After I made Granda a cup of tea, plenty of sugar, I sidled out to see Crusoe. A harsh afternoon, it was, a sleety wind about, but warmer for him in the netting shed than under Granda’s eye. Crusoe raised his snout and swished his tail, but he stayed where he was, back from the draught. I pulled some old sailcloth around him.

Thump-thump from the but. Granda’s stick on the wooden floor. He’d be wanting his supper.

Inside I took a smoky haddock and laid it flat on the table. Dry it was, tough to flake, especially with my fingers so dead and white, but dry and tough never mattered for soup. I kept glancing at Granda as I cut up the tatties. I couldn’t tell if he was asleep, or dreaming-awake at sea again. A question was tugging at my mind.

Granda, I said finally. Are ye not afraid, Granda?

He jerked around at the sound of my voice, hauled back from wherever it was he’d been.

On the Lily Maud, I mean. Are ye not ever afraid? Of the Witch? Of bein’ a goner?

He grunted and turned back to the fire. Just get my soup, quinie.

~

When I came home from school the next day, Granda was scowling and his bandaged hand was swollen, the fingertips bulging and dark.

What have ye done! he growled. The very devil. Poisoned it be, just look.

I don’t know, I whispered. Whatever had I done? I’d used Ma’s clean muslins, diluted the vinegar with sea water, wrapped the hand like Ma had shown me. And yet here was proof I had got it terribly wrong.

I poured warm water from the kettle into a bowl, and kneeled by the creepie-stool. I’m sorry, Granda, I’m sorry. Does it pain ye?

‘Do it pain ye?’ she asks. His voice was high and girly, mimicking me, and I almost laughed, swear to God, lambsie. But a second later I was paling before his glare and nothing funny on my mind.

Of course it pains me! he roared.

My hands shook a little as I stripped off the bandage. Both of us gasped. Sodden, it was, and the smell! Like the slime of a rotten mussel.

If Granda’s poisoned hand pained him now, there was worse to come while I cleaned it out. I talked to him low and soft, like crooning, the way I shushed Crusoe when he whimpered. Now, then, Granda … there, now, Granda. But still he carried on his mumping and grumbling, snatching his hand back every time I tried to sponge away the evil-looking pus.

Granda, I tried, Granda, will ye not tell me about the Witch again?