It was ten past four. Time to give up, definitely… Lying awake since three, sick with fear, he wouldn’t sleep again. Old memories replayed, shrill screams of fear, the smell of blood, and all the pieces that used to be human. Stella would say, too calmly, don’t think, don’t remember, you can’t go back, can’t help anyone. Don’t pick at old scars. She was a fine one to talk. Vicious attacks on children, on her own patch or near enough? How, exactly, was burying her own head in the sand supposed to help? Every GP surgery must be talking, planning, stepping up emergency cover. Hospitals, paramedics, they’d all prepare for the worst. The police issued routine warnings. No-one had been arrested or even questioned. Random attacks by a shape shifter, unseen in a crowded street. Witnesses struggled, didn’t seem to know how this could be, let alone why. No child was safe. Three times in the past hour, he’d crept out of bed, tiptoed along the landing to stand beside his daughters’ beds, watch their safe and peaceful sleep, Alice with one arm around her bear. Was she too old for a bear? Insecure? His fault, bound to be… Every night, Jane’s music box tinkled through Brahms’ Lullaby. If he dared to write about this, ever, Alice would kill him… If she didn’t, Jane certainly would… Ten times wiser than her years, Jane knew what was allowed, and all the rest, absolutely forbidden.

Four o’clock was his usual time for giving up, the death of hope, all his dreams crushed. Stella, Zoe, Alice and Jane slept peacefully, didn’t feel his pain. Which wasn’t true and wasn’t fair. Quite often, Stella didn’t sleep, out all night, driving over the hills and far away to people at death’s door. Some were just panicking, but you had to go… Hiring locums hadn’t worked, one more crazy idea dreamed up somewhere down south. Locums got lost, strayed into Scotland, were afraid of cows, sheep, dogs, goats and even, last week, peacocks. Far more seriously, locums could never understand a word anyone said. Asking where does it hurt was the easy bit. Londoners, mostly, poor things. In Country Living and lyrical weekend features, life and everything else in the Northern hills was wonderful. His fault, some of it… This other Eden, demi paradise… Instead, the Londoners discovered the rain, then more rain, the all pervading smell of shit, the language of Noggin the Nog. No longer charmed, they complained, fluently, about Eden District Council.

The NHS out of hours trial lasted barely a month. Then Alec Kerr had given up, said they’d manage the old way. It worked, more or less, more being himself and Stella, slightly less meaning his son Will, who was bound to improve with time. Mary would see to that, buying louder and louder alarm clocks. Stella, eerily, woke without any alarm, her brain hard wired to the job.

Today, he really would give up. Definitely… Do something decisive for once… Delete all fifteen chapters of that bloody book, resign from hack jobs that paid a pittance, sign on and stack shelves. At least stacking shelves would be useful. Finding bare shelves instead of peanut butter or marmalade or cat food was a pain. Stacking shelves, or collecting trolleys, like all the other ex writers and artists. Stella said he’d get a bad back. She would. Long before they married, the division of labour had been agreed. The government would pay her silly money for looking after bad backs and broken hearts, even when she couldn’t fix either. He’d run the house, round up the kids, write off-games notes, and one day, maybe, a best seller. Writing used to be anarchic. No rules, just basic instinct. No formulae, no genres, no crap about ‘show don’t tell’, bleated by brats with degrees in creative writing from the university of where? The brats trained people to write. They spouted all kinds of rules. Never begin with the weather… Fine. No more bright cold days in April. Never begin with a statement. OK, understood, no truths universally acknowledged. Never begin with someone waking up. Goodbye, Gregor Samsa… Or a journey… Warn Dante off. No journeys, beginning, end of, or even bang in the middle. Writers used to tell stories. Once upon a time and carry on till the end, happy or not. Unhappy endings were in vogue. Alternatives had been slightly passé. Maybe they were back? This week, flipping backwards and forwards seemed to be in. Too complicated. He couldn’t write.

