I stroke the bracelet while I gaze around me. Niall is back now, staring at the railway locomotive that stands hissing and snorting on its steel lines where the roadway meets our wharf. Mother shrank away when she saw it. Father took her arm. ‘An iron horse, Helen. ’Tis slow and strong and noisy, like all horses.’

Beside the wharf rise the masts and funnel of our ship, the Princess Louisa, named after one of Queen Victoria’s daughters. This is the vessel that will sail south for four months, taking us to our new home.

Our luggage is already aboard. Men with dirty hands and faces are hoisting sacks of coal onto the deck. The Princess Louisa has engines as well as sails. Niall pretends to understand how they work, but I don’t believe him.

A man in a black top-hat, with a lady in a lilac-colour dress and bonnet, is walking up the gangway, holding onto the rail as the ship dips and rises in the water. They must be some of the rich passengers, with proper bunks in their cabins instead of just a mattress on the floor, and even a steward to fetch water for them. ‘Och! They’ll be just as seasick as we puir folk,’ my mother laughed.

Something glides through the air above us. I squint up, pushing back my own bonnet. An osprey, the wonderful fishing hawk that Niall and I have watched so often from the cliffs near our farm. Its brown and white wings are stretched wide, its curved talons tense.

The wings fold, and it slices down like a sword, gouging the waves. Then it rises, climbing towards the low sun, a fish clutched in its talons. A pair of seagulls flap at it, screeching and circling, trying to make it drop its catch. The osprey ignores them, wheeling upwards until the gulls fall away, snapping at each other. Will we see birds like that in the distant land that will be our home?

A hand rests on my shoulder. My father watches the soaring osprey. His black beard juts upwards.

He glances down, smiles at me. ‘That’s us, Aggie, lass. Setting our sights on high. Seizing our chances, and flying away tae prosper. A bonnie wee farm I’ll be making for us all.’

His words are brave, but his face is sad, like my Auntie Flora’s. I heard him murmuring other words of hope to my mother, the night before we left our farm. ‘Helen, Helen, my puir dear …’ he went. I heard the sound of her weeping. Hardly ever had I heard that before.

Men begin shouting from the Princess Louisa. A sound like a trumpet blares out, and we all jump. Steam is gushing from a pipe beside one funnel. Again the sound blares. Around us, families stand up, gathering bundles together, talking to children; Niall leaves his game with the other boys, and runs to join us.