Whitstable is awake. In Wave Crest the paper girl is on her round with her earphones on. The postman in his shorts and fluorescent jacket is coming down the front steps of an old house on Island Wall. On the High Street the baker has been open since 7.30 and already there is a shuffling queue of people outside. The driver of the Triangle bus is weaving through the narrow one-way system of Harbour Street with two passengers on the top deck. In the terraced houses behind the harbour, children are waking up and getting out of bed, yawning, getting ready for school. Mums are juggling breakfast and satchels. In the red brick station, people are waiting on the platform, checking watches and listening for announcements for the Victoria train. In Number 9, Sea Street, a white clapboard house, which gives at the back onto the main beach, the Today programme is on the radio. The kettle whistles.

On the flat mud lies a grey seal on his side, black, round eyes staring, whiskers like quills sticking into his upper lip. A young girl, perhaps four years old, in jellies, yellow summer skirt and top and floral bucket hat is squatting on her ankles looking at him, a tear pulled by the breeze, about to leave her cheek. A woman, in her apron and flip-flops, crashes down the shingle from the house to the little girl.

“Ruby! Ruby! I didn’t know where you were!”

“What happened to him Mummy?” says Ruby, not looking up.