It was her mother who’d taught her about the suffragettes. She’d also said that women should want more than to be yoked to their houses and their husbands. Head for the horizon, she said. Don’t be satisfied with standing still.

‘Which relation?’ she said, looking directly at Victor.

‘I cannot divulge the identity of my client.’ He spoke with mock secrecy and tapped the side of his nose.

She rolled her eyes. Victor was a past master at exaggeration and deceit. He knew well enough that his claim about these books would determine the deal for her father.

In the corner of the room, the grandfather clock struck ten. ‘Right,’ said Victor, ‘Time and tide and all of that. Are we agreed?’

‘Indeed we are,’ said Connie’s father, rubbing his hands and grabbing a scrap of paper. Connie tried to see the scribbled figures, certain Victor would trick them if he could, but her father was already heading into the back room. Connie watched him sadly. His once confident stride had turned into a shuffle. He had become hunched, weighed down by grief. He looked so much older than he was.

She reached for the copy of Mrs Dalloway. Opening the book, she read the first line. Mrs Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself. What kind of flowers had she had in mind? Lilacs perhaps, like the ones her mother used to fill vases with. Daffodils like those Connie had laid on her grave. Or violets like the drooping bunch Harry had given her that time they’d gone to the pictures. She smiled at the memory. She suspected he had pinched them, but she hadn’t cared. Johnny had never given her flowers although he’d painted enough sunflowers. Sunsets and sunflowers and the occasional attempt at a portrait.

Victor spoke. ‘I like your dress. Yellow suits you.’

She was tempted to throw the book at his head, but that was no way to treat any book, let alone Mrs Dalloway. She ignored him instead.

‘Don’t be shy. I don’t bite.’ He smiled in that way he had, drawing back his lips, showing his pointy teeth. Fumbling in his pocket, he pulled out a hip flask and offered it to her. She shook her head mutely. He took a swig. ‘You know, it isn’t easy to make conversation with a girl who doesn’t speak.’

‘I have nothing to say.’

‘Ha!’ He held up one finger. ‘But you have.’ He looked at her for a second more and then asked after her boyfriend.

‘I don’t have a boyfriend,’ she snapped. Automatically, she moved her hands across her stomach and then immediately crossed her arms.

‘Because if that was the case, I’d understand, but seeing as you don’t have a boyfriend – or so you say – I’m bewildered.’ He pocketed the flask. ‘I’m not saying every girl falls for me, but . . .’