I slept badly that night. In the morning, I felt worse for the lack of sleep, but I insisted on going to the Scriptorium. I kept a packet of McVitie’s in my desk and nibbled them through the morning post and while sorting slips. I tried to improve on the top-slip meanings suggested by volunteers, but nothing better would come to mind.

I looked over to the sorting table. Da sat where he had always sat, as did Mr. Sweatman and Mr. Maling. Mr. Yockney sat where Mr. Mitchell used to, and I suddenly wondered what kind of shoes he wore and whether his socks matched. Would another child be welcomed beneath the sorting table? Or would new assistants complain and chastise and accuse? Da coughed, brought out his handkerchief and blew his nose. He had a cold, that was all, but I suddenly realised that he was older, greyer, fleshier. Would he have the energy to be mother and father, grandmother and grandfather? Would it be fair to ask it of him?

At lunchtime, I joined Mrs. Ballard and Lizzie in the kitchen and suffered their anxiety.

“You must tell your father, Essymay. And Bill should be made to do the right thing,” Lizzie said.

“I won’t be telling Bill,” I said. Lizzie stared at me, her face full of fear.

“At least write to Miss Thompson. She’ll help you tell your father. She’ll know what to do,” suggested Mrs. Ballard.

“There’s time yet,” I said, not knowing if there was or there wasn’t. Lizzie and Mrs. Ballard looked at each other but said nothing more. The kitchen became unbearably silent. When Lizzie asked if I’d be going with her to the Covered Market on Saturday, I said I would.

The market was crowded. It was a relief. I hovered beside Lizzie as she went from stall to stall, testing the firmness of one fruit, the give of another. The banter was familiar and reassuring; no one made a point of asking how I felt or of telling me I looked pale.

Eventually, we made our way to Mabel’s stall. It had been weeks since I’d seen her. She looked smaller, the unnatural curve of her back more pronounced. As we got closer I could see that she was whittling. Closer still, and the movement of her hands was mesmerising, their dexterity a contradiction to her wretched body.

Mabel was so absorbed that she didn’t notice we were standing by her stall until Lizzie put an orange on the crate in front of her. Her craggy face barely registered the gift, but she put down the knife and whisked the orange into the folds of her rags. Then she picked up her knife and resumed her whittling.

“You’ll like this, when it’s done,” she said, looking at me.

“What is it?” asked Lizzie.

Mabel turned to Lizzie for a moment and passed her the figure.