I remember the evening as clear as if it was yesterday. It happened under a blushing sunset that had that first crisp sniff of autumn about it, with the Forth shimmering pink under the sky. I had just been out the back after supper, bringing in firewood, and my hands and apron were grubby with wood-shavings. Little Paws was by the hearth, her favourite spot, sleeping on the small square of Turkish carpet that was one of the various imports we had come by. Joan was doing needlework, which mostly consisted of sewing variations of her own name onto fabric scraps in ever more elaborate designs – Joan, Joanie, Jo, and so on – and admiring seeing herself embroidered. Ma always let her fritter her evenings away whilst I was set to housework, even though Joan was nineteen by then. But when Patrick Spencer walked in our door, my sister put that girlish needlework away, lightning-quick. And, now I come to think of it, she never took it out again.

Spencer had a head of curly hair and a freckle-spattered face that made him look like he was up to mischief. He had a tendency to wink too – enough to make him cheeky, but not so much as to make him appear a sketchy sort, like some of the men that visited us. He was not tall of stature, nor needed to be. His merriness more than made up for it. That’s what caught my attention. I felt almost as though he was inviting me in. With just one look.

‘Well, this is a cosy scene,’ he said as he stood at our door. ‘Like something straight out of a painting. And that is a sight for sore eyes, for I’ve been travelling so long I’d quite forgotten the comfort of a good hearth and a welcoming family.’

‘We do try to be welcoming,’ said Da warily, eyeing the man’s expensive greatcoat. ‘But I am not sure how you come to have knocked upon the door of this house, out of all the houses in Musselburgh.’

That was Da trying to make sure Spencer had proper connections and was not out to steal from us, or set a trap by which Da might have got into trouble. But Spencer introduced himself formally and said he had spoken to Mr Neptune at the Mussel Inn, which is a code they all used, on account of the Roman god of the sea, and Da relaxed after that and offered him a dram of whisky.

‘I hear you can look after things,’ Spencer said, after Ma had taken his greatcoat. Then he paused, assessing us.