By the time we reached Sunnyside, my pile was much diminished. I’d set a fast pace, and Bill had granted me an ungrudging silence after I sniped that his banter might wake people and have them look out their windows. At the sight of the red pillar box, I slowed. When I was small, I’d thought Dr. Murray must have been very important to have his own pillar box. I’d loved to think of it full of letters that talked of nothing but words. When I’d learned the alphabet, Da had let me write my own letters, with made-up words and made-up meanings and silly sentences that meant nothing to anyone except him and me. He would give me an envelope and a stamp, and I would address my letter to him at the Scriptorium, Banbury Road, Oxford. I would walk by myself through the garden and out of the gates, and post my letter in Dr. Murray’s pillar box. For the next few days, I would watch Da’s face as he opened the post that was delivered to Sunnyside, sorting the slips into their piles and reviewing the letters. When he finally came to my letter, he’d regard it with the same seriousness with which he regarded all the others. He’d read it through, nod his head as if agreeing with an important argument then call me over to seek my opinion. Even when I giggled, he’d keep a straight face. I still felt a particular thrill posting Scriptorium letters in the pillar box.

“Seventy-eight,” Bill said into the silence.

“The Scriptorium.”

“You can skip it, if you like.”

I took a quick step towards the letterbox on the gate and dropped the pamphlet in. It fell to the bottom with a gentle swish.

The next morning, Da held the umbrella while I emptied the letterbox at Sunnyside. The leaflet was at the bottom of the pile, exposed and vulnerable without an envelope. I could see the edge of it and was suddenly concerned that I might be expected to discard it; whose pile, after all, would I put it in? Its significance had grown after I had put it in the letterbox, and my anxiety with it. But in the morning light, and among all those letters from learned men and clever women, the leaflet had lost its strength.

I was disappointed. I had feared what it might do, and now I feared it would do nothing.

“Da, I promised Dr. Murray I would include some new quotations in a pile of slips he is sending to Ditte for sub-editing,” I said. “Can the post wait this morning?”

“Give it to me. It will be an easy start to the day.”

I was grateful for his predictable response.