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‘You’re talking to a pilchard, then?’

‘Well, yes, I am, within my metaphor …’

‘Mistaking a man for a fish is madness, I should say. It in’t what I’d call deep and solitary. What was that word you used?’

‘Demersic, George.’

‘Now, there’s a word! What do you say I’ll never have to use that word again?’

‘Do not hold words in low regard. Words have power, George. Words are deeds …’

‘Oh, yes?’ said George. ‘And the wind is a potato, I suppose. If words are deeds, then I’m the meanest man in Wherrytown. There in’t a sin I won’t have done.’

‘No, what I meant to say is this, that words and deeds should be the same. You make a promise, you should keep it. You hold a view, then you should stand by it. You should say what you do: you should do what you say.’

‘Well, there’s the difference,’ said George, evidently losing interest. ‘People in these parts in’t impressed by words. They don’t mean what they say. They only mean what they do. And that, I think, makes better sense.’

This was a conversation Aymer liked: witty, schematic, circular; thrust, riposte, touché. ‘Deep and solitary’, indeed! That had a chilling edge to it. He had to credit George with some intellectual energy, a rarity in Wherrytown where ideas were not valued, it would seem, an even greater rarity amongst parlourmen where brain was less admired than brawn and impudence. George was an equal in some ways. In wiliness at least. And oddly democratic for a serving man, not deferential. Aymer — quiet for once — threw his fish-bone to the gulls and rubbed the oil into his hands. ‘What better work has man than this?’ he said to George, and turned his attentions once again to the dealings on the shore. Miggy Bowe, a basket of pilchards on her back, was coming up the shore. He couldn’t miss seeing her. George was saying something, but Aymer waved him quiet and walked away from the fire in pursuit of Miggy, Mrs Margaret Smith. He wouldn’t speak to her. He only wanted to remind himself what she looked like, what kind of girl she was. He meant to rediscover that extravagant and rushing inspiration that, yesterday, had cast this young woman as his wife. He found her coming back down to the beach from the salt hall, empty-handed. She seemed immensely joyful. There was more expression in her face than he had noted on the previous day. She was more colourful, and smiling even. Her hair was tied back prettily and was flattered by the low and sunny winter light. The red kerchief around her neck was dramatic; alluring, even. Yes, she’d do well. Aymer was more certain now. She made good sense to him. He’d seek her mother out. He’d talk to Rosie Bowe at once.

‘GOOD MORNING, Mrs Bowe.’ She didn’t seem to want to stop and talk. Her smile was wintry, but she was cold and tired and shy, no doubt, and keen to get the pilchards off her back. ‘I trust you suppered well on that beef-fish you netted yesterday.’

‘A tasty fish,’ she said, and took a further step towards the salting hall. She hadn’t liked to smile too freely; he had an oily scab of burnt fish-skin on his nose. A comic beauty spot.

‘You might remember, Mrs Bowe, my parting words to you yesterday when you were kind enough to entertain me at your home. I promised to devise some ways in which I might alleviate your loss of kelping for a living …’ (she took another step, and moved the basket on her shoulder) ‘… for which, alas, my family firm owes some responsibility.’ He closed the gap between them, and whispered, ‘Your daughter, Mrs Bowe. Now I might help you both through her, though I would not wish to separate a mother and her daughter unless …’

She looked at him and nodded. She understood. ‘You mean to take my Miggy as a maid?’

‘No, no. I would not take her as a maid. Your daughter is too fine.’ He swallowed deeply, blushed, and spoke almost inaudibly, his lips six inches from her ear. ‘I hope to take her as a wife.’ Rosie Bowe was startled now. She couldn’t think of a reply. She nodded. Shook her head. Raised her eyebrows. Smiled. ‘My Miggy get wed to you?’

‘You might not know of it, but I am yet a bachelor …’ He blushed again. She didn’t notice it. She’d turned away from him. She pulled a face.

‘You must regard me as a friend who wishes simply to enhance your lives,’ he said. ‘Consider, if you will, the benefits …’ He counted seven on his hands, and ended with ‘the benefit of some prosperity, not only for Margaret, but for all those who love her … She will regard it as an opportunity, I am certain of it, Mrs Bowe.’

She shook her head. ‘I couldn’t say,’ she said.

‘You might like to join your daughter in my house.’

‘No, I in’t leaving here.’

‘There’s nothing here for you, not now.’

‘It’s home, is what it is. A bit o’ kelp don’t make the difference. At least my heart is fixed.’

‘Mrs Bowe, we need to talk of this at length. You might consider me an unexpected son-in-law. Indeed, you have a right. There is the matter of my age, my class, my sensibility. I am unlike your daughter, it is true. I might not make a pattern husband for her. I owe no debt to Beauty or to Youth. But I am earnest, Mrs Bowe, and trustworthy, and diligent. My motives are sincere and simple. You will not find me stained by that Humbug which is the besetting weakness of our age. I ask you and your daughter to consider me as if I am the continent of Canada, an unknown land, perhaps, but one of opportunity to which you might set sail with trepidation but an easy heart, and, on arriving there, discover unexpected rewards. And joys. Can I say more?’

‘I wouldn’t want my Miggy to go to Canada,’ she said. ‘America neither.’

‘She does not need to emigrate, Mrs Bowe. That was not my proposition.’

‘I hope you’re right.’

‘Well, then, what do you say?’

‘What do I say? I don’t say anything. It’s her you want to carry off, and so it’s her you’ll have to listen to. And she’ll not marry you. Now then, and that’s the truth of it …’

‘Listen to me,’ Aymer said. He needed Rosie on his side.

‘No more. Not now.’ She put her basket at her feet, and pointed down the beach. ‘Don’t talk,’ she said. ‘They’s bringing that poor sailor in.’

‘What sailor’s that?’

‘What’s drowned on Saturday. They’ve netted him.’

They watched in silence — embarrassed by each other’s company — as the Dolly net was tugged into the shallows and Nathaniel Rankin’s body was lifted off the deck of the tuck boat. All work stopped, to show respect. The men left the water. The women put their baskets down. The older ones came out of the salting house into the foreshore lane and muttered prayers. Walter Howells even dismounted from his horse. He could supply a decent coffin for the man.

Palmer, Skimmer, Henry Dolly and his second son carried the body in its canvas sling. They ducked it once in sea water, to wash the briny residues away, and clean his clothes and skin of wet, dark blood and pus. A few stray pilchards slithered out of his shirt. They put the body on a cart, and let Nathaniel’s shipmates from the Belle say their prayers for him, or touch the canvas or the cartwood in farewell. Then everybody else jostled for a brief and queasy look — and Miggy, she couldn’t think why, was the only one to touch. Aymer was quite proud of her. She put her little finger on Nat Rankin’s leg. She’d never seen a corpse before. She then stepped back, put her head against Ralph’s chest, and let him put his arms around her waist. She let him kiss her hair. Where was Palmer Dolly? She looked for him. She wanted him to see her body wrapped in Ralph’s. She wanted everyone to see. Her mother, too. Here was a girl intended for America.