‘Marry you?’ Her mouth fell open and she furrowed her brow. ‘But… no. I mean, I can’t. The kids. They don’t want another dad.’

‘I don’t want to be their dad.’ He rested his hand on hers. ‘I want to be your husband.’

She was about to speak, but he stopped her.

‘Just think on it, will you? At least do that for me.’

They walked in silence back towards the chip shop. Her insides were like a washing machine, tossing and flipping, rolling everything he’d said around her with a confusing mix of emotions. Part of her couldn’t imagine replacing Rob – and, God forbid, being intimate with another man – but then there was another part of her which was hollowed out with loneliness. She longed for somebody she could pinch a chip off or take a walk on the beach with. It wouldn’t be long and the children would marry and move away. The silicosis would eventually come for Granfer. Then what? Just memories of Rob for company?

Before she caught the bus home she took a walk along the seafront to the lifeboat station. The yard to the side of it was a concreted area patched with seaweed holding fishing paraphernalia such as lobster pots, blue and green nets, floats slicked in algae, and small boats in desperate need of painting which had seemingly been there for decades. Two men with fishing rods sat on stools on the seawall sharing a packed tea and easy silence, and a woman stood in front of an easel painting the sea in misleadingly garish colours.

Angie walked into the boathouse and made sure to keep her eyes averted from the waiting lifeboat propped on the angled ramp, ready to launch as soon as it was called. She walked to the memorial wall and looked over the array of small brass plaques which held the names of all those lost and the dates the sea claimed them.

She rested her hand against his. Traced the letters of his name cut into the metal. She thought of him that night. Saw his face as he bent to kiss her. His whispered words reassuring her. Telling her – as he always did – not to worry. Telling her he’d be back in her arms before she knew it.

In her fantasy world he did come home. And in the same fantasy world he was waiting at home for her now. A takeaway on the table. Red wine poured into two glasses.

‘What are we celebrating?’ she whispered, resting her cheek against the cool brass plaque.

Being alive, Ange. We’re celebrating being alive.

It had been past four a.m. when she heard her son creep back into the house, so she was surprised to find him in the kitchen when she came down, already dressed, and standing at the cooker, stirring a pan whilst whistling brightly.