and raisin?’

The woman hesitates, pulling a face. ‘Are you sure?’

I nod. I have never been more certain of anything.

Someone else comes into the shop. I spin around on my heel a couple of times, waiting for my ice cream.

‘Hello, Eleanor,’ Mrs Lyons says. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’

‘Fancy,’ I say, proud to be out on my own. Mrs Lyons is Mum’s friend. She used to be our cleaner. She’s got her two boys with her. They’re younger than me, and one of them pokes his tongue out.

‘Here you go,’ the ice cream lady says. ‘That’s one pound twenty, please, love.’

My cheeks burn the colour of raspberry ripple. ‘But I’ve only got a pound.’ I don’t know what to do. ‘I thought it cost a pound.’

‘Price went up,’ the woman says. ‘Do you want it or not?’

I hang my head. ‘I suppose not,’ I say. By the time I go back and pester Claire for more money, it will have melted. Besides, she won’t let me walk up here all by myself again.

‘Here,’ Mrs Lyons says. ‘I’ve got twenty pence.’ She gives it to me. It’s really shiny.

‘Oh, thank you,’ I say, beaming and handing it to the ice cream lady. She has one hand stuck on her hip, passing me my cone with the other, before turning to serve Mrs Lyons. I leave the shop, whispering a silent prayer.

Outside, there’s a car parked with a man sitting in the driver’s seat. Two wheels are up on the pavement. The window is down, and his arm is resting on the door. ‘Hurry up, Sal,’ he yells, as I walk past, making me jump. Mrs Lyons glances around. She scowls and taps her watch, making the man swear under his breath. I walk past, licking my ice cream, and he stares at me long and slow.

‘I’m off, then, if you’re going to piss about in there,’ he yells, before starting the engine, spinning his wheels and driving off towards the cliffs. I watch him go, suddenly shivering even though it’s warm. My shorts are soaking, and the ice cream is making me even colder.

‘No one will ever know,’ I whisper, staring in the direction of the car. It’s only a short way along the road, then a few minutes’ walk along the clifftop path, then a fun slide down the shingle slope. It’ll be much quicker. My mind is made up, so I set off, making sure to keep on the verge. This ice cream is delicious. I feel very grown-up.

The track rises up and it’s even windier up here than down on the beach. I walk fast but my wet shorts rub against the insides of my legs, making my skin sore, so I take them off, hopping about as they get caught on my sandals. I nearly drop my ice cream.

A car comes past, hooting at me, slowing down. Red brake lights flash on and off as it pulls to a stop. Then a white light comes on and the car reverses. I stand quite still, frozen. In another second, it’s alongside me. It’s really old and more like a long van, rusty around the wheels. There’s loud music coming from the open window, two people inside.

Suddenly, my ice cream doesn’t taste very nice. My shorts are around my ankles.

‘You know anywhere we can park up, love? If you know what I mean…’ The man is all slurry, as if he’s just woken up. He’s got stubble and his eyes are droopy. He’s not very old. The passenger is a girl. She’s pretty and has her bare feet up on the dashboard. Her toenails are painted purple. ‘Anywhere, like, private?’

I shrug, licking my lips.

‘She’s just a kid, Gaz. She won’t know,’ the girl says, prodding him. ‘C’mon, let’s go.’

The man stares at me, then puts the car into gear before driving off.

‘Sorry,’ I call out after they’ve gone. Really, I’m saying sorry to Claire for taking the cliff route back, but if I double back now and go the beach way, it’ll take even longer, and she’ll be even more cross. My ice cream cone tastes really horrid now – the bubble-gum flavour has dribbled into the rum and raisin. If I take it back to Claire, then I’ll have to eat it in front of her and I’ll be sick, but Claire won’t like that I wasted her money. I glance around. There’s no one here. Guiltily, I chuck the cone and its remaining scoop of softening blue sludge onto the verge.

I pull my shorts off properly and walk on, finally heading across the springy grass towards the scree slope. I weave between the bushes that have sprouted up, all bleached pale like the surfers’ hair. They whip and scratch around my ankles as I hum. Just a little tune to stop me feeling scared for being out here all alone.

Then, as easy as anything, a warm hand comes over my mouth from behind. I can’t even scream. Can’t even breathe.

I twist around to see crazy eyes above me – eyes filled with fear and sadness. A finger goes up to puckered, dry lips, telling me to shush, warning me not to make a sound. I drop my shorts as I’m dragged away.