The RING

The piece of jewellery didn't belong to Kerry - but it changed everything

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It's May and still chilly. We're taking what Dad calls our early summer holiday. A weekend at the seaside in an ancient caravan.

We've stayed here each year since I was born, 13 years ago. Four of us squeezed into a cramped space. It has a chemical toilet, peeling paintwork and seats that form narrow, squeaky beds at night.

I long to ride the roller coaster or drive a dodgem car, but the amusement park isn't open yet. Instead, we race each other on the empty beach.

'Can we have fish and chips?' asks Keith.

My brother looks hopeful until Mum hands round the cheese-and-pickle sandwiches she made earlier that morning. We munch them sitting in a seaside shelter, watching the waves crash on the seashore. We're all ravenous.

'Can we have a 99, then?' asks Keith.

There's a kiosk open and Dad buys us ice cream cones, but without the Flakes. We scowl and he says, 'You should be grateful. I never had holidays when I was a boy.'

He starts a tirade about his deprived childhood that we've heard many times before. As we leave the beach, I notice something by a pebble.

'I've found a ring!' I shout. I hold it up. It's coated in sand.