Stella said negative thoughts would hurt his brain and give him indigestion. Stella thought all best sellers were acts of a secular God, nothing to do with writing well… Look what happened when Doris Lessing used a pseudonym. Nobody wanted to know… Allegedly, and with only the tiniest changes, editors had turned down Pride and Prejudice, the real thing, not Bridget Jones. Stella also said the only cure for insomnia was getting up. Four in the morning demons, getting up was the way to stay sane. He might as well. She was bound to be right. The marriage service needed an urgent rewrite. Men should promise to obey, save themselves any amount of trouble. Lawyers might go under, marriage and kids would flourish… Mystifying the vicar, Stella had insisted on the old Prayer Book service. The vicar tried arguing. Surely promising to obey was against her human rights? Stella knew better. The Prayer Book wanted the punishment of wickedness and vice. Which would be a very good thing, surely? She promised to obey. He loved her, and that was another statement, creative death, grim proof that he wasn’t a writer…

Kitty padded through the living room to sit by her blue bowl, yowling pitifully. Tom very nearly kicked her. He couldn’t, because cats had rights. Also, he liked animals, respected them too, even this one. They weren’t allowed a cat flap, because the house was old, or in a conservation area, or falling apart, or some such codswallop. Castles and stately piles were full of cat flaps, pointed out with pride, starring in the heritage guide books. Pangur Ban lived in an Irish monastery. What if he wanted to go out, right in the middle of Matins? Two doors down had been fined for their cat flap, installed without permission. Rubbing salt and vinegar in the wound, the council ordered its immediate removal and a kind of invisible mending. The heritage mender seemed to charge a thousand pounds a minute. Right now, Kitty didn’t want to go out. There’d been a scattering of snow in the night, then a hard frost. He shook pellets into her bowl. They looked like rabbit droppings. Laced with something mysterious, obviously. Cats wolfed them down. Last week, the vet told him off because the cats were putting on weight. If Kitty was a woman, she’d be warm, round, loving, enjoy her food, hate exercise, make people happy, just by being herself. Which was a fair enough description of Kitty. Lean, grey, neutered, Cat kept himself to himself, regular temp rather than house cat.

Shaking with cold, Tom wriggled out of his trousers, slid back under the duvet. Stella was awake now, flinched as his cold body touched hers. He drew away, not wanting to make her cold too, but she had her arms around him, shivering as they touched. She said, crossly,

‘Where the hell have you been? Midnight tryst? Who is she?’

‘Kitty, blast her. Midnight munchies. She ordered breakfast. I chucked her out. Go to sleep.’

‘It’s after five.’

‘And half term. There’s another hour yet. More than.’

‘I know. Come here…’

Helpless, he returned the offered kiss. In the darkness, she was passing something to him. An envelope. She said, dreamily,

‘I thought of a rose and then I thought again. The heads fall off and they don’t smell. Rip-off prices, too many air miles, shouldn’t Africa grow food? So I bought you this. It came just in time, yesterday.’

Reaching under her side of the bed, she produced something dark and oddly shaped, something in a bag. Kissing him still, she said,

‘I kept the rose. The one you bought for me. You bribed Zoe to keep it in water, then sneak it on to my pillow. You can plant this one. Rosa Gallica. The Apothecary’s Rose. We can distil our own perfume. Move somewhere sunny.’

‘Ex pats and peasants on the make. We could move to the Highlands for the fishing.’

‘And the midges. I love you and it’s Valentine’s Day.’

He hadn’t forgotten. All hacks knew the special days… Writing Valentine copy, long before Christmas, he’d planned what to buy, couldn’t remember, right now, where he’d hidden it. In the dark, he reached for his own card, passed it to her. Stella didn’t switch the light on, didn’t even try to open it, but she kissed him anyway. Too late… Tom was dead to the world. He would be.

The bedside radio crashed into action. Any minute now, so would their daughters. Radio 4 chattered about the weather, the return of savage cold, freezing fog, bringing every motorway to a standstill. Then a slight clarification. All the fog was in the south and east.

‘The whole world.’ said Stella. ‘We all live in London. Of course we do. I bet it’s not foggy here.’

‘Not when I chucked Kitty out. Hard frost, full moon.’

‘We could go for a walk. Surprise a few foxes.’

Tom decided to kiss her again, wondered, briefly, about taking this further. Impossible. Only the childfree young went in for that. Already, he could hear voices, Alice and Jane, padding along the landing. Alice was a demon for getting up. She’d see the snow, wake Jane. Now it was sport, all the usual inquests. All real men were sports mad, knew the offside rule and how much footballers cost. Sport was his six-thirty cue to get up. This Valentine’s Day, he was enjoying being in bed, with his wife, thinking wistfully of other things, not involving daughters. Radio 4 prattled about idiotic messages in the papers, read them out to each other. He checked Stella’s contours. She sat up, said, peevishly,

‘You’ve no respect for me. I’m just a sex object.’

