“These are my birthday words,” I said, moving along to the oldest pigeon-holes where all the words for A to Ant were stored. Ditte raised an eyebrow. “They’re the words Da was working on before I was born. Usually, I’ll pick one out on my birthday and Da will help me understand it,” I said, and Ditte nodded. “And this is the sorting table,” I continued. “Da sits right here, and Mr. Balk sits here, and Mr. Maling sits next to him. Bonan matenon.” I looked to see Ditte’s reaction.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Bonan matenon. That’s how Mr. Maling says hello. It’s Speranto.”

“Esperanto.”

“That’s right. And Mr. Worrell sits there, and Mr. Mitchell usually sits there, but he likes to move around. Do you know he always wears odd socks?”

“How would you know that?”

I giggled again. “Because my place is under here.” I got on my hands and knees and crawled under the sorting table. I peeked out.

“Is it, indeed?”

I almost invited her to sit with me, then thought better of it. “You’d need a trim to fit under here,” I said.

She laughed and held out her hand to help me out. “Let’s sit in your father’s chair, shall we?”

Every year, Ditte would give me two gifts on my birthday: a book and a story. The book was always a grown-up one with interesting words that children never used. Once I’d learned to read, she would insist I read aloud until I came to a word I didn’t know. Only then would she begin the story.

I unwrapped the book.

“On—the—Origin—of—Species,” Ditte said the last word very slowly and underlined it with her finger.

“What is it about?” I turned the pages looking for pictures.

“Animals.”

“I like animals,” I said. Then I turned to the introduction and began to read. “When on board H.M.S Beagle…” I looked at Ditte. “Is it about a dog?”

She laughed. “No. H.M.S. Beagle was a ship.”

I continued “…as a…” I stopped and pointed to the next word.

“Naturalist,” Ditte said, then sounded it out slowly. “Someone who studies the natural world. Animals and plants.”

“Naturalist,” I said, trying it out. I closed the book. “Will you tell me the story now?”

“What story would that be?” Ditte said, looking bewildered, but smiling.

“You know.”

Ditte shifted her weight in the chair, and I manoeuvred myself into the soft sling between her lap and shoulder.

“You’re longer than last year,” she said.

“But I still fit.” I leaned back, and she wrapped her arms around me.

“The first time I saw Lily, she was making cucumber-and-watercress soup.”