The Wistful Voyage
The salt on the Whitby docks did not smell like freedom. It smelled of rot, of brine, of things that had been left too long in the water and forgotten. Thomas Blackwell knew this smell better than any other smell in the world. He had breathed it every morning since he was twelve years old, dragging his father's empty flour sacks from the lorry to the back door of Blackwell & Son, Grocer —...
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