From the Cellar Book at the Anchor

March. Ordered the usual. The Dunbar boy still owes for February and I have stopped writing it down, because writing it down means I expect to be paid, and I do not.

April. The ferryman, Maccaig, sat at the end of the bar until I closed and did not drink enough to justify the company. I let him. A man who comes for the warmth and orders the one half is not a customer. He is a neighbour pretending to be a customer, which is the most an island will let you be at first.

May. If Jess ever reads this. The pub was never the point, love. The point was that I needed somewhere to put my hands while I waited to become the sort of man you might visit. I ran out of time on the second part. I am sorry about the timing. I was always sorry about the timing.