“I’ve made enquiries at the Oxford High School for Girls,” Ditte said.

I wanted to scream and cry and rail at her, but I did none of these. I looked to Da.

“We should have sent you there in the first place,” he said sadly.

I returned to bed and only came down again when I heard Ditte leave.

Ditte wrote to me every week after that. I let her letters sit on the sideboard by the front door, unopened, and when three or four had gathered Da would take them away. After a while, Ditte included her pages to me in her letters to Da. He would leave them on the sideboard, unfolded, begging to be read. I’d glance at the writing, absorb a few lines without meaning to, then grab the pages in my fist and crumple them into a ball to be thrown into a dustbin or fire.

The Oxford High School for Girls was on the Banbury Road. Neither Da nor I mentioned how close it was to the Scriptorium. I was welcomed by the few girls from St. Barnabas who had gone there, but I limped through the rest of the school year. The headmistress called Da to her office to inform him that I had failed my exams. I sat in a chair outside the closed door and heard her say, “I can’t recommend she continue.”

“What will we do with you?” Da said, as we walked back towards Jericho.

I shrugged. All I wanted to do was sleep.

When we arrived home there was a letter for Da from Ditte. He opened it and began reading. I saw his cheeks colour and his jaw clench, then he went into the sitting room and closed the door. I stood in the hall, waiting for bad news. When he came out, he had the pages Ditte had written for me in one hand. With the other he stroked the length of my arm until our hands were clutching. “Can you ever forgive me,” he said. He put the pages on the sideboard. “I think you should read this one.” Then he went into the kitchen to fill the kettle.

I picked up the letter.