In the darkness, she slipped from the bed, just as the weather forecast began. Tom switched on the light, but lay back on his pillows, watching her dress. Stella kept clothes simple, bras black, knickers ditto. Dark trousers… Today’s were moleskin, navy blue, perfect fit. Handspan waist, though Zoe was nearly eighteen… He should have cancelled that stupid conference or workshops or whatever it was he’d signed up for. Valentine’s Day was for running away, romantic, illicit, but what would they do with the kids? Bribe Zoe? Unfair… Zoe had A-levels next term, struggled with insane hours of homework, every stupid teacher, piling on the pressure.

Stella added a black silk camisole, searched for a warmer jumper. Then she drew the bedroom curtains, cried out in delight. The bedroom radiator hadn’t worked for weeks. Mediaeval, barbaric, bleeding didn’t work on people, so why radiators? First question they asked. Yes they had, no it didn’t work. It didn’t. No-one had come to fix it. Cold was grim, cold was beautiful beyond words. Frost flowers and ferns shimmered, uncanny, drawn by an unseen hand. Jane pushed the door open, then bounced in. She was dressed and almost decent, only her jumper back to front. Stella would sort that out later. Today, Jane had even managed her tights. Only yesterday, she’d put them on back to front, the heels crumpled deformities, crouched on her instep. Stella loved her, hopelessly, tried to carry her from the room. Jane resisted, not a baby to be cuddled. Bounding over to the bed, she said, peremptory,

‘Lazy Dad. Get up. Now means Now.’

‘I can’t. Not with you in the room.’

Jane stuck her tongue out, pulled the duvet to the floor. Stella left them to it. At least Tom was decent. Bitter cold meant pyjamas. Any colder, it might mean bedsocks too. Bathing together was over. The girls were too old. She’d never seen her own parents naked. Simon had been breastfed, but only behind closed doors, only newborn, small round head pumping their mother’s swollen breast. Only once, only a glimpse, quickly hidden. Before he was a month old, Simon was promoted to bottles, could dine in company at last. Had she been breastfed? Not the kind of question her father would answer. He’d look away, change the subject, wasn’t here to ask. Married to his new young wife, all that might be different now. Dad must be happy enough, hardly ever rang home, talked of U.S. citizenship. Now she could hear Alice, scolding Tom, not those socks, Dad. Too many holes… An ordinary day, then. Valentine was a long time ago. A saint, so did he really exist?

In the kitchen, she saw both cats at the frosted window, let them in, yowling resentfully. The kitchen led to another and larger room. The builders had suggested knocking the walls down to make one of those huge so-called family rooms. Absolutely not… Given enough space, families ripped pieces out of each other. Literally, if they had one of those choose your weapon knife blocks. Zoe needed the so-called music room, space for friends and so-called music too, as loud as they liked. When they wanted to, the family gathered in the living-room, huddled round the wood burner. She was sorry, sometimes, that they hadn’t tried harder with the range. All the best houses came with inglenooks and ancient ranges. Ancient ranges hardly ever worked. It had to go. In Tom’s expert hands, the woodburner earned its keep. Once, for a magazine peddling fantasy, he’d cleaned the old scone girdle, baked real oat cakes, just for the pictures. And the money, obviously… Tom said he’d write anything for money. It wasn’t true. The truth was much harder to bear. She had the real job, he lived in hope. Would that ever change? Better not to ask… Today was the all-day workshops, part of a so-called festival, sponsored by the university, where five departments were on life support. How many festivals did writers need? Pressing flesh, drinking too much, did they have any time left for mere writing? Tom said, sternly, this was the way things worked. Writers had to be seen, known, remembered. Alice and Jane would have a day out. Tom had looked almost afraid. Perhaps he was…

They’d be leaving at eight, hardly worth lighting the fire. Zoe might not get up for hours. Then she kicked herself, unfit mother. On this bitter day, with the weather grabbing all the headlines, Zoe faced that mountain of work, must come down to a glowing fire, feel loved and wanted. Quickly, Stella twisted paper, set kindling, arranged logs. The third match worked. In the kitchen, she made breakfast, her own black coffee, Tom’s doorstop toast, a muffin for Alice, a banana for Jane. Bossy health freaks nagged about breakfast, the most important meal of the day, allegedly… Rubbish. Mr Darcy, Mr Bingley and Captain Wentworth sat down to breakfast at ten, and a meal they called dinner at five. Jane ate bananas for breakfast, always had, since she was six months old.

