They had Christmas dinner at the farm – just the three of them with Matthew sitting at the head of the table carving the goose.

They were invited to join the Harrises’ noisy Christmas in the cottage at the Point for the evening, so during the afternoon she had made an over-excited Kate rest on her bed. Matthew, too, was stretched out in the front parlour, snoring in front of a blazing fire which Esther had lit in honour of Christmas. So whilst the others dozed, Esther snatched a few quiet moments to walk alone to the end of the Spit. The tide was high and lapped at the ridge of land along which she walked, but she had no fear of the water now.

As always her thoughts turned to warm, sunlit days. The memory of Jonathan’s blue eyes and gentle mouth was so vivid she almost felt that if she turned quickly he would be there, walking towards her. Sometimes, he seemed so close . . .

Pushing away such foolishness, she bent and picked up some flat oyster shells. Leaning sideways she held the shell between her thumb and forefinger and flipped it across the water. It scudded over the surface bouncing three or four times before it sank beneath the waves. She sent three more skimming after it and smiled to herself as she remembered Matthew teaching her the game.

Ducks and drakes, he’d called it.

Her mind was filled with both the men in her life: Jonathan, her lost love, no more now than a sweet memory, and Matthew – poor Matthew – still suffering from his dreadful ordeal in the war. He needed her and deserved her compassion at least.

But would there ever be real happiness for any of them?

She sighed. Pulling her shawl closely around her she took one last look at the bleak, lonely sea and bending her head against the wind, she went back home.

At the beginning of January north-easterly winds blew in from the sea, combining with the highest tides of the year which pounded the coastline and flooded over the Spit and on to the marsh, swelling the haven and the mouth of the River Lynn.

On the first Saturday after New Year it seemed to reach a climax. The gale howled around the farmhouse, battering the windows and rattling the tiles, and the rain lashed against the glass.

Esther, who had never liked storms, blocked the back door with a chair against it. ‘It’s like that day you went out on the lifeboat. Remember, Matthew,’ she said as she came into the kitchen where he was sitting by the range. ‘When Robert Eland was out in his fishing boat and—’ She broke off as Matthew got up from his chair and stared at her with wide, stricken eyes.

‘Why, whatever’s the matter, Matthew?’

He stumbled across the room towards the door.

‘Matthew!’ she cried again. ‘Matthew, what is it?’

‘The boat,’ he mumbled. ‘The boat – I must . . .’