‘And spare the girl the sight of me putting her father to the ground.’

His tone appeared to be one of reason, but even at that tender age I recognised the scorn within it. I knew what it was likely to precipitate. What it was intended to precipitate.

My father let out a cry and flew at the man, but no quantity of rage is a substitute for size and swiftness. It was this fellow’s job to keep order in his tavern, and this was an angry bantam flying at a bear.

The bear did what he had offered to spare the bantam: put him to the ground in the sight of his daughter, rapid blows landing without reply.

My father was left prostrate, winded. He was staring down at the mud in his daze, spitting blood, his ears ringing with laughter from the men who had come out to watch. They did not tarry, though. They got what they came outside for. The show was done.

But this play is not.

I ran to my father’s aid. He lashed out to ward me off, as though offended by my very intention. The back of his hand caught my mouth, my tooth piercing my lip.

I did not cry out, nor weep despite the pain. I knew this would anger him further: a show of weakness, womanly weakness, despised by a man not blessed with sons.

‘What use are you?’ he often demanded of me. ‘What use are any girls to a father? Just a draw upon a man’s pocket. Worse than worthless.’

My mother tried to convince him that the next child would be a boy, afraid of his disappointment should she be wrong, his wrath should another son fail to survive.

I remember my mother’s keening grief as she held the little bodies of my brothers. I remember my mother seeking me out for comfort once they were cold, lying down on the bed with her arms wrapped around me as she wept. These were perhaps the only times I knew her tender embrace beyond infancy.

My father climbed to his feet. I told him Mother had dinner ready at home.

He eyed the tavern door with a glower that lacked intent, but this did not mean his anger had been doused.

He walked with me towards Cumberland Street, his head low. He said not a word. To any other spectators watching the stage from the circle, he might appear meek and chastened, but to his daughter, this lengthening silence only added to her growing fear.

The stage now shows a tenement stair, where I am climbing three steps behind my father.

Still he had not said anything. I scented it long before we had reached the top landing. The meal had cooked far too long. There was an acrid odour of burning, the water having boiled away. I feared Mother must have become distracted by her washing, or even worse, fallen asleep.