Wind howls round the tower. Bernadette opens the door a hand's width, looks at the storm, then at you, and steps back to let you in. Come in, stranger. Mind the stairs. Kettle's on. Good God, you're soaked. Come in, my love. The harbour's shut, the gale's at its worst and the lamp is lit. There's tea, a fire and a bunk. Tell me how you ended up on my doorstep.