‘Toast’s burning.’

Stella pelted to the grill, turned Tom’s toast over, too thick for any toaster. Where the hell was he? Why insist on doorstops? With half an eye on the grill, she slotted Alice’s muffin into the toaster, sliced Jane’s banana. Scrape Tom’s toast, pass the marmalade… How had he survived, all those years on his own, no wife or any kind of staff? Bone thin, he nearly didn’t. When Freya was killed, Tom had stopped eating, very nearly stopped living. She’d seen the photos. When Martin died, not eating wasn’t allowed. Unborn, Zoe deserved to live. She said, pushing the marmalade closer,

‘You’re hopeless. Wake up, for godsake.’

‘I’m an owl. Forced to behave like a lark.’

‘Larks and owls are birds. Humans are diurnal mammals, magazines publish any old rubbish.’

Tom smiled, spreading marmalade thickly on his toast. The first jar. Last week, between two glossy features and Zoe’s history dissertation, he’d made thirty pounds. In a perfect world, he’d have a house with a wife in it, making jam and marmalade and scones and cakes. He might believe in the Mother Goddess, a fusion fantasy of Jill Archer, Joanna Lumley and Lara Croft. Instead, he’d married an unfit mother, forever racing between the kids, the patients, and, in this weird new system, the cash strapped local police, calling her out to view the latest mangled corpse. In the crime-free countryside, they didn’t need forensics. Allegedly… Instead, they hired people like Stella. Widowed, eight months before Zoe was born, forensics was a job she could do. She still did, in odd moments spared from live patients.

Stella spread a scraping of Marmite on Alice’s muffin, sprinkled half a teaspoon of brown sugar on Jane’s banana. Bananas didn’t need sugar. Jane wouldn’t eat it without. Healthy eating was a bore and thank God there was protein in baked beans. Given half a chance, Alice would live on pizzas. Zoe’s diet was appalling. On a good day, she’d eat a handful of lettuce, a small tub of cottage cheese. Zoe and her friends swore by the latest headcase guru, starved themselves silly half the time. Then, being perfectly normal teenagers, not anorexic, just mad with hunger, they’d break out, gobble midnight Mars bars. Other women managed their families, served healthy gourmet meals, planned a whole month of menus. Other women were born knowing everything, managed an up-do with one flick of a wrist. Today, as usual, time gathered speed. She raced through chores, wiped the kitchen table, filled the log basket. Feed the cats again? According to the tin, cats regulate their intake. Too right they did, all day, every day, round the clock. Tom asked, plaintively, if she’d packed his sandwiches. Stella looked at him. She said, quietly,

‘It’s Valentine’s Day. You gave me that rude card. I gave you the Apothecary’s Rose. We’re coming out with you, doing the sights, meeting for lunch. Me and the kids, leaving Zoe in peace to work’

‘I forgot. You know what I’m like in the mornings. Told you I’m an owl.’

She kissed him. There was butter on his chin. She cleaned him up, as if he were Jane. The windscreen needed scraping. Wake Zoe, tell her to keep the stove in? Zoe groaned.

‘For godsake, Mum… It’s the middle of the night.’

A huddled shape, buried rejection, somewhere under the duvet. Zoe would arrange her own day.

The road was lethal. Last week, February fill-dyke delivered headline floods in all the usual places. No floods now, but the last few inches of water were sheet ice, a horizontal Cresta Run. Sitting beside him, Stella saw Tom bite his lip, draw blood. White knuckles gripped the wheel. Twice, they began to skid. Someone had come to grief on the long hill. There was a scatter of broken plastic, tiny shards of glass. Tom slowed down to five miles an hour, barely breathed again till they reached the village. He said, peevishly,

‘That bloody road… Do they ever grit it?’

‘Of course not. Didn’t you read the leaflet? Winter Driving, and a handy little map. On no account will they ever, ever grit our road.’

‘Then why pay council tax?’

‘Because they’d fine us. Jail us, even. We’d get a criminal record.’

‘Probably…’

‘We could move to town?’

They were on the crest of the by-pass, could see the snow capped hills, high above the village. Tom didn’t take his eyes off the road, said, evenly,

‘You move to town, if you like. On your own.’

Alice said, not prepared to argue,

‘We’re not moving. Ever. Elspeth was my best friend. She moved house, to somewhere called Achnasheen. I’ll never ever see her again. Facebook doesn’t count.’

