Emma Williams Lyme Regis   Drowned in wind and cold mid-summer rain we duck inside the chalk-white door of the fishmonger so close to the water his gill-clad denizens may as well keep kicking until he has the cash in hand. A pint glass filled with prawns nestles in a bed of ice a row of bright-eyed haddock winks from the counter steel and stainless the nearby mussels black and closed the hundred times her face dropped blind behind the Cobb and rain in bullets shot the kelp-clad spray, white-eyed, salt-sodden, a down-tossed net torn from some lost skiff in this uncaptained storm.

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