“They stared at each other for a long time. The rest of the world had gone somewhere else and everything that needed to be said was being said without talking. And Jamie knew how much he'd lost.”

“Jamie's eyes met hers and recognition passed between them. He wondered if that was how it was going to be for the rest of their lives. They'd talk as if they were just two people who used to hang out, but all the time their eyes would be saying, I know you well and I miss you badly.”

“It was something they'd done a thousand times before. If Jamie went surfing with a mate and paddled in first, he always took time for that final wave. And there was something so familiar in the ritual that for a moment he felt like everything was right.He felt forgiven.”

“Yet, in the middle of all this grief, I realize there’s a part of me clinical enough to want to document it. People talk about artists like they’re these sensitive, delicate beings who don’t use the toilet, but I think the real ones are something else. They’re users. They’re mercenaries. They’re hunters. And they don’t let anything – other people, or themselves – get in the way of it.”

“At seventeen, I’m in-between. Staring at the carnival from a distance. Not sure if I want to go forward and become an adult; liking the view too much to turn back.”

“The grief I’m feeling is heavy and raw, pressing down on me, breaking my chest apart. It hurts to even touch the edges of it. It’s to do with Grandad being gone. The loss of him, and the loss of me. I heard someone say once that grandparents are the guardians of our childhoods, and for the first time I really understand what that means.”

“But I do agree with Mr Findlay about one thing: I am desperate to paint, so it’s probably time to start. Because you can plan all you want, but most of the time, the ideas come when you’re working. And no matter how much you try to control it, you’ll still paint it wrong before you paint it right.”