Thanks to the gentle touch of the sun the grey-green waters were sparkling, flirting with the senses. See, look, the calm English Channel seemed to be hinting, my depths are as safe as a harbour on which to make a living. The inhabitants of the tiny cob cottages below knew its deception. A month ago, those artful waves had turned into an unnegotiable monster, encouraging its cruel sister, the south-west wind, to surge up into a tempest out at the Ray Pits, where it teased and taunted three of Perranbarvah’s vessels for several maniacal hours, before finally crushing and splintering them into oblivion. Only two crew members from one of the luggers had been rescued by those frantic, foolhardy and courageous enough to sweat out the storm and attempt a rescue.

Clem heard the crows cawing in the churchyard. Here, here, the black harbingers of doom gloated; here lie the smashed putrid bodies of the six who were recovered. Clem hated crows, the dark bastard-birds who ate the seeds of his crops, who fed on the corpses of his prey-slain beasts; given the opportunity these crows here would devour the remains in the graves they were swanking over.

Timothy Lanyon had written to his sister about the tragedy, and Catherine had wanted to leave the moor and offer comfort to the sorrowing widows and orphans. But that province was Mrs Lanyon’s now. Did Kerensa’s daughter do well in this respect? Certainly, Kerensa would have made haste to the bereaved. Beautiful, compassionate Kerensa, her arms held out to soothe, to ease the burden. Such a glorious compensation.

The luggers, thirty to forty feet in length, that had survived the storm were shored dejectedly on the shingle. Fresh paint gleamed on the repaired timbers. Clem knew all the folk he could see below going about their usual business, dressed in black. The fishermen were preparing for the night’s launch, tarring ropes, mending nets, stowing baskets, checking line. Another trip to the Ray Pits. Clem sensed them praying for their safety and good catches. Many in the small fishing community held to the fervour of the Methodist connection. Their faith and a certain amount of optimism pointed to their expectation being high, for added to the fine weather there was a ‘fair old sea running’. Their grief and depression, however, were almost tangible, rising mournfully on the salt-laden air.

The bedroom door opened and Catherine joined him, placing her arm round his waist, staying silent. She was a handsome woman with snow-white skin, a charitable heart and a quiet charm. She overlooked Clem’s melancholic moods and honoured his frequent need for solitude.

They joined in respectful homage to those who had lost their lives and those below who had lost their kin.

Finally, Clem said, ‘It’s all so very cruel, may God have mercy. Are the twins settled in the nursery, Cathy?’