Old Tom was as crowded as it had always been, and at first I thought Tilda may not have come. Then I saw her, at a table with three other women right at the back. She must have caused the usual fuss when she walked in, but she wasn’t encouraging it the way she had seven years before: we had to push ourselves past small groups of men to reach her, but none appeared to be throwing flattery her way. It didn’t feel as welcoming as it once had.

Tilda rose and embraced me. “Ladies, this is Esme. We became fast friends the last time I was in Oxford.”

“You live here?” one of the women asked.

“She does,” said Tilda, her arm pulling me close. “Though she hides herself away in a shed.”

The woman frowned. Tilda turned to me.

“How is your dictionary progressing, Esme?”

“We’re up to S.”

“Good God, really? How can you stand going so slow?” She let me go and sat back down.

The other women were all looking up at me for a response. There were no spare chairs.

“We collect words for a few letters at the same time; it’s not as tedious as it sounds.” No one said anything for a moment. I felt Gareth shift a little closer and was glad he had come.

“And this is…” Tilda hesitated and made a show of searching her memory. “Gareth, isn’t it?”

“Good to see you again, Miss Taylor,” he said.

“Tilda, please. And these lovely ladies are Shona, Betty and Gert.”

Shona was the youngest of the three, no more than twenty. The other two were a good ten years older than I was.

“I recognise you now,” said Gert. “You were Tilda’s helper that night at the Eagle and Child.” She looked at Tilda. “Do you remember, Tilds? That was my first real outing.”

“The first of many,” Tilda said.

“And there will be many to come, the rate we’re going.” Gert looked at me. “We’re no closer to the vote than we were a decade ago.” A few heads turned in our direction. Tilda stared them down.

“And what do you think of it all, Gareth?” Tilda said.

“Women’s suffrage?”

“No, the price of pork. Of course, women’s suffrage.”

“It affects us all,” he said.

“A supporter, then,” said Betty. Her voice gave away her northern origins, and I wondered if she’d come down from Manchester with Tilda.

“Of course.”

“But how far would you go?” Betty asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s easy to say the right things—” she glanced towards me “—but words are meaningless without action.”

“And sometimes action can make a lie of good words,” Gareth said.

“And what would you know of our struggle, Gareth?” Tilda leaned back in her chair and sipped her whiskey.

My head turned from one to the other.