‘I shall go now and get my bits and pieces,’ she said. ‘Have you plenty of rum or shall I bring a tot of whisky?’ But she was off anyway, skirts flapping in the wind, all the way back to the house to gather her things. I followed her and stood at the door as she packed. I could hear Ma pleading, and nothing from Da. Mibbie he would be happier now, with both of us gone.

But where was Spencer? Would I get a knock on the door one day to say he had died at sea? Would they even tell me, if he did?

The weight of his disappearance felt like an anchor. A waterlogged gown. I felt like it would never go away and I was destined to spend my days with the pain of it. I had barely known the man, yet he had come into my life in a flash of light. Spencer had shown me a glimpse of something better.

I watched and waited in the narrow street. It was empty of life. The sky and the sea were a blur of desolate grey, whipped to bits by the weather.

Joan’s bits and pieces filled two creels. Two nightgowns, two day-gowns, one Sunday gown, sundry worn linens and shawls, a cup, bowl and spoon as well as her scrapbook and bits of unfinished knitting. When I had left home, my belongings had filled just one creel. She also had a fancy tapestry purse with a tasselled edge, and two paste brooches to fasten her shawls. Market trinkets. Indulgences from Ma.

She moved in with me as easy as a foot slides into a familiar boot. All her belongings were tidied into cupboards and tucked onto shelves. Her half-tangle of knitting rested on Spencer’s chair. She was to spend her days with Ma, helping with the lines or selling at the market, and then she could spend her evenings with me. I supposed that sooner or later I would end up back working with them too.

‘Let’s have some of your rum,’ Joan said, as we sat in the parlour having our first evening together.

‘You’re up first thing, remember, salting fish with Ma,’ I warned.

‘What about a song then, or a tale? Tell me a story of married life. Tell me what I need to do to get a decent man like Spencer to marry me.’

This kind of talk was not like Joan. She looked downcast, yet her eyes still danced in the rush-light. Joan was bonnie. She had fair hair and a face shaped like a love-heart. She was cherub-like.

‘You know you are a fine-looking lass. Why are you worried you won’t get a decent husband?’