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concede that some books were worthier than others) they could not find it in their hearts to condemn anything that came in printed form as being entirely without merit. Having learned to read well before I went to school, and having from the first been given the freedom of the St Giles bookshelves, I read The Old Curiosity Shop, The Sheikh , and Mrs Strang’s Annual for Girls with equal respect and enjoyment. I thought most of Kipling quite as good as Ethel M. Dell and both very nearly the equal of The Naughtiest Girl in the School . The very thought of all the books in the world still waiting to be read was dizzying. I realized that I didn’t have a moment to waste if I was to get through them all before it was time for me to die.
    In my Chandos House bedroom, waiting for the clock hand to move – perhaps because I was now living with schoolmistresses, or perhaps because I was hungry – my resolution wavered. I sensed that, so far as literature was concerned at least, the time of joyous anarchy was past. Unless, perhaps, whilst I had been ill, I had been growing up without knowing it, and knew already, without being told, that Ethel M. Dell was not as good as Kipling, whatever another part of me might think. Either losing my nerve, or just to be on the safe side, I rearranged my meagre shelf: took down The Way of an Eagle, The Sheikh , and the small bundle of Peg’s Papers which I had rescued from Maud; shoved them back in the box out of sight, and replaced them with Ivanhoe and Huckleberry Finn .
    Two minutes before eight I stepped out on to the landing, bringing the empty suitcase with me. A dim light was burning, a gas bracket, turned down low, creating shadows which were not friendly. It seemed to me that there were a great many doors, all of them painted brown, all of them shut, a contrast with St Giles which made me momentarily tearful before I reminded myself to welcome the bad feeling since it balanced out the happiness and made the latter morally OK. I wondered which was Miss Gosse’s door and which Miss Locke’s. I hoped Mrs Benyon’s door was not too close to mine.
    Miss Gosse was waiting in the hall, going through the letters on the brass tray to make it look, I think, as if she wasn’t waiting at all but was there on private business. She smiled up at me with a touching anxiety as I came down the stairs. I warmed to her because I could tell by her expression that she was doing her best, and I hoped she would warm to me similarly, because so was I. I should have liked to ask her if she would have wanted me for a lodger even if Mrs Crail had not told her she had to have me, like it or not, but I was afraid the chances were that as an honest woman not used to lying, she would reply ‘No’. After all, she and Miss Locke had each other for company. They had to put up with children all day long at school, and it stood to reason they wouldn’t have wanted one at home as well, outside working hours. It was different for Mrs Curwen who had a child to look after anyway, so one more wouldn’t have made all that much difference. Miss Gosse and Miss Locke would almost certainly have been better pleased with a dog – a King Charles spaniel, perhaps, to match Miss Gosse’s bright bulging eyes and her puggy little features.
    I wondered what had happened to Miss Locke.
    Miss Gosse took the suitcase from me and set it down at the side of the hallstand, next to my school case and my shoebag. As if she had read my thought she said: ‘Helen – Miss Locke – has gone to the concert at St Andrew’s Hall. She won’t be back till late. You’ll see her in the morning.’ On the way down the hall towards the back of the house, she added: ‘When I saw your music case I thought, oh good! You and Miss Locke will be able to play duets together.’
    â€˜I hope I’ll be good enough.’
    â€˜Much better than me, that’s certain! I’m