She hid behind the bucket while he shook the shrimps out of the net.He let her peel and wash the shrimps They ate them at the table with bread and mayonnaise They didn’t bother with a fire that night And he did not bother to join her in the bed. He did not stop until he was waist deep, among the furthest rocks, and then he concentrated on the shrimping.”There’s hundreds here,” he said “Come over, Rosa. Bring the bucket.”"It’s deep,” she said.”Take off your clothes like me Come on, I need the bucket now. I’ve got our dinner here.”She didn’t take her clothes off, though She waded in fully clothed Her skirt spread out around her like a picnic rug. He went back to the beach and took his trousers off and then his underpants She watched him from the shallows as he ran into the water She had not seen him quite so naked before. She tucked her skirt into her knickers and waded into the sea They needed to go deeper for the shrimps, her husband said.

Her shadow jogged ahead of her and clipped her husband’s heels. He took his shirt off and hung it over his shoulder.They did not have much luck with shrimps The tide was going out He pulled his trousers up above his knees. Rosa followed him, carrying her shoes and stepping in the puddled footsteps where he’d walked The sun came out when they were halfway down the beach. He kicked the broken driftwood into piles, then threw it up the beach into the open basket.”Come on,” he said. They had agreed to take the kitchen bucket and some nets a little way along the coast where there were pools – and shrimps, they hoped.

Instead he helped her with the wood and – as he’d done when he was teaching flute – took too many opportunities to touch her arm, her waist, her hair He was much noisier than her He stamped on the larger pieces until they splintered. “You’d try the patience of a saint,” he said when she was still in bed at ten o’clock. She found this judgement pleasing in some way.He did not leave her on the beach alone His bad temper needed company, and witnesses. She did not know how long he lay awake because the sea-air made her tired and she was soon asleep She did not wake to breakfast on a tray This was day three. She went to urinate and clean her teeth and every sound she made was shared by him. He hardly breathed when she switched out the lamp, took off her clothes by moonlight, and hung them with her underclothes on top across the wooden footboard of the bed The bedroom smelled of mackerel, she thought He’d turned his back to her She said Goodnight She patted him on his shoulder.

Again their entertainment was the flames.He was the first in bed that night and he pretended to be sleeping when Rosa came upstairs into the attic room But he was watching her, she knew One eye was shut He watched her at the mirror combing out her hair He watched her rubbing aloe cream into her face and throat. Then there were stewed blackberries and crab apples for dessert, with tinned cream, and the last slice of their wedding cake They did not speak. His mood had changed.That evening they sat a foot apart in front of the fire and dined on mackerel, grilled with mustard sauce The enamelled fish skins pulled off like paper The flesh was oily white She’d never tasted fish as good. He hardly cost her any sleep.Next day, he left her with the basket on the dunes while he went off with nets He did not kiss her on the lips before he walked away. Nor was it spoiled in bed and in the middle of the night when he pushed up her night-dress, pulled down his own pyjamas and wrapped himself around her.She should ignore him, he had said And that is what she did.