‘Dun’t let her play again, Georgie,’ shouted Peter, though he was grinning as he said it. ‘She batted our ball into the river last time,’ They were all older than Kate and Danny; fine, strapping young men with broad, muscular shoulders and faces tanned a healthy bronze from working out in all weathers. None of them had married as yet and still lived at home with their parents in the end cottage. ‘Can’t find a lass to match me mam’s cooking’ was their unanimous verdict, but if the snatches of conversation Kate overheard sometimes were true, they all three had ‘an eye for the lasses’ but preferred to stay fancy-free, at least for the present.

‘Where’s Danny?’ she demanded.

The young man clasped his hands over the place where he believed his heart to be and dropped to his knees on the grass. ‘Danny – always Danny! And here am I pining for one little kiss . . .’

‘George – me dad can’t manage Samphire. She’s calving.’

At once the young man stopped his teasing. ‘He’s up near the Point helping his dad mend the nets, I reckon . . .’

But she was gone like the wind, calling back over her shoulder, ‘Thanks, Georgie.’

She ran along the curving river bank until she came to the place where the river widened out into intertidal mudflats, channelling a wandering route to the sea. Moored on the river bank was Robert Eland’s fishing boat, and on the headland, the very Point itself, father and son bent their heads over the nets, examining them for holes.

‘Danny, Danny!’

The two men looked up and Danny waved. ‘Summat up, Katie?’ he asked as she reached them.

‘Hello, Mester Eland . . .’

The older man nodded briefly.

‘Can you come and help us, Danny? Me dad can’t manage Samphire. Her calf’s coming breech.’

‘Oh heck!’ Danny muttered and then glanced at his father. ‘Dad . . .?’

The older man was silent, threading the nets expertly through his fingers. His eyes were downcast and his mouth was completely hidden by a thick, grey-speckled beard and moustache, so that Kate had no way of reading any expression on his face. It was impossible to see if he ever smiled, and the visible part of his face was weather-beaten and lined, his forehead seeming to have a permanent frown. He was a quiet man who gave the impression of being dour, even moody. Though Robert Eland rarely came to Brumbys’ Farm – hardly ever did he help with the harvest for he preferred the sea to the land – Kate’s stepfather would often meet him in the Seagull to play dominoes over a pint or two. ‘He’s a good man when you get to know him,’ Jonathan would say, to which Esther would reply, ‘You never see bad in anyone’, and Kate’s gentle stepfather would smile fondly at his wife.