She began to cry. Tom said, close to anger,

‘Now look what you’ve done.’

The morning was brilliant, rose-gold, azure. Stella said,

‘Of course we won’t move. Not yet… Town would be sensible. Gritted roads, for instance.’

Alice giggled.

‘Then Dad couldn’t write about getting cut off. Or snowed in, or a cow in the garden, like last week. Nothing would ever happen.’

Stella thought of yesterday’s practice meeting, Alec’s face, grim and set, the third vicious attack. Sophie Grey couldn’t live. She said, because her own children must be happy,

‘Of course we won’t move. Icy roads make me nervous. They should grit them.’

‘We could buy some grit and just throw it. Everyone. We don’t need They.’

The first lights. Tom could see Jane’s face, eager, so absolutely right. We don’t need They. In his head, the words began to form. Out of the mouths of very babes… Of course they could grit the roads… We don’t need They… Jane for Prime Minister?

They chattered for thirty miles, door to door, his only meeting this month. Two months, counting from Christmas. He’d lived in a bigger world, reckless in other countries, angry and scary… Here, for one day only, he could be a writer again, run workshops, pretend that words on paper were real, could be shaped and honed. His brother would laugh, might ask what the hell was going on? Henry’s list of universities was short. It wouldn’t include most redbricks, let alone a mere Sixties invention. From somewhere on the edge of Cambridge, Henry commuted to London, left home before six, came home to eat, sometimes. Henry saw his kids at weekends, brought work home every night. Quite often, Henry was in China or Malaysia, said the North and the West were over, might as well face the truth. What he actually did remained a mystery, but Henry’s daughters had their own ponies. His son was at prep school, only eight and already a boarder. Just once, the cousins had met, bridesmaids and page, all the right size, recruited for a family wedding. Whose? He couldn’t remember. Was he jealous of Henry? Jealousy was the wrong word, wrong concept… Had they ever been brothers, top and bottom bunk? He wouldn’t want Henry’s life. Henry certainly wouldn’t want his.

Parking, in the main campus car park, he realised, in a deja-vu flash, that he’d chosen exactly the same space as usual, two bays east of disabled and next to the oldest meter. Alice and Jane needed the loo. Arriving anywhere, they always did. Stella would have to take them. Tom asked if she had a key to the car. So often, they’d use hers, not his. She had to show him, to prove it, mustn’t be left stranded. After the loo, she asked Alice and Jane what they’d like to do next. A bad move. Wise mothers knew they were in charge, announced the day’s agenda, dispensed with choice and squabbles. Jane wanted to feed ducks. In love with the past, Alice wanted the Castle. Stella hesitated. This was her undoing. Jane set up a wailing chant, ‘Ducks, ducks, ducks, ducks.’ Stella set off towards the duck-infested canal. Alice began to wail,

‘It’s not fair. She always gets her own way.’

Stella could have slapped the pair of them, came to her senses just in time. She said, deliberately bright,

‘It’s much too early for the ducks. We’ll feed them after lunch. The castle doesn’t open till ten. Half-term, so there’s lots of things to do. We’ll go to Tourist Information.’

Alice and Jane smiled. Alice tucked one ice-cold hand into Stella’s, ice-cold because she’d lost a glove. Alice watched, approving, as her mother added gloves to the list. Then the shared delight of sitting on an old park bench, watching history. They were Diamond Jubilee benches, not Elizabeth II but Victoria, retired to Tourist Information because they were so venerable. Stella was determined to enjoy this day. Her daughters would be half-term happy. This wasn’t, quite, the July ecstasy of timeless days. This time next week, they’d be back at school, but this morning, the first real day of half term, they were happy enough. Tom had booked a table for four. Valentines wined and dined in twos, snugglebum, sugar plum, heffalump and all the other true loves. Grown-ups celebrated with their children. In the castle, all the dark dungeons were real. Better still, they belonged to the Queen.

