My Ela. That’s how I was thinking of her, moon talking as I walked the boards. Whatever she thought of me, which was probably nothing at all, in my heart she was already my Ela. The trouble was I didn’t know anything about love. Not that kind. Of falling in. I knew how I felt about a family, a place, a people. I knew that I had a special affection for my grandfather and an everlasting love for a sibling. I had felt love for Oriwia too, but it was brotherly. It was the kind of love you grew into, not the falling in kind which made you feel sick.

The ship berthed early in the morning at a time when Ela would still be at work. I put on new clothes. Yes, new clothes – white shirt, grey slacks, brown shoes – in a manner unsuitable for hot sun. It’s how I thought I should present myself. In my shore bag I had rum and whisky, jars of plum jam and green pickle. These last two items were gifts from my mother for the people who had pulled my tooth and fed me. I had gathered other things on my way. There were lollies, chewing gum, cigarettes and souvenirs. Shirts, balls for the bad boys. Scent in a bottle shaped like a church, only it was, you know, tiny. It had little flowers painted on it. I pretended to myself that I had bought it for my mother.

I waited in the street outside the hotel where Ela worked in the night kitchens. But she could’ve changed jobs, I thought. After a while I went into the hotel grounds to sit under the trees. No one bothered me. Eventually the work truck pulled in by the back entrance with two women already on board. I went to talk to the driver, surprised that he remembered me.

Anyway, Ela came out of the hotel with others and straight away saw me, immediately came running, threw her arms around me. ‘Come, come,’ she said, lifting my half-ton, clinking shore bag onto the truck with her. So I followed and the lorry rattled off. I had to be back on board by evening, but would have to solve that problem later. We talked about her father, my absent tooth, the bad boys, my travels. The conversation was like a lot of small stabs.

‘Fish and gardens,’ I said, by way of showing my appreciation of the place where she lived. Her face changed for a moment. Her eyelids drooped. I wanted to wrap her against anything that would hurt her. ‘Not our place forever,’ she said. That was when I saw a ghost walk through her, changing the bones of her face and tingeing her complexion with concrete. I wanted to reach out to her, protect her from whatever it was. I wanted to lay down my life.

She put away whatever her thoughts were and spoke to the truckload.