The woman and her daughter who arrived on the June ship were my inspiration, the shock they sent through the congregation when they stood to receive the host for the first time. No one said anything aloud, of course. People would pat my head for luck in the Provisions Store and mutter blessings in my ear (a ‘pure catch’ they called me, even though there was a distinct lack of fishermen to be doing the netting), but voicing this kind of lore in chapel, admitting that you believed in a set of mysteries and superstitions beyond the bible – that was a step too far. Still, I knew their thoughts – this woman and her daughter were inviting catastrophe upon us with their flaming locks.

What a thrill.

I began to wonder if I, simply by altering the colour of my hair, could also bring about a change. If I went from black to white-blonde, transformed into my negative image, who would I be then? Would I also welcome in catastrophe?

Would catastrophe be preferable to nothing at all?

But let the record show, it was not Ben’s arrival that caused Miss Cedars to disappear.

I had grown tired of playing her – because that is how it had come to feel, like a role upon the stage. Miss Cedars, the sweet, keen teacher of the senior years, the spinster nearing her ancient thirties, the one who had taken tenancy of the centre harbour cottage when everyone knew it was reserved for a young, married couple, people who could be trusted to go forth and multiply, earning themselves a property on the south elevation with extra bedrooms.

The loss of my first name had come to upset me. It had been deftly cut away as soon as I began teaching.

‘No one will call you “Leah” anymore,’ Ruth French had cautioned me. ‘Not even the adults. It’ll be, Morning, Miss Cedars, and, Will we get a break in the clouds, d’ya think, Miss Cedars?’

She had been three years above me at school, and was three years ahead of me in her teaching training. I assumed she was taking the opportunity to be superior – you never really leave the playground, after all – but she was right. I became Miss Cedars. Only Miss Cedars.

‘Ah, you thought the likes of us would be exempt?’ she said with a wink.

Ruth was a blackhead too, and while not a daughter of the Council, her colouring gave her some status. She was never bothered with ear-blessings and head-patting, though. She shared a house on the lower, less desirable stretch of the south elevation with Catherine ‘Cat’ Walton, the assistant curate with the spiky hair. Ruth wasn’t a ‘pure catch’ like me. During her appraisals in Mr Crane’s office, I wondered if he made her read the passage from Leviticus that warned of abomination.