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summer, around the same date, when he saw the other villagers gearing up for action, it occurred to him that perhaps he’d chosen the wrong profession: maybe it would have been wiser to break with the tradition of seven generations and set himself up as a hotelier, a shopkeeper, or something else. That way, perhaps his daughter Hannah wouldn’t have to work as a servant at Cravenmoore and he’d be able to see his wife’s face for more than thirty minutes a day.
    Ismael watched his uncle as they worked together fixing the boat’s bilge pump. The fisherman’s pensive expression gave him away.
    ‘You could always open a boatyard for repairs and such,’ said Ismael.
    His uncle replied with what sounded like a croak.
    ‘Or sell the boat and invest in Monsieur Didier’s shop. He’s been going on about it for six years,’ the boy continued.
    Ismael’s uncle stopped what he was doing and observed his nephew. In the thirteen years he’d acted as a surrogate father to the boy, he’d still never managed to erase what he both feared and adored the most in him: his obstinate similarity to his dead father, including a fondness for voicing his opinion when nobody had asked him for advice.
    ‘Perhaps you should be the one to do that,’ Christian replied. ‘I’m nearly fifty. You can’t change your career at my age.’
    ‘Then why are you complaining?’
    ‘Who’s complaining?’
    Ismael shrugged. They both turned their attention back to the bilge pump.
    ‘Fine. I won’t say another word,’ Ismael mumbled.
    ‘I’d be so lucky. Tighten that clamping ring.’
    ‘The ring’s had it. We should change the pump. One of these days we’ll find ourselves in real trouble.’
    Hupert gave him the particular smile he reserved for fish merchants, port authorities and simpletons of various sorts.
    ‘This pump belonged to my father. Before that, to my grandfather. And before him . . .’
    ‘That’s what I mean,’ Ismael cut in. ‘It would probably be better off in a museum than on a boat.’
    ‘Amen.’
    ‘I’m right, and you know it.’
    With the possible exception of sailing, teasing his uncle was Ismael’s favourite pastime.
    ‘I’m not willing to discuss the matter. Full stop. The end.’
    In case he hadn’t made himself clear enough, Hupert finished off his pronouncement with an energetic and decisive turn of the spanner.
    Suddenly a suspicious crunch was heard inside the bilge pump. Hupert smiled at the boy. Two seconds later, the screw of the clamping ring he had just secured was catapulted into the air, arcing above their heads, followed by what looked like a piston, a set of nuts and some unidentifiable pieces of metal. Uncle and nephew followed the flight of the debris until it landed, indiscreetly, on the deck of the neighbouring vessel – Gerard Picaud’s boat. Picaud, an ex-boxer who was built like a bull and had the brain of a barnacle, examined the detritus and then looked up at the sky. Hupert and Ismael looked at one another.
    ‘I don’t think we’ll notice the difference,’ Ismael remarked.
    ‘If I ever need your opinion . . .’
    ‘You’ll ask for it. Fine. By the way, I was wondering whether you’d mind if I took next Saturday off. I’d like to do some repair work on my own boat . . .’
    ‘Might these repair works, perchance, be blonde, about five foot five, with green eyes?’ Hupert asked casually. He smiled mischievously at his nephew.
    ‘News spreads fast,’ said Ismael.
    ‘When it comes to your cousin, news flies, dear nephew. What’s the lady’s name?’
    ‘Irene.’
    ‘I see.’
    ‘There’s nothing to see. She’s nice, that’s all.’
    ‘“She’s nice, that’s all,”’ Hupert echoed, imitating Ismael’s indifferent tone.
    ‘OK , forget it. It’s not a good idea. I’ll work on Saturday,’ Ismael snapped.
    ‘We need to clean out the bilge. There’s rotten fish in there and it stinks.’
    ‘Fine.’
    Hupert burst out laughing.
    ‘You’re as stubborn as