Jerry was squinting under his cap, peering down the river. ‘I hope it is Conor, but the gaffer didn’t know the name of the ship or the captain because that miserable bastard, Heartfelt, wouldn’t tell him which ship it was and said he would give him a copy of the manifest only once it had left the bar and was on its way down.’

Big Paddy spat his tobacco to the ground. ‘Heartfelt’s a slimy git.’

‘I’m surprised you remember his name, Paddy,’ said Seamus. ‘I’m sure to God he’s forgotten yours, we see that little of you down here these days.’

Paddy looked wounded, an expression he had perfected over a number of years. ‘Honest to God, Seamus, if you had my back, you’d know about it.’

A couple of the men at the rear guffawed at Paddy’s response and he had the good grace to blush.

‘Is it worse in the mornings then, Paddy?’ asked Jerry.

‘Oh, aye, terrible in the mornings, gets better as the day goes on. I’m a martyr to my bad back, Jer. There are some days I just can’t get out of my bed. Dr Cole says if I don’t take it easy, I’ll be an invalid before my pension is due.’

Jerry resisted the urge to laugh. Kathleen had told him what Dr Cole had said to Peggy when she was in the surgery with her. ‘That’s a God-given illness you’ve been handed out there, then, one that improves by night-time so you can still get down to the pub. Holy Lord, if I am to be afflicted with anything, please make it Paddy’s back!’ Jerry clasped his hands together and made a mock praying gesture to the sky and laughed out loud.

‘How’s your Peggy managing for the money?’ asked Callum, his voice full of concern.