Sorcha tried to picture Peter Morton. Like his father, he was a blacksmith. A strapping youth, he had dark brown hair and startling blue eyes. Working the forges and hammering metal had given him a broad chest and shoulders. His da, being close friends with the reverend and the Crawfords, was one of those less than happy to see Sorcha return, but Peter had given her a warm smile and even warmer greeting. When he caught her eye in the kirk her first Sunday back, he’d even dared a wave. He seemed a nice lad, even if Beatrix begged to differ, but then it didn’t take a great deal to upset Beatrix, much to everyone’s amusement. Given her contrariness, Sorcha half-believed the reason Beatrix had made a show of being friends with the McIntyres was simply to annoy the reverend.

‘Och, what’s that spit of water done to upset you?’ Janet put a piece of yarn in her teeth to rethread her needle, focussed on her task.

‘He refused to sell me nails, that’s what.’ Beatrix slapped her leg in disgust. ‘Nails my William needs if he’s going to fix our door. It’s coming apart and if he doesn’t repair it, we may as well live in a cave. Cheeky little bastard refused to part with any, even while dozens sat atop the shelves, right in my line o’ sight. You’d think I’d asked for gold without a penny to pay for it the way he carried on.’

Sorcha hid her grin. ‘I heard he’s making nails for Thomas Whyte’s ship.’ She nodded towards where it lay anchored. ‘It can’t sail till the deck’s repaired. If the lad refused you, Beatrix, it wasn’t anything personal.’

‘I don’t care if he’s making them for the King of France, he needs to be looking after all of us, not just bailies like Whyte. All I wanted was a handful.’

Sorcha put down the net she was restoring and rested her fingers on Beatrix’s arm. ‘I know it’s frustrating, Beatrix, but a handful to you might be the difference between the ship remaining in port or putting out to sea. Without a working craft, the men cannot sail, the fish can’t be caught, purses remain empty, and we all go hungry.’

Beatrix stared hard at Sorcha for a minute before throwing up her hands and shaking her head. ‘Stop being so bloody sensible, Sorcha McIntyre. Just like your da. I think I liked you better when you weren’t here.’ She produced a smile to show she didn’t really mean it. ‘Look, I ken you be telling it true being a boat owner and all, but it’s the boy’s manner that sticks in my craw. He wouldn’t listen to reason or curses.’

As one, the fishwives stopped what they were doing and raised their heads.