“Whatever you suggest is likely to be refined,” he said. “Your perspective, however, will be grist to the mill of our endeavour to define the English language.” He leaned forward then, and his whiskers twitched at the edges of his mouth. “My own daughters are fond of pointing out the inherent biases of our elderly volunteers. I’m sure they will be glad to have you on their side.”

From then on I did not feel superfluous, and the task of sorting slips took on a new challenge. Da would inform me whenever one of my suggestions made it into a fascicle. The proportion increased with my confidence, and I kept a tally on the inside of my desk: a little notch for every meaning penned and accepted. As the years passed, the inside of my desk became pitted with small achievements.

May 1906

I enjoyed the freedom of having a salary, and I became familiar with a number of the traders at the Covered Market. I continued to join Lizzie on Saturday mornings, but with my own basket to fill, and an allowance from Da for groceries. When we were done with the food shopping, I would take her into the draper’s shop. Bit by bit I was replacing everything in our house that was worn out or depressingly functional. I enjoyed spending my money in this way, although Da only sometimes noticed. The last shop we’d go into was always the haberdashery, and it was my greatest joy to buy Lizzie a new thread.

On other days, when Lizzie wasn’t with me, I’d visit certain stallholders who I knew had a way with words. They spoke with accents from far up north or the south-west corner of England. Some were Gypsy or travelling Irish, and they came and went. They were mostly women, old and young, and few of them could read the words they’d given me once I wrote them down. But they loved to share them. Over a few years I’d managed to collect more than a hundred. Some words, I discovered, were already in the pigeon-holes, but so many were not. When I was feeling in the mood for something salacious, I would always visit Mabel.

A woman I’d never seen before was picking through Mabel’s wares in the same distracted way I usually did. They were deep in conversation, and I was reluctant to interrupt. I hung back among the buckets of flowers at Mrs. Stiles’ stall.

I bought flowers from Mrs. Stiles every week, but my association with Mabel over the past few years had been noted, and the florist was not friendly. This made lingering all the more awkward.

“Have you decided what you want?” Mrs. Stiles had come from behind her counter to straighten flowers that didn’t need straightening.