My destiny was laid out before me, you see, like a fisherman’s line. I was a fishergirl, becoming a fishwife like Ma, and soon a fisher lad would propose and I would be a proper wife to him. I would wear a striped skirt and apron every day except Sundays. I would toil when my husband was ashore, looking after him, and I would toil when he was on the Forth, repairing and baiting up his lines. I already knew how to gut and dress cod, halibut and flatfish, singing all the while as my fingers got redder and colder and sliced with cuts. Singing the same songs my grannies had sung, of good winds bringing the men home; although my voice might not be as high and sweet as Joan’s, I still enjoyed those songs. If I had a babe, whether it lived or died, I would be back at the market within the week, calling ‘Fresh fish’ into the harbour wind. I would never leave tiny Fisherrow, and I would never go to London or see a play or walk in a garden of showy blooms, or let a gent kiss me hello in the foyer of a theatre. One day I would realize that I needed to hide my roughened hands with a pair of soft suede gloves, if I was ever to be seen in kirk.

Finally Spencer returned, a month or so later on a Sunday evening as it was darkening. He arrived much as he’d done the first time he came to our cottage, merry and cold, smelling of pipe tobacco and sharp peppermint and a spiced cologne. The nights had got shorter and our cottage had got even darker and gloomier, with a bigger pile of logs now hissing and crackling in the fire. But when I opened the door and saw him standing there, I shivered – not with cold, but with excitement. Here he was. Something different from my ordinary life. And even handsomer than I had remembered.

Ma had been at her darning, stockings in a creel at her feet, shooing Little Paws away from the wool, and Da was out for a Sunday pint, which he liked after his Sunday lunch.

‘You’ve just missed Mr Dickson,’ said Ma as I brought Spencer into the room. ‘But you’ll find him down at the Mussel Inn.’