Uncle Jos, red of face and portly of stomach, is slumped over the worn wooden table that doubles as a writing desk and a dining table, although, truth be told, it is used for far more than that implies. It has been a ship on the high seas, a cave full of dragons, a tent in the wilderness and many more play scenarios from Mary’s somewhat unconventional childhood. These days, it is more often than not covered in articles and notes from Jos’s work or pieces of material for dresses, waistcoats and the like, for Mary is a dab hand at sewing and often helps with costumes for the penny gaff. But for now it is simply a plain table, an arm and headrest for a drunk man and a lost soul.

An empty bottle is clutched tightly in Uncle Jos’s right hand and Mary gently prises it from his fingers, sniffing it with distaste before putting it to one side. Sheets of paper are scattered in front of him, most blank and just one half-filled with writing. In the midst lies his precious notepad, full of scribbled hieroglyphs decipherable only to a handful of others. Mary glances over it, huffing to herself. Another unwritten piece, no doubt with a looming deadline.

The fire is low and the evening is getting chill. She prods at the embers with the poker, taking out her bad mood with angry jabs until the flames yawn themselves back into life, brightening the corner of the cramped little room. It is still too dark to work, though, and so she must light a candle too. She brings it close, throwing a circle of light onto Uncle Jos’s small notepad. Slowly, thoughtfully, she reads the half-written piece before scanning his notes, flicking through the pages to unravel the article he should have finished hours ago.

Uncle Jos snorts and mutters to himself in his drunken haze as Mary makes a start on finishing his piece for him, the words scratching themselves onto the page in front of her. He has taught her well without even knowing it. She has read so many of his articles over the years that mimicking his turn of phrase comes naturally to her.

Mary is a fast and economical writer and there is still some semblance of warmth in the pies when, with great satisfaction, she places the final full stop on the page. She is halfway through a sigh of relief when there is a knock at the door. It is not too late for visitors – after all, she is used to Uncle Jos’s tipsters calling with a snippet of news in exchange for a coin – but no one is expected tonight.

Mary straightens both her dress and posture, takes a moment to check herself in the faded mirror on the bare plaster wall. She pinches her cheeks to put a little colour in them, but there is nothing to be done with her uncle. She will have to send away whoever is calling for no one else must see Jos like this.