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to and she didn’t love him?’
    Uncle Joe took out his pipe and pointed it at the boy. ‘ Questions. Questions. Too young to ask so many questions. Perhaps you’re going to be a lawyer. Pah!’ He spat over the side. ‘Scum of the earth are lawyers. Wriggle here and wriggle there. Keep clear of them, I tell you.’
    â€˜Yes, Uncle Joe.’
    â€˜Why did she marry? you say. Because she’s a woman and goes by opposites, that’s why. But to you she’s your cousin Patricia, nothing more and nothing less. See, boy?’
    â€˜Yes, Uncle Joe.’
    Veal’s little eyes travelled past Anthony to the bulk that was looming ahead. ‘Now ship your oars. Gently does it. Don’t wet my feet! There, that’ll do. Now go up in the bows and ease her off as she touches.’
    They spent three hours on board and had a meal before returning. Anthony was surprised to find his uncle treated with extreme deference. Even the captain, a square hard man with mutton-chop whiskers, called him ‘sir’.
    Anthony played about the deck, pretending himself already at sea. He talked to the crew and watched the ships and tried to find out what every piece of rope was for and leaned over the side seeing what sort of a splash he could make with his spittle in the water below. The time passed like a flash; he had never enjoyed himself more despite the blisters on his hands.
    Only for dinner was he invited to the captain’s quarters, and the three of them ate together. Much of the conversation was of nautical matters he could not understand. Uncle Joe had quite recovered his good humour and joked with the captain, whose name was Stevens, about getting his nephew a berth in the ship as cabin boy. Joe ate very little indeed but drank a good deal of whisky. Anthony noticed how clumsily he held his knife and fork even before he touched the whisky.
    Then before they left wines were brought up and several kinds tasted. The ship had just arrived from Lisbon with a cargo of port and was unloading here. When that was completed, Joe said, she was to take on a general cargo for Liverpool.
    Some semblance of the truth was dawning on Anthony. The full significance of the matter was suddenly illuminated by a nautical magazine which lay open on the desk. Written across the top by some newsagent or supplier were the words, The Grey Cat. J. Veal, Blue Water Line.
    He rowed his uncle home with increasing blisters on his palms and a proportionately increased respect for the old man.
    When Anthony, sore and breathless and hot, at last brought the small boat back to its mooring and they had walked precariously over the mud by way of a broken wooden landing jetty, they found Mrs Veal standing with arms folded at the side door, just as if she had not moved since they left.
    â€˜We’re not drowned, you see,’ said Smoky Joe, wiping his eyes, which were watering a good deal.
    â€˜Caught a chill, I’ll be bound,’ she observed from a small mouth above the unmoving mass of her figure. ‘And things waiting for you … Attention.’ She waved a hand.
    â€˜What things?’ Joe was at once irritable.
    â€˜Pat’s hubby here again.’
    â€˜Don’t call him that! Don’t you know his name?’ Joe walked into the kitchen and pulled off his scarf; he sank into a chair as if he had been doing the rowing. ‘Did you send him about his business?’
    â€˜In the lower restaurant now.’
    â€˜Who let him in?’
    â€˜He came by the back. You can’t expect me …’
    â€˜I’ll soon get rid of him. Where’s Pat?’
    â€˜Out with … I forget his …’
    â€˜Ned Pawlyn. She’s always off with him. What does the man want? Fetch me a glass of whisky, Madge.’
    â€˜Milk you should have.’
    â€˜Whisky, I said.’
    Aunt Madge waved a hand helplessly and moved to a cupboard in the wall.
    â€˜More than that. Three