‘Look out, Jim!’ shouted Bob.

Baskets, piled with fish, swung over their heads from the fishing smack moored alongside the lower landing. The boys darted over the slippery wet stones, ducking their heads, grabbing the small silvery herrings that fell out of the basket and stuffing them into the bag they carried between them.

‘That’s full enough now,’ said Bob. ‘We’ll get threepence at least from old Sam. Come on, Jim! We’ve got to get there first.’

Sam sold fish to the very poorest of the poor in Eastcliff. He bought it as cheaply as he could, and struck a hard bargain.

Pushing their way through the noisy, crowded fish market they hurried from the harbour. The bag of fish bounced back and forth between them as they ran. By the time they turned down the narrow passage that led to Sam’s small, dark shop Jim was gasping for breath.

‘Only tuppence!’ grumbled Bob as they came out of the shop.

He removed his left boot, carefully placed the two pennies inside and then put his boot back on again.

‘What are we gonna do?’ asked Jim. ‘We can’t go home with just tuppence.

Whatever’ll our Mam say?’

‘I know,’ said Bob. ‘We’ll go up the Tower. Come on, Jim.’

Back at the harbour they made their way to the old wooden coastguard lookout, known to everyone as the Tower, and ran up the wooden steps to the top. From there they could see right out to the cold, grey North Sea.

At first they saw only a dark smudge in the distance, but as it came nearer they could make out its shape more clearly.

‘It’s got a long mizzen gaff,’ said Bob.

‘And patches on the mizzen,’ added Jim.

‘I can see the number now,’ said Bob. ‘EF 217! It’s the Hilda Rose. Fred Hudson from Chapel Lane’s on that.’

‘Let’s go tell his missus,’ said Jim.

They pounded down the stairs, raced along the jetty to Chapel Lane and knocked on the front door of the first cottage in the row.

‘Missus, come quick!’ shouted Bob. ‘Your husband’s comin’ in.’

Mrs Hudson opened the door.

‘We seen the Hilda Rose,’ gasped Jim. ‘We’ve bin up on the Tower.’

‘We’ve come straight here,’ said Bob.

‘Just a minute,’ said Mrs Hudson. ‘I’ll get my purse.’

Bob and Jim grinned at each other.

‘That’s for you boys for runnin’ up,’ said Mrs Hudson, handing a penny to Bob.

‘Mam’ll be pleased,’ said Jim. ‘We’ve got threepence now.’

‘Let’s go back to the Tower,’ said Bob, ‘and see if we can make it fourpence.’

At the Tower two fishermen were standing at the bottom of the stairs. They were smartly dressed in warm overcoats and soft leather high-heeled boots. One of them even had a velvet collar to his coat and gold rings in his ears. A gold ring gleamed on the little finger of his left hand.

As Bob and Jim squeezed past them, the man with the ring spoke.

‘I don’t know what we’re goin’ to do, Alf, now Wilf’s laid up. We’re due to sail day after tomorrow.’

‘I don’t know of any young lads who’d do it at this short notice, Skipper,’ said Alf.

‘Do what?’ asked Bob.

Skipper and Alf looked down at him.

‘Not anything you could do, shrimp,’ said Alf. ‘We need a cook for the Admiral.’

‘I can cook,’ said Bob.

Jim opened his mouth but, at a look from Bob, closed it again.

‘Been to sea before?’ asked Alf.

‘No, not yet, but my dad and grandad were fishermen.’

‘Name?’

‘My dad was Harry Thompson, from Denefield village, and Grandad was Arthur.’

‘Good old fishing family,’ said Skipper. ‘How old are you, lad?’

‘Fifteen-and-a-half,’ said Bob.

‘Hmm. Small for your age. You’re old enough, but are you big enough?’ asked Alf.

Bob tried to stand taller.

‘What about yer mam?’ asked Skipper. ‘Weren’t it only two year ago she lost your dad? End of nineteen-fourteen, just after war started?’

‘Yes,’ said Bob.

‘You the eldest?’ asked Alf.

‘Yes, but our Lizzie’s at home. She’s fourteen and Jim here, he’s thirteen. You and Lizzie’ll look after our Mam and the littl’uns, won’t yer, Jim?’

‘Aye, we will,’ said Jim confidently.

‘Now you’re sure you can cook?’ asked Skipper. ‘There’ll be nine of us.’

Bob gave Jim a warning look, and nodded.

‘Well, we’ll give you a try,’ said Skipper. ‘Beggars can’t be choosers. You’ll need the proper gear – oilskin, boots, the lot. Can you manage that?’

‘Mam’s still got our Dad’s stuff,’ said Bob. ‘I can wear that.’

‘The Admiral’s an armed smack,’ said Skipper. ‘That means you get two shillings a day extra – danger money. That’s five and six a day all told.’

Bob’s eyes widened.

‘I’ll do it,’ Bob said. ‘I’ll go home now an’ get my stuff.’

‘Right then,’ said Skipper. ‘An’ call on old Joe Tate at Arbour Farm on your way back to Denefield, an’ ask him if you can have a sack to fill with straw. An’ mind you fill it as tight as you can, ‘cos that’ll be your bed, lad. Make sure you bring it with you Wednesday mornin’. Be here first light or we’ll go without you.’

‘I’ll be there!’ said Bob.

‘Mind you are,’ said Alf.