‘Nothing is worthy of the sea,’ he replied, ‘but I can make her sail again.’ His eyes were drawn to the timbers in the boatshed roof and the tools in the boxes.

Hamza watched him. Followed his thinking. Emrys continued, ‘We’ll need oil. Diesel. And when we’ve finished, we’ll need the highest tide possible.’ He looked out of the boatshed door towards the sea.

He hadn’t been to the cove since they brought the boat back here. A couple of men from the village had been sent to recover it, to bring it home, as was tradition. It would be up to the dead fisherman’s son if he wanted to repair her or not. He had sailed in her, too. On her maiden voyage, as a friend and as an engineer. And later, when he had some time off from the harbourside, he would sometimes be invited to go fishing. He didn’t have a boat of his own, as he always used the ones in for repair, so he would welcome the nod to join the fishermen or Nefyn’s father now and again.

He had seen him, in fact, pulling Nefyn’s mother from the sea. Had been with him. He had always persuaded himself that she had swum too far out. She had with her only a cloak. She wasn’t making much sense. It must have been the heat; it had been such a hot summer. He tried to talk to Alun, the twins’ father, about it later, told him of his surprise that she was living with him. He was threatened into silence, didn’t dare ask about the bruises on her arms when, sometimes, she came to bring Alun his lunch. His cheeks burned with the shame of it, but that’s how it was back then; they weren’t very different to many other couples and they all had to work together in the small harbour village. He turned to look at Hamza.

‘It will take a couple of weeks,’ Emrys said.

Hamza nodded.

‘I will help you.’

Efa smiled at them uncertainly. She had been scared to bring him. He had been so unsettled recently but she knew he would be able to help and for a moment, watching him, she saw him come alive. They had been taking their leave for years. Each month a new loss. The talks they used to have after supper. The way he brought her tea in the morning. The irony of the fact that he had always had a much better memory than her for the things they had done, the places they had been. She watched him, a new leaving in his eyes. It was as if someone had shone a light on a path for him in the darkness, and, grateful for the direction, he seemed eager to begin his journey.