In a yard off the Cragg several fisher families were working on cleaning and preparing the lines. Ben sat bent over on a little stool while he attached slimy bait from a bucket to the hooks of a long line. His fingers were swollen and callused, but he worked nimbly. Beside him on the ground sat two red-haired boys, the older one coiling the part of the line that his father had finished onto a large wicker plate, the younger one scraping old bait from the hundreds of hooks of another line.

The old man looked up towards the Cragg for a second and his eyes went wide and his face pale. His hands ceased the work. The boy coiling the line looked up. "Da'?"

It took a moment before Ben blinked and shook his head. "It's Paddy," he muttered, more to himself than to his son. For a few seconds there, Ben had believed that a ghost had risen from its ignoble resting place and returned home. And even now that he knew who the visitor was, his heart was still racing with the fright of it. "Paddy!" he called out.