Often I had to dodge a wandering hand or avert my eyes to a lewd wink, or ignore cries and catcalls that made vulgarities of my unfortunate name – Mistress Dickson, Mistress Dick, I have my own Dick right here. I knew I could have any of them too, just like Mrs Rose had. And I knew it happened and that no one batted much of an eye, except when the parish officers were around.

Mr Baxter kept a gentlemen’s store under the bar, which was a wooden box from which could be purchased things like Castile soap and tooth powder, and something the patrons referred to as ‘implements of safety’, which I never saw, but were apparently skins that a gentleman put on his nethers to stop the pox, should he be getting intimate with someone. Sometimes a local girl or a lady would happen into the River Inn and become friendly with a patron and accept a drink from him, and they would disappear off for a while. I knew exactly what they were up to.

When night falls in a market-town inn there is a sense that anything can happen, and it won’t matter in the morning when the carts pull away to other corners of the country. By the end of supper time the world outside has fallen to a dark standstill. But under its thatched roof and oak beams, the River Inn glowed – a lantern to all who roamed the roads of the countryside, who navigated its rutted and dangerous ways. Those who had arrived safely and had avoided the highwaymen and rain and wind were assured of a bed and a hot meal. Which gave way to a devil-may-care atmosphere.

I’d meant what I said in my letter to Joan: I would make something of myself. But when I counted my pennies, I could have wept at how few there were, compared to the coins I’d had stolen from me. It would take months to even get close to having a decent bit of money set aside, enough for lodgings and a bit to keep me going.

But I still hankered and hankered to go.

If I had heard tales of London from the tea men, they were nothing compared to the tales told in the parlour of the River Inn. London was on the up and up. Anyone could do anything there. Why, every patron seemed to know a man who had arrived there barefoot and within twelve months he had quite turned his fortunes around. Imagine it! Imagine coming back to Fisherrow in a few years wearing a fur cloak and a velvet hat. Only a brief visit, Ma, for I cannot leave the servants too long, they will get lazy. Oh, you must all come down and visit.