“You were quite wonderful.”

“Thank you for saying, but you have skilfully avoided the question.”

“It was mediocre,” said Bill, saving me.

“That may be the nicest thing anyone has said about it, Bill.” She put her hand on his arm. “It is also the reason our season has been cut. Effective immediately.”

“Fuck.”

I was startled. Not by the word, but by his easy use of it.

Bill turned. “Sorry,” he said.

“Don’t apologise, Bill. Esme is a collector of words. If you’re lucky she’ll write that one down on one of her little scraps of paper.” Tilda held up her empty glass.

“Sorry, old girl, our recent unemployment does not extend to two whiskeys.”

“But I haven’t told you the good news.” Tilda smiled. “As Esme said, I was quite wonderful. A couple of the Oxford University players thought so too. They made up the majority of today’s audience, and they’ve asked me to join them in Much Ado About Nothing. I’m to play Beatrice. Their original has come down with chickenpox.” She paused to let Bill take it in. “They have a terrific reputation, and the first few nights are nearly fully booked. I arranged a cut of the box office.”

Bill slapped the table so all the glasses jumped. “That is fucking brilliant. Is there a job for me?”

“Of course; we are a package, after all. You will dress and undress and occasionally feed lines. They’ll be fighting over you, Bill.”

Bill returned to the bar and I took out a slip. Mabel had only ever used fuck in the negative.

“You might need more than one,” said Tilda. “I can’t think of many words more versatile.”

Fuck was not in F and G.

“Looking for something in particular, Essy?” asked Da as I put the volume back on the shelf.

“I am, but you won’t want me to say it out loud.”

He smiled. “I see. Try the pigeon-holes. If it’s been written down, it’ll be there.”

“If it’s been written down, shouldn’t it be in the Dictionary?”

“Not necessarily. It has to have a legitimate history in the English language. And even then…” he paused “…put it this way: if you don’t want to say it out loud, it may have fallen foul of someone’s sense of decorum.”

I searched the pigeon-holes. Fuck had more slips than most, and the pile was divided into even more variant meanings than Bill and Tilda could provide. The oldest was from the sixteenth century.

The Scriptorium door opened, and Mr. Maling came in with Mr. Yockney, our newest, smallest and baldest assistant. I put the slips back and went to my desk to sort the post.

At eleven o’clock, I went to sit with Lizzie in the kitchen.

“Mabel says you made a new friend on Saturday,” she said as she poured my tea.

“Two friends, actually.”