I shook my head and felt my fingers wrinkle in the cold, greasy pot water. I had never had my head turned by a local lad. Not by one of the fishing boys at any rate.

‘Mibbie this Patrick Spencer might be a good bet for you, even if he’s not from around here. He seems to be doing well, with whatever his line of business is,’ Ma pondered.

‘Joan’s jealous,’ I said. ‘She should like to be married to a nice gent and never have to lift a finger again, and have maids all around her.’

‘Her turn will come,’ replied Ma. ‘She will have her pick of boys. Do not let her spoil this for you.’

That was one of the nicest things my ma had ever said to me.

I spent the time waiting for Spencer, growing more and more aware of how unfair things were at home. Da never raised his hand to me after that Sunday-lunch visit, and Ma ceased her threats of the workhouse at Eskmills. I think they were waiting too, to see if he would propose. But the air of their discontent hung over us. I suspect they would have been all too happy to give up their fishing life, despite their claims that it was all we knew. The only other life they knew was criminal, and they were feared to get more involved in that. Occasionally there’d be hushed talk of tax officers and port officers and sheriffs and jails between Ma and Da, and these tales drew Ma’s lips into a thin line for hours afterwards.

Spencer came straight to the house a couple of weeks later, as soon as he was back. November had slipped into December. It was late one evening when we were all dozing by the fire, but I knew Spencer’s rap at the door and rushed to see if it was him.

It was, stubbled and wind-beaten and grinning from ear to ear. I leapt into his arms. I couldn’t help it.

‘I told you I’d be back, he whispered into my ear. ‘I don’t need my parcel yet, but I needed to see you, Maggie.’ He smelled of the sea and his particular magical perfume scent. I breathed him in and pressed my lips to his neck. ‘Come and meet me tomorrow at the Mussel Inn.’

We drank coffee again in the upstairs parlour, thick and humming like a witch’s brew. He talked of Gothenburg and London again and I listened, agog. After the coffee he asked me to his room, on the pretext of showing me more of his perfumes.

‘My chamber’s only up one more flight of stairs.’ He tipped his head towards the door. ‘We could nip up, if you like. I’m not sharing with anyone this time. Got the room all to myself. And I want to ask you something in private.’