in the squally gloom with that feeling of the day already sailed from the quay. Friendless and perpetually wet, that’s how you’ve ended up, and then I remembered Riverman and the gift I’d been meaning to carry to Fiddler’s Island. I drove up to the north car park and squelched across the meadow. His boat was dark and black with the flood but I heard a sound to answer my knocking, boots moving in the stowage. He came out in a vest and oilskin trousers, eyes sparkling brighter than the rain when he saw the burnt-gold flash of the whisky box under the flap of my bag. Two tumblers on the front cabin formica, glass thick as my thumb. He poured it out equal. Why so glum? he asked. There’s always good things coming. I’ve got some cheddar and biscuits to go with these.
