Her eyes saw nothing and sighing, she pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. Shivering at the foul weather the night had seen fit to bring in. The wind, she decided, was by far the worst of it. Howling round the eaves and threatening to lift the slates off the roof, Maggie was in no doubt, that come morning, there would be a fine mess to clear up. The tiny harbour where they lived littered with the storm’s debris and rubbish from the bins, forcing her out there for hours, where she would sweep and tidy up and making ready for the next batch of foul weather to come and undo all her hard work. It wasn’t much to look forward to, she thought, and watching it happen wouldn’t help either, not when she still had a batch of sewing to do on her husband’s shirts. Lord knows what he did with them, but Matthew’s shirt cuffs were always frayed somewhere and he would have nothing to put on tomorrow if she didn’t put a stop to her gawping and get back to her needle.
