All Malcolm Coffey wanted was to run his very lucrative little business, be a good host and to be left alone. His happiness in life was derived from the new television he had installed in his sitting room, the pools he filled out once a week, mass on Sunday, his morning tea with the Daily Post and his nightcap of the dark rum, courtesy of Captain Conor, which he kept in his Jacobean sideboard.

Malcolm had been amazed to see Biddy Kennedy so early and with her Mary Malone, whose cheeky brother, Malachi, was Malcolm’s chief suspect as being his milk thief. He was as much a scallywag as Mary looked saint-like.

Now Biddy tapped the empty hook on the coat rack behind the kitchen door. ‘Hang your coat here, Mary,’ she said, ‘then get the kettle on.’ Mary, eager to please, obeyed instantly. ‘Have you any word from Captain Conor?’ Biddy asked Malcolm and a look of concern crossed his face.

‘I haven’t,’ he said. ‘The last I heard about the Morry was from a crew that was in here three months ago. They’d had word that Conor was sailing to the West Indies and they have pirates out there, they do. No one has had word since.’

Biddy pursed her lips, and tutted as she removed her cigarettes from her pocket. ‘Everyone is in a right state. Maisie has been moaning that there’s no material for the carnival frocks and Ena had to go to the doctor’s to get tablets for her nerves, convinced the Morry has sunk – apparently she said that Babs had told her a body had been washed up on a shore somewhere in the world and it was probably Conor’s.’

Malcolm gasped. ‘No, surely not? Was that on the news?’

Biddy took out a box of matches and shook her head. ‘Not very likely, is it? There’s a lot of ocean and a lot of sailors! But it’s been that long since she heard from him and Babs is in a flap in case her and Bill have to fund the rum for the carnival. Babs said she’ll make it up to Ena and give her a free port or two to compensate.’ Biddy sat herself at the kitchen table. ‘Get your notepad and some paper, Malcolm, we need to make a list for Mary. She’s here to clean your ornaments, not admire them.’

‘Biddy, I don’t need any help…’ Biddy gave Malcolm one look and his protest faded away. He made his way to the tiny reception next to the front door and returned with the pad and pen and placed them in front of Biddy, at the same time as Mary laid two cups and saucers on the table.

‘Would you like me to make you any breakfast, Mr Coffey?’

Malcolm was momentarily taken aback and attempted to stutter a reply.