The Anchor was full, as was typical for a Saturday; it took just thirty bodies to bring the place elbow-to-elbow, the last lifeboat in a storm. Jed Springer had rolled up his sleeves and broken into a sweat getting everyone served. He called terse instructions to his brother, Reuben, his slender double, a boatman usually – and a wet blanket, a loser, according to most on the island you spoke to, him being so different from garrulous Jed. Eleanor, Jed’s skittish, wide-eyed wife, completed the trio behind the bar, unsmiling in her bartender’s waistcoat.

The clan from school were in their usual factions – Dellie Leven and Faith Moran stuck close to their boatmen husbands; Ruth French, with housemate Cat Walton, jostled at the bar. Beneath a cluster of painted buoys hanging from the ceiling at the end of the room, sat Miriam Calder and her whiskered husband, Frank, his crutch propped at his side. They were embedded at the headmaster’s table, Miriam force-feeding Diana Crane all the latest buzz. Frank was known for repeating the last few words of each phrase that tumbled from his wife’s mouth, as if providing assurance that all she said was true.

I arrived alone, the Anchor lying just a few yards from my front door; the roars of male laughter travelled into my bedroom on still weekday nights. Ben arrived last, on the arm of a beaming Barbara Stanney. Heads turned when he entered – of course they did, he was our stranger – and Barbara played up to the stares with a teenage relish. She pulled Ben towards her, snuggling into his chest, raising laughter with this charade, making him blush with embarrassment. I could feel Ruth’s gaze on me, expecting me to be annoyed, but I laughed along. The distraction was good. Let everyone talk about Barbara’s ignominious display with the coycrock teacher young enough to be her son; let the wagging tongues stay well away from me.

Three drinks in, we took possession of a table, Ruth, Cat, Ben and I; Barbara had relinquished her toyboy early on for the lure of the dominoes. We huddled close on our stools, standing drinkers jostling at our backs. Ben’s presence continued to work its strange magic on Ruth. With him there, she no longer spoke to me like we were in the schoolyard. Cat spoke easily too.

‘I notice we haven’t seen you in chapel yet, Mr Hailey,’ she challenged. She wasn’t serious in this reprimand, but also she was; maintaining attendance was one of her clerical duties.

‘I’m there every day of the week,’ he shot back, understanding the game. ‘What on earth are you accusing me of?’

‘A violation!’ Cat slammed a palm to the table, making husbands and wives, fishermen and labourers, look down on us for a moment. Ben turned in his seat to give them a genial nod. Ruth sniggered into her glass.