At one o’clock, sated on death and torture, they met Tom, who was there first, waiting outside the new and allegedly child-friendly restaurant. Seeing him in the distance, Stella thought of this morning, their cards, the rose, their children. In the long dark coat, he looked distinguished. Only from a distance, of course. Close-up, he was Tom. Years into marriage and children, how would Darcy look? Anything like this? Possibly… Darcy was a cypher. Tall, rich and landed… That was your lot. Colour of eyes? Colour of hair? Favourite food? Names of his dogs and horses? How he’d vote? What he’d eat for breakfast? For all anyone knew, Darcy could be ginger with gooseberry eyes. Tom explained all these omissions. Perfectly simple, Jane Austen hadn’t read any of the right books or signed up for the right course, didn’t know what she ought to reveal or how. Creating atmosphere was vital, anticipation too, such as meeting a lover… Did Tom count? Just occasionally, he could be masterful… Today, for instance, he’d insisted on real food. On plates, at a real restaurant. No toys, no paper bags. This year, Alice and Jane were old enough for flowers on the table. For once, they’d use knives and forks and napkins.

Alice tucked her napkin into the neck of her jumper. It was only paper, but chastely white, thick, ready to cope with any spills. She’d chosen the simplest of meals, an omelette with a green salad. For Jane, they were boiling an egg, to be served with broccoli, and a wall of mashed potato. Tom and Stella chose omelettes too. The new owners were French and very young, barely mid-twenties. The staff were younger still, seemed to be Greek. Tom said omelettes were a test. Any idiot could concoct a fancy dish, smothered with sauce. The bread was made in house. It tasted right. Across the table, Tom and Stella raised their glasses. Mineral water, but the glass sparkled. The day was a rare blessing, winter perfect. If only Tom didn’t have to work all day… In travel features, half-term families had two parents. The next workshop started at two fifteen. He must get back to campus, couldn’t even stay to feed the ducks, watch for water voles. He and Stella ate Tarte Tatin, completely perfect. The children chose tiny dishes of fromage frais, decorated with fruit. Jane, disgusted, dropped a slice of kiwi fruit into a bowl, poubelle de table, asked what the writing meant. She said, before Stella could object,

‘It doesn’t taste of anything.’

Alice giggled, scraped her own kiwi into the bowl.

‘Yes it does. It tastes of snot. Green bogeys. Yuck.’

Stella decided not to scold. Nothing must spoil this Valentine’s Day. She raised her glass to Tom; more mineral water. Jane licked her dish. Alice looked appalled. In good enough French, Tom asked for l’addition, charmed the young owners. Just as well he could understand the next question, chat with them… Then, too soon, they had to leave. They walked with Tom for a few minutes. Alice and Jane kissed him lavishly. Anyone would think he was emigrating or flying to the moon. See you at half- five, he said. No kiss. Remembering another life, alone with Zoe, Stella could never quite believe any of this. Tom, Alice and Jane might not be real. Did Tom feel the same? He barely said a word about Freya or their child, ever, only that Freya had been pregnant. Perhaps it was different for men.

Duck bread was in the boot, wholemeal crusts, the stub of a bun loaf, the last two from a packet of pitta bread. Alice wanted to carry it. They squabbled, as if this was a rare honour. Already in possession, Alice won. Today, the frost had held, still far below zero, even at midday. Tow path puddles were pools of glass. Bike ruts made corrugated ridges. Reaching the bridge, Jane shrieked, excited, ‘Look at the boats! They’re all frozen in!’

It was true. Moored outside the pub, every boat was anchored by ice. Cat ice? It looked thicker. Dog ice? Up to what size? Spaniel? Labrador? Tom would share her thoughts, suggest breeds, the weight-bearing properties of ice. Jane called to the ducks, as if they’d been waiting. Alice wouldn’t let go of the bag. She was in charge. Stella stood a small distance away, watching as Alice dealt out the bread, slice by slice. They’d feed half to these ducks here. Then they’d walk under the bridge, right under the main road, past the cathedral, then feed the next ducks. Not fair for the first lot to eat everything… Jane obeyed. Then she led the way along the rutted path. Under the bridge, they shouted for the echo. Stella fought away memory. Echo lived in the old coach house, on the edge of the park. Simon’s lungs would nearly burst, calling for her… Echo never came.

‘Dad-Dad!’, called Jane, at the top of her voice. Any echo was drowned by the rumble of traffic overhead. Turning away, she said, sadly,

‘He hardly ever goes out to work. Why today? It’s the holidays.’

‘Because.’, said Alice. ‘He told you why. Teaching students. You should of listened.’

They came to the next ducks and a family of swans, cob, pen, five parti-coloured cygnets, last year’s brood, not quite ready to go. They hissed, snaking long brown necks. All the ducks paddled away. Stella feared for her daughters, but Alice was in command, shouting at the cob. Then Jane stopped dead, wide eyed, silent, