Sunlight illuminated the horizons’ shadow. A low mist blew gently across the rippling sea. There was no sound save for the light waft of waves upon a pebbled shore.
The morning awoke in the slipshod, seashore village to a clink of full-fat milk bottles on polished slate doorsteps. Clocks on mantelpieces counted down in reverential silence until the allotted hour when their hands at quarter to eleven, automatically opened front doors, spewing out families, women in widow’s weeds and men in ill-fitting suits and hand-me-down hats walked, heads bowed staring at spit polished shoes, towards Moriah Chapel.