Young Patrick Hawksfield was slightly overwhelmed by the Cragg with it's noise, the oppressive closeness of the buildings, the smells...  To save some pennies, Pat had walked from Robin's Hood Bay, 6 miles away, but he was an athletic young man and the distance had presented little challenge for him.  His family in Robbin's Hood had suggested he look for work in Whitby with its richer fishing grounds, and had given him vague directions to find his Uncle's home in the town.  But all these doors looked the same, on the ground, on the upper levels... some directions would be nice.

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.

The shout drew Pat's attention not for the name being called but for the volume. He looked in the direction of the older fisherman and the lads working. Was that his uncle Ben? Pat had seen him briefly at his cousin's wedding not long back, but everyone had been clean and shiny in their best clothes.

"Uncle Ben, is that ye?" he called out.

"Aye, son. 'tis. Come. Have a cup of tea! Bram, get your cousin a chair and make some tea, will ye?" And the boy rushed up the steps to one of the cottages and returned with a chair for Patrick, and then made his way back inside, clearly quite relieved to drop the muckier work. "What brings ye to Whitby? Yer family alright?" Across the yard some teenage fishlasses ceased their work to whisper and stare at the new blood.

"Aye, family's grand. Again, them in Robin's Hood Bay send their best ta yer Rose on 'er recent 'appiness." Patrick paused and took a heavy draft of his tea before continuing with his catch up.

"As fer me, I'm in Whitby cause I need work. The crew of me last boat sold up and moved on."

After having fulfilled his errand, the little boy reluctantly went back to mucking the lines, casting glances up at his cousin, and pricking himself on the hooks, because he wasn't paying attention.

"Thank ye. That's good of 'em." Ben chewed the corner of his mouth - a sign that he was thinking - while I baited another few hooks. Then he looked up at the young man. "Well, I'd say you've come at a perfect time. Collin, our third man wants to move his family to the Teeside, but 'e was engaged for another year last March. He'd be happy to have someone to replace 'im. If ye're willin' to stay till March at least? Let me see how you coil. Will, make some space, son." And the older boy moved away to let his cousin coil.

Coiling was a good indication of a man's understanding of fishing and his skill. One line contained hundreds of smaller lines, 'snoods', with hooks, and if the coiling wasn't done exactly right, the snoods would tangle or the hooks would catch on to other hooks or snoods, and it would be impossible to cast the lines properly.

Pat cast a sideways glance at his older relation. He thought this idea of an impromptu skills test rather insulting. Did old man Ward also want to know if Pat knew the difference between port and starboard?

Pat had been coiling for a number of years, so the task wasn't particularly difficult, it just required nimble fingers, and keen eyes. But would what had been good enough for the Malloy's of Robin's Hood Bay be good enough for the Ward family of Whitby?

"Well on ye go, son," said Ben, a little surprised at the look he got. "Starin's never caught owt. Let me see ye work." He wanted to see what a fisherman from Robin Hood's worked like. Whitby fishermen tended to say that Robin Hood men weren't as good, and Robin Hood men probably said the same about the Whitby fishermen. It was all ridiculous of course, since there was so much intermarriage, all of them had roots in both towns, and during the herring season they often worked together. Still, with regard to superiority in skill, the only opinion that united them was that was that the Runswick lot were shite.

Pat's hands and arms flexed and moved with practiced speed to work the rope. With all those snoods, the odd prick to his fingers was inevitable, but Pat was mostly oblivious to the pain, but encouraged him to focus.

Ben kept a close eye on Patrick's work, while also doing his own. "There ye go. Yer... they taught ye well." Whoever had taught him, for Ben had remembered at the last moment that Pat's useless father certainly hadn't taught him. "We'll go see Colin as soon as Anne comes back."