‘I think so. But I never thought I’d get this far.’

‘Why not?’

‘My father wanted me to be a nurse. Or rather, he expected it.’

‘I never would’ve pegged you for a disappointment.’

‘He’ll get over it, I’m sure. It’s not as though I didn’t make it obvious.’

Somehow, when her own life was the object of the conversation, she began to wilt before him, feeling studied – which was wrong of her, because he was the least judgemental man she’d ever met. Perhaps it was a symptom of the fact that every time she told someone of her ambitions, they only seemed remote and unattainable, and she felt pathetic for pursuing them. If she talked about the creativity that had been encouraged in her as a child, it always sounded juvenile – the models she would make from dry grass in their meadow, oil paintings she would do of Monk the family dog, the schemes she used to draw for the arrangement of her bedroom furniture, the charcoal sketches of their house. But Arthur only smiled at her and said, ‘I used to do the same. Drawing on my uncle’s wall with bits of coal.’

The hardest part was getting past the mention of her mother without lapsing into tears. It was her mother who’d escorted her through London on their visits, pointing out the features of the skyline changing every year; who’d shared her interest in the galleries and museums and libraries; who’d told her, ‘You should aim for a profession other than just being married to a man who has one – and it doesn’t matter how well paid it is.’ This advice had stuck with her, not least because it came towards the latter stages of her mother’s life, a month or two before she got so poorly. An infection in her kidneys. Come next April, it would be four years without her.

‘Well, I reckon she’d be proud,’ he said, ‘to know you’re here.’

‘I hope you’re right.’ She finished off the last of the green vegetables, which Arthur seemed to have ignored. ‘One thing I know is, if she hadn’t passed away, I’d never have found the strength for all of this. It’s focused me – I’m doing this for her.’

‘And what about your father? Does he mind you being here?’

She looked away. The vendor with the stack of crates was yelling out the prices of his fruit again. ‘He’s paying forty pounds a year for me. That’s more than I expected he would do. I’m choosing to be grateful for his generosity.’

‘You can pay him back when your cathedral fees come in.’

‘I’m sure he’s counting on it. First commission, he’ll be asking for his share.’

‘And don’t forget the taxman,’ Arthur said. He took the cigarettes from his coat pocket and lit one up. ‘You didn’t want to stay down south, then? Study there, I mean.’

‘No. Liverpool’s supposed to be the best.’

‘Is that what people say?’