‘Well, no point panicking, is there?’ Big Arthur scooped potatoes out of a pot and dumped them in a bowl. ‘September, 1972, I was on the Long Mary, out of Buckie, chasing haddock across Forties.’ He added a slosh of milk. ‘Wee Eric Kerr was on his first trip; hawser snapped and cut him clean in two. Everything above the elbows went one way, everything below went the other.’ A knob of butter joined the milk. ‘All his insides turned into outsides. Lungs, liver, kidneys, guts … All over the deck.’ A potato masher appeared from a drawer and Big Arthur stabbed away at his potatoes for a bit, frowning. ‘Course everyone panics. We’re one day out from port and now we’ve got to go right back again. We were on a lovely run of haddies too, seemed a shame to waste it.’ He pulled a plate from the oven
