Chapter 11: Storm in the Cellar

The Jaguar's door slammed, and it went back up the hill too fast.

"He's not my Alpha," I said to nobody.

Jago's aunt put her hand on my shoulder. "We know, my love. Come and eat."

I didn't ring Duncan. I'd learned what that got me.

I rang Paul instead, from the harbour wall.

"What did Duncan sign for her?"

"No idea," Paul said. "He's been locked in the Alpha's study with Clive twice. I can't get near."

"Try."

"I'm trying. I'm a Gamma, not a spy. I hide behind curtains like a teapot."

Friday supper on the Trevail quay started at six.

The whole pack came. Long trestle tables out of the chapel hall, end to end down the cobbles.

Jago's aunt fried whatever the three little boats brought in. Mackerel, gurnard, a lot of chips.

Somebody brought cider. Somebody always brought cider.

They sat me between Jago's aunt and an old wolf who'd been the cooper for fifty years.

"So," said the cooper. "You eat gravy on your chips, up north."

"Sometimes."

The whole table groaned.

"And you call a bread roll a stottie."

"A stottie's bigger than a roll. It's a stottie."

"Listen to her," said Jago's aunt. "A stottie."

"What do you call it, then?"

"A bun, my love. Like normal people."

Across the table, Jago was laughing so hard he had to put his cider down.

"Don't encourage them," I told him.

"I'm not. I'm enjoying it."

After that it was every Friday.

I worked through the week at my window. I sat at the trestle table every Friday, and they insulted my vowels and filled my plate.

I fixed the rum works one piece at a time.

I cancelled the Plymouth wholesaler, who'd been paying them less than the cost of the glass.

I put the price up by six pounds a bottle.

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