I heard Mabel snort at something the woman said. Looking over, I glimpsed pale skin and a rouged cheek as the woman averted her face, just slightly, to avoid the rank breath that I knew assailed her. I wondered why she was still there; pity only required a moment. I had an uncanny sense I was watching myself, as others might have watched me—as Mrs. Stiles must surely have watched me.

The florist was waiting for some kind of response, so I drifted towards the bucket of carnations. Their pastel symmetry was bland and somehow repellent, but they were well placed to see Mabel’s visitor more clearly. I bent slightly, as if inspecting the bunches, and felt Mrs. Stiles’ barely restrained disapproval. Petals fell from some lilac blooms she was adjusting with too much vigour.

“For you, Mabel,” I said a few minutes later, handing over a small posy of lilacs, their scent an obvious relief to Mabel’s new acquaintance. I dared not look back at the florist, but Mabel was shameless. She took the posy and critically inspected its wrapping of brown paper and simple white ribbon. “It’s the flowers that matter,” she said too loudly, then held them to her nose with exaggerated delight.

“How do they smell?” asked the young woman.

“Couldn’t tell you. ’Aven’t smelled nothin’ for years.” Mabel handed her the blooms, and the woman buried her face in them, sucking in their scent.

With her eyes closed, I could take her in. She was tall, though not as tall as me, and her figure curved like that of a woman in a Pears’ soap advertisement. Above a high lace collar, her skin was pale and without blemish. Honey-blonde hair hung in a loose plait down her back, and she wore no hat.

She laid the flowers down between a barnacled bell that was unlikely to ever ring again and the whittled face of an angel.

I picked up the whittling. “I haven’t seen this one before, Mabel.”

“Finished this mornin’.”

“Is she someone you know?” I asked.

“Me before I lost me teeth.” Mabel laughed.

The woman made no move to leave, and I wondered if I’d interrupted some private conversation they were waiting to resume. I took my purse from my pocket and searched for the right coins.

“Thought you’d like ’er,” Mabel said. At first I thought she was talking about the young woman, but she picked up the whittled angel and accepted my coins.

“My name’s Tilda,” the woman said, offering her hand.

I hesitated.

“She don’t like shakin’ ’ands,” said Mabel. “Scared you might flinch.”

Tilda looked at my fingers then straight in my eyes. “Not much makes me flinch,” she said. Her grip was firm. I was grateful.

“Esme,” I said. “Are you a friend of Mabel’s?”

“No, we’ve just met.”

“Kindred spirits, I reckon,” said Mabel.

Tilda leaned in. “She insists I’m a dollymop.”