The Chandler's

The chandler’s was still there.

I had not let myself decide, on the tram in from the airport hotel, whether it would be. Ten years is a long time on a street that has learnt what it is worth. The Shore had gone the way of every waterfront I have ever been paid to look at: the bonded warehouses turned into restaurants with one-word names, the pub on the corner painted the grey that means it now sells small plates, a boutique where the ironmonger’s had been. I walked along the water from the tram stop at nine in the morning with my bag over my shoulder, counting the changes, and I had got to fourteen before I saw it.

The same narrow front. The same gold letters on the fascia, flaking now at the edges. Rope in the window in coils, and brass cleats, and tins of marine varnish…