Irene looked at Hannah inquisitively.
‘If you say no you’ll break his heart. My cousin wouldn’t even invite that starlet Carole Lombard onto his boat.’
‘You’re not coming?’ Irene asked, embarrassed.
‘I wouldn’t get into that tub if you paid me. Besides, it’s my day off and tonight there’s a dance in the square. Think about it. Some wise words from a fisherman’s daughter: all the best matches are made on dry land. Anyway, I don’t know what I’m saying. Go on, go with him. And you, sailor boy, my friend had better get home in one piece, do you hear me?’
The boat, which appeared to be called the Kyaneos – judging from the name written on the hull – put out to sea, her white sails billowing in the wind as the prow cut through the water towards the headland.
Between tacks, Ismael smiled timidly at Irene and only sat at the helm once the boat was set on a steady course, running with the current. Holding tight onto the bench, Irene felt droplets of salty water landing on her skin in the breeze. By now the sails had caught the wind and Hannah was no more than a tiny speck waving from the shore. The force of the boat powering across the bay and the sound of the waves splashing against the hull made Irene feel like laughing out loud.
‘First time?’ asked Ismael. ‘On a sailing boat, I mean.’
Irene nodded.
‘It’s different, isn’t it?’
She nodded again, smiling, unable to take her eyes off the large scar on Ismael’s leg.
‘A conger eel,’ he explained. ‘It’s a long story.’
Irene looked up at the silhouette of Cravenmoore looming over the treetops.
‘What does the name of your boat mean?’
‘It’s Greek. Kyaneos: cyan,’ Ismael replied mysteriously. Seeing that Irene was frowning, he went on: ‘The Greeks used this word to describe a dark blue, the colour of the sea. When Homer spoke of the sea he compared its colour to that of a dark wine. That is the word he used: kyaneos.’
‘So you can talk about other things apart from your boat and your nets?’
‘I try.’
‘Who taught you?’
‘To sail? I taught myself.’
‘No, about the Greeks . . .’
‘My father was very keen on history. I still have some of his books . . .’
Irene remained silent.
‘Hannah must have told you that my parents died.’
She nodded. The small island with the lighthouse came into view, about a hundred metres away. Irene looked at it, fascinated.
‘The lighthouse has been shut down for years. Now everyone uses the new one in the port,’ Ismael explained.
‘Doesn’t anyone go to the island any more?’ asked Irene.
Ismael shook his head.
‘Why’s that?’
‘Do you like ghost stories?’
‘That depends . . .’
‘The people of the village think the island is haunted. They say that a long time ago a woman drowned there. Some people see lights. I suppose every village has its share of gossip, why should this one be any different?’