57. Skeletons in the closet [Kings Road Park, Brighton]

We are walking along the seafront, Milo screeching into the wind, Simon trotting after with a bemused ‘yes-my-son-is-loud- but-isn’t-that-marvellous’ expression on his face. I am on the phone to Mum and Dad.

‘I used to go to Brighton a lot when I was a kid,’ says Dad.

This is news to me. Despite being a thirty-something mother of one, the very idea of my parents having a life before me still gives me a little jolt.

‘My Uncle lived there, on one of the roads leading down to the pier.’

‘Really?’ I say, momentarily distracted by the sight of Milo lobbing a pebble at his father.

I shake my head at Milo; he takes this as encouragement and grabs another. Simon swiftly descends, gently removing the offending pebble and reminding Milo that we don’t throw stones, do we, Milo?

The boy turns his back on his Dad and there’s something in his face that resembles bloody-mindedness. I suspect we’ll be talking about why we don’t throw stones a great deal over the coming days.

‘Yes, he was married to the daughter of that spy, what was his name – Philby?’

I’m pulled back sharply as my Dad drops Kim Philby’s name into the conversation – the former head of the Soviet counterintelligence unit at MI6 who, it turns out, was a Russian spy.

‘Your uncle was married to Kim Philby’s daughter? Bloody hell, you kept that quiet.’

Dad gives a sly chuckle, one that tells me that there is always more to a man than at first appears. And it shouldn’t surprise me: I’ve discovered all sorts of things about our solidly middle-class, respectable family over the years, including an army man abroad putting a gun to his head rather than return home to his unpleasant wife, secret families that even now remain unconfirmed, and a lost wife and child, their boat torpedoed on the journey from India back to Blighty and all hands lost. But I never knew anything about a spy.

‘That was him: Kim Philby,’ says my Dad nonchalantly. ‘They had a terrible time of it, my Uncle and his wife, the finger of suspicion always hovering over them and photographers hanging about on their doorstep. They both became alcoholics and she died in suspicious circumstances: they found her dead at the bottom of the stairs.’

As I digest another strange kink in the family tree, Milo runs down a ramp onto the beach. He stands unsteadily on the pebbles, rather overwhelmed by having so many stones to throw. But rather than beginning to chuck them about with abandon, he stands on his tiptoes and begins wailing – he’s totally freaked out either by having too much choice or by the seaweed that malevolently entangles his sturdy shoes.

‘Better go, Dad,’ says I. ‘Milo’s crying.’

I ring off, Simon scoops up the boy and we head to the West Pier, where a playground complete with sand pit and paddling pool awaits.

‘Turns out we had a spy in the family,’ I tell Simon as we make sandcastles and explain to Milo why it is we don’t throw sand at people either.

‘You know, nothing surprises me about your family,’ he says.

I take mock offence; but the truth of it is that nothing surprises me about anyone’s families: scratch the surface and who knows what you’ll find lying beneath.

Milo on Brighton Beach, after he’d come to terms with the pebbles, seaweed and big crashing ‘waters’ beyond (AKA the sea).

Ratings. Babychanging facilities: Yes. Cafe: Yes, plus there are loads of little cafes nearby as well. Buggy-friendly? Yes. Cost: Free. Worth it? Yes. It’s a fantastic park with three separate play areas: one with climbing frame, one with sand pit (that is also shaded) and then a large and safe paddling pool. There are toilets and babychange inside the playground area and the whole thing is safely fenced off so you don’t have to fret about kids wandering onto the beach. It gets very busy on hot days (and it’s very sunny, too – take sunscreen) but is well worth it.