‘Indeed we cannot,’ I say, standing up and walking towards my father. I take my purse with me and open it in front of him. I pull out a handful of coins and hand them to him. ‘Take these and get yourself back to the Mussel Inn,’ I tell him. ‘You can stay there for a few days whilst we women sort things out here. We have much to catch up on, and you won’t want to hear our silly gossip, I am sure.’

Da lets me press the coins into his hand. He looks at the three of us – three women who are not necessarily the three finest women in the world, nor the strongest, and certainly not the fanciest. But we are in unison, and we do not want him spoiling our evening.

‘I shall on my way then,’ he replies and picks up his bag. ‘But you cannot wear that pink gown about the place. It is too bright for around here.’

‘I shall wear what I like,’ I say. ‘It is my gown, bought with my money that I earned from my own hard work.’

Da does not like that at all. He blinks and swallows and looks at Ma, but she just folds her arms. When he retreats, he doesn’t look like a terror or even much of a bully, for I have seen worse. He looks like an angry man with nowhere to put his frustration and sorrow, except on those around him. Well, we are having no more of that. If our neighbours on Fisherrow have not shunned the Dicksons after a hanging, they will not shun us for barring our da from the door.

Afterwards, when Da’s footsteps have long disappeared, Ma closes her eyes and smiles, and her face looks a little lighter. Joan does the rushes and says how about a tipple of rum? And we all nod, and Ma hums as Joan fetches the bottle.

We are not desperately bonny, we Dicksons, not really. In a good light Joan is pretty, and a sight prettier than me. Pretty enough to lure the son of one of the mill owners at Eskmills. But we do not light up a room. Even in pink dresses, we do not gleam like the Mrs Roses of this world, nor pose like the ladies of Edinburgh in their carriages. We wear no jewels, aside from my glass ring and the odd paste brooch, and we are comfortable elbow-deep in fish guts.

But there is a stoicism in fishwifery.

We are bold and brave and built for battle.

We do not stay up late really, the three of us. We have tea and there is a bit of ham in the pantry, and we slice that up and talk more of all that has happened. Joan and I do not look at each other when Ma mentions Spencer’s name.