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and breathless. ‘Have yon been out East a lot, Uncle Joe?’
    â€˜Java. Twenty-two years. Starboard a bit, boy. Right arm. Right arm. Me and your aunt were out there twenty-one years and eight months, on and off.’
    â€˜Aunt Christine?’
    â€˜Yes. Your mother’s sister. That’s where she got the worm that killed her. Once you’ve got it, it’s hard to be rid of it. Starboard again. Now ship your oar. Right oar.’
    They glided close beside an old barge which was moored in their path. Anthony expected the sides to grate.
    They were well out now in the dancing water and could feel the thrust of the strong breeze. The sun was brilliant this morning without warmth. All about them were the sailing ships which another decade would see abandoned for ever. Four-masted barques with nitrate from America. Grain ships from Australia. Brigs loading with pilchards for the Italian ports. Schooners carrying salt to the Newfoundland cod banks. Away in the distance was the St Anthony lighthouse, white against the grey-green of the cliffs.
    â€˜But we always come back, we Veals.’ said Uncle Joe suddenly, wiping his moustache this way and that with the stem of his pipe. ‘There’s been a Veal in Falmouth, boy, ever since there was a Falmouth. An’ we’re proud of it, see? A Veal was steward to the first Killigrew. Up in that ancient old house by the docks. His daughter had a natural son by William Killigrew. We trace direct back to him.’
    Anthony wondered what a natural son was, since hitherto he had thought that all children were natural.
    â€˜Straight as a die,’ said Uncle Joe. ‘Sons of sons all the way. Not many families can say that. And we’ve outlasted the Killigrews. They’re dead and gone. That house and land should all be ours if right was right.’
    Across the water in the centre of old Falmouth a church was ringing its bells. The sound floated to them, gentle and iterative and sweet.
    â€˜We’re the last Veals,’ said Joe. His pipe had gone out and his eyes for a moment were still, because they were focused on nothing.
    â€˜Uncle Perry and me. We’re the last Veals. And he’s not married and I’ve no male issue. So that’s the end of us, too.’
    Anthony rowed on. His mind went back to Patricia and her marriage. But he held his tongue. After that for some time there was no conversation between them.
    As they at last neared the barquentine a dinghy approached them from the direction of the ship and a tall, well-set young man raised his blue cap very respectfully to Joe and called a courteous greeting as he passed. Joe responded with a brief nod.
    â€˜Who’s that, Uncle Joe?’
    â€˜That’s Ned Pawlyn, mate of The Grey Cat . No doubt he’s off ashore to take Patricia out.’
    The boy struggled again with curiosity and this time was defeated.
    â€˜Patricia’s married, isn’t she?’ he asked.
    Uncle Joe’s face went hard and narrow. He stared at a passing barge.
    â€˜Nobody’s business if she is.’
    Anthony’s face could not take on any more colour; instead it paled about the mouth.
    â€˜No … I’m sorry.’
    â€˜Nor is she by rights,’ said Joe after a moment. ‘Not if the law was as it should be. She married wi’out any consent. That should be enough to get it annulled. What did she want, marrying at her age. I’d nought against her having a good time. But her place is at home, as she rightly realises now. Her place is with me, helping me. Who told you, anyhow?’
    â€˜It was – just mentioned,’ said Anthony, catching a crab.
    â€˜Well, it’s no business of anybody’s except hers and mine.’
    The dinghy had gone right off its course and he had difficulty in pulling it back. ‘I’m sorry if I shouldn’t ought to have said anything, Uncle Joe. But why did she marry him if you didn’t want her