‘Of course not,’ I lied, edging away from her as far as I could. ‘I’ve no idea why he asked me out for Sunday lunch.’

‘He only fancies you because you’re older,’ she said. ‘If I was your age, he’d fancy me. It’s not fair. You’re nowhere near as bonnie as me and you are certainly not delightful. Your hair’s got nice and shiny recently, but your face is square-shaped and one of your eyebrows is higher than the other.’

Neither of these was true, but Joan was jealous, and I understood that. For I had always been jealous of her. Ma and Da liked her more, anyone could tell that. Ma often made jellies, even though I hated them, just because she knew Joan would eat jelly, whatever the flavour. Spiced jelly. Lemon jelly. Oh, they would make my stomach turn, but Joan slurped them down. And whenever she said she was tired of putting bait on lines, she got to go off and do whatever she pleased.

But there was no jelly in sight that Sunday, thank goodness, when Spencer came a-calling again and we all sat down to a slice of salted beef each, with boiled turnips on the side, and we all tried a finger of rum, which was foreign fire in the belly. The room was thick with turnip-steam and pipe fumes as Spencer gamely handled questions from Ma, such as where he was from and who were his folks, and the like.

‘Well over the Scottish border,’ he said. ‘Near a town in the Middle of England. My folks are in farming, but that’s not the life for me.’

Oh, it was all quite exotic, a man from the Middle of England taking an interest in me. I wanted to ask which town and see if I had noticed it on my map, but I felt embarrassed to ask anything like that in front of my family.

Little Paws miaowed at our feet and took a piece of beef from my fingers. Her tongue scratched and I suddenly wondered what Spencer’s tongue would feel like. He poured us all another taste of rum and, when he got to my cup, he glanced at me and bit his lip and I wondered if he’d had the same kind of thoughts, and when I drank that rum the fire in my belly surged.

‘We have never left Fisherrow,’ Ma said. ‘We can trace our line back years and years. All the fishergirls married fisherboys. That’s how it’s always been done, you see. It’s in the blood.’