As I said, there had been five babes born, of whom me and Joan were the last two and the only ones who lived. There was another pregnancy, when I was around the age of six or seven, and that was how I learned how babies are made and that losing an unborn babe is a trauma of blood and grief. I didn’t know Ma had been with child, for she hadn’t said anything, but one morning there was blood in the bed and Ma was doubled over herself in agony, and Da went out and came back with some of the other fishwives, and they sat me by the hearth as they got Ma organized. Someone bundled the bed sheets away and brought fresh linens, and Da went out again and was gone for a long time. One of the women brought Joan and me some porridge, which we ate sitting on the Turkish carpet by the hearth, which we would never normally be allowed to do.

One of the women said, ‘Now, girls, let your ma rest.’

And we did. For the blood had frightened us.

Later on Ma got up and started on the dinner. She sighed and sniffed as she chopped and boiled, and her face was grey and her hair a greasy mop. Joan went to her and Ma put her arms around her, and then her arms around me.

‘You poor girls,’ she said. ‘You have all of this to come.’

After that, I don’t think Ma was in the mood for any more baby-making. We all shared the box-bed, and Little Paws – our tabby mouser – too on cold nights, so it was likely she and Da rarely had the chance anyway. I think that suited Ma, for I only ever saw her clothed. Buttoned tight from her neck to her tiptoes. Grey nightie at bedtime, and striped skirt covered with a black apron by day. She was a woman who took a slap from her man and accepted it as well deserved, and we were girls who tried to avoid Da’s temper at all costs. Joan avoided it better than I did.

And that was how it was until the day Patrick Spencer first came to our home. I was one-and-twenty years old, and it was as though someone had lit a candle in the darkness.