The bed creaked as he turned to face her. ‘It’s time you got up and lit the fire and made me a cup of tea, woman,’ he said as he dug her in the ribs and kissed her on the forehead.

She could sense his grin before she saw it. ‘Is that an order there, is it? Because if it is, you can make your own flamin’ tea,’ she said, stretching her arms above her head.

‘Well, I might as well,’ he said as he flung his legs out of the bed, ‘because there’ll not be any work for me today, not with that storm brewing. We won’t be seeing daylight today.’

She heard the match strike as he lit the oil lamp. The cottages on the coast had no electricity and it was thought they never would. As more and more residents either left to travel to America or England or simply grew old and died, the cottages stood there uninhabited and were eventually abandoned altogether. Times were changing. The young didn’t want to cook over fires and read by candlelight. They wanted electric ovens and lights. Bee was more than aware that her having returned after ten years away was unusual. The fishing community was all but disappearing. The odd small boat and the lobsterman still went out early each morning, but most of the fishing was now done by the trawlers out at Belmullet, away from the head.

The kettle clanged as Captain Bob placed it on the hearth. He riddled the peat ash in the fire and threw the kindling on the top. Last thing each night, the kettle was filled and rested on the dying embers, to warm the water ready for the next morning. As the flames flared and sparked the fire back into life, an orange glow filled the cottage and she instantly felt warmer.

‘Let’s take a look, shall we.’ Captain Bob pulled back the curtain by the door and let in the day’s dishwater-grey light.

She watched him as he lumbered about the cottage, her heart filled with affection at the sight of his belly stretching his string vest and protruding over the top of his flannelette pyjama bottoms, and his wild white hair, now wispy thin at the front, curling at the back and too long, always too long. She plumped the pillow and shuffled up the bed to await the return of her husband and the arrival of her tea. She hated the bad weather but loved that it meant her Bob didn’t have to set out in the trawler. Having lost one husband at sea, she lived in fear every single day of losing another.

‘Do you think Mary Kate enjoyed last night?’ he asked as he fanned the flames and threw on a handful of peat bricks underneath the fire dogs on which the cast-iron kettle was perched.

‘She did once Cat and Mrs O’Keefe arrived. How in God’s name did you manage to keep that from me? I still can’t believe they’re here. And how long is that tea going to take? I’m near dead with thirst.’