His father’s birthday party. Fifty. The whole street in the Coble, from the minute he and Billy had come in with the boat. A big cheer as soon as they walked through the door. Billy Kerr had always been a hero in Harbour Street. Valerie had organized a cake from somewhere, but by the time they’d come to cut it most of them had been pissed. Then out onto the pavement to take a photograph. Not everyone, of course. Some had stayed inside. There were always people in Harbour Street who were reluctant to appear in photographs.

He remembered in detail what Margaret was wearing that day. A peasant skirt in Indian cotton and a white cheesecloth blouse. Sandals. The fine leather strap tied round her ankle in a bow. Not her work clothes. She dressed up for work as if she was going to an office. Black underwear and a black suspender belt. Sheer stockings and shoes with pointed toes and heels so high you’d wonder how she balanced. Leather and silk. He’d seen her dressing for work once. When he was out in the boat to lift his creels he’d anchored in the bay and peered through her window, using the professor’s binoculars. She’d thought nobody was watching, thinking that nobody could look into her bedroom, because all there was outside was the sea. Her silhouette had been black against the faint artificial light in the room. She’d stood on one foot, poised as a ballerina, and unrolled the sheer stocking along her other leg. Completely balanced and completely relaxed. Who are you dressing for, Margaret? He’d watched her turn, imagined her opening the bedroom door to let in her client. But the angle was too steep for him to see who’d come into the room, or to watch what happened next. He’d guessed, though. He’d run the scene through his mind.

The night of his father’s birthday party Margaret had been off duty. She’d made that clear. So it was the peasant skirt and the white blouse, the flat sandals. And she’d been drinking, and he knew she never drank when she was working. She’d let that slip on another of her days off. He’d taken her out to Coquet Island and they’d had a picnic. That day she’d been wearing jeans and a striped cotton jersey, canvas shoes. They’d drunk a bottle of white wine between them and she’d brought sandwiches and homemade cakes. Malcolm had known his father would be furious if he found out – Billy had disapproved of Margaret big-style – but somehow he hadn’t cared. It was enough to be lying in the sun beside her and talking. No work for me tonight. I never drink when I’m working. Walking down the path to the boat, she’d taken his hand.