Tommy's little handmade toy boat had gone under the fish market without him.
He lay flat on the lowest step, one arm in the water, while Kit stood above him offering advice.
“Further.”
“My arm doesn't go further.”
“Use the other one.”
Tommy turned his head to see whether he meant it. Kit grinned.
Under the boards, beyond Tommy's fingers, the little boat knocked against a post. He had spent the previous evening getting the mast straight. Now the red sail hung in the water and something was eating it, or possibly only touching it. He preferred not to know.
“You pushed it,” he said.
“There was a wave.”
“With your boot in it.”
Above them, a fishwife dragged a table across the boards. A thin rain of scales came through. Tommy shut his mouth too late.
“Boys! Off the steps. We're washing down.”
“One moment!”
The first bucket hit the market floor.
Tommy scrambled up with his boat caught between two fingers. Water poured down the steps behind him, carrying a fish head that Kit neatly avoided. Tommy did not. His foot slid; he landed sitting down, still holding the boat high.
Kit began to laugh, then stopped when Tommy looked at him.
“Your deliveries,” he said.
The basket was safe on the upper landing. Tommy had put it there himself, beyond the wet line. He checked the oil bottle anyway, tightened its stopper, and looked inside the paper around the loaf. Nothing had got wet. Only him.
End of opening excerpt