A long table was set up under the ash, and it looked exactly as I’d imagined. There was a white cloth covered with plates of food and a glass bowl full of punch. Coloured streamers hung in the branches of the tree and there were more people than I could count. No one wanted to be fashionable, I thought.

Beyond the table, the younger Murray boys were playing tag, and the girls were skipping. If I went over, they would invite me to play—they always did—but the rope would feel awkward in my hand, and when I was in the middle I could never keep the rhythm. They would encourage, and I would try again, but there was no fun for anyone when the rope kept stalling. I watched as Hilda and Ethelwyn turned the rope, counting the turns with a song. Rosfrith and Elsie were in the middle, holding hands and jumping faster and faster as their sisters sped up. Rosfrith was four, and Elsie was just a few months older than I was. Their blonde plaits flew up and down like wings. The whole time I watched, the rope never stalled. I touched my own hair and realised Da’s plait had come loose.

“Wait here,” said Da. He walked around the crowd towards the kitchen. After a minute he was back, Lizzie at his heels.

“Happy birthday, Essymay,” she said, taking my hand.

“Where are we going?”

“To get your present.”

I followed Lizzie up the narrow stairs from the kitchen. When we were in her room, she sat me on the bed and reached into the pocket of her pinny.

“Close your eyes, me little cabbage, and hold out both hands,” she said.

I closed my eyes and felt a smile spread across my face. A fluttering danced across my palms. Ribbons. I tried not to let the smile fall; there was a box of ribbons beside my bed, overflowing.

“You can open your eyes.”

Two ribbons. Not shiny and smooth like the one Da had tied around my hair that morning, but each was embroidered on its ends with the same bluebells that were scattered across my dress.

“They ain’t slippery like the others, so you won’t lose them so easy,” Lizzie said as she started pulling her fingers through my hair. “And I think they’ll look very nice with French plaits.”

A few minutes later, Lizzie and I returned to the garden. “The belle of the ball,” Da said. “And just in time.”

Dr. Murray stood in the shade of the ash, a huge book on the small table in front of him. He tapped a fork on the edge of his glass. We all went quiet.