He kept his eyes on the coast path he had been walking his whole life. He knew every square inch of the rocks, stones and earth; in all lights and in all weathers, he could find his way with no more than his footfall, but this morning he needed to concentrate on every step. Not only because it stopped him having to interact with Mac, whose words of ribbing or solace were more than he could cope with, but because it also stopped him or anyone else in Port Charles spotting the fact that he had been crying. Mainly, though, he had to concentrate because he felt as if there had been a shift in the world and he didn’t entirely trust the ground beneath his feet, fearing he might topple or fall into a crevice at any moment.

He had come to realise in recent weeks that it wasn’t only the loss of Merrin that was hard to take, but the fact that the comfortable place he held in the bosom of the Kellow family might also be in jeopardy. And the idea of being usurped by Digby Mortimer was just as unthinkable. Ben Kellow had been like a father to him, especially in recent years, when his own had been absent. He had plucked him from the school life he hated and given him a spot on the Sally-Mae, and when funds allowed, he gave his mother money – not that Jarvis was supposed to know about that. And Heather had welcomed Jarvis to their table for many a roast dinner, and when they were out at sea she packed him lunches and suppers. Doorstep sandwiches made of crusty white bread, stuffed with ham and cheese, pickles and mayonnaise. Slabs of fruit cake thickly spread with butter, a punnet of soft, sweet nectarines and squares of clotted-cream fudge in their own muslin bag – a sweet treat to swallow with a warm drink when the night felt long. It was one thing for Merrin to have Digby as her boyfriend, but for Ben and Heather to have him as a son-in-law? The thought of not being welcome in that little cottage where he had known only love and laughter sent cold bolts of fear through his gut.

He walked along the path and dropped down towards the slipway, turning sharply left into the Old Boat Shed.

‘Anyone home?’ he called out as he pushed the lower door open and stepped inside.

‘Up here, lad!’ Ben called from the loft above.

Jarvis painted on a smile and trod the rickety stairs that ran up the side of the internal brick wall. He looked down at the three boats that lived in the shed and the cart next to them, which gleamed.

‘’Bout bloody time!’ the stockily built Robin called out, laughing as he threw Jarvis a can of beer, which Jarvis caught, just. ‘We’ve missed you, Jarv!’

‘Well, I’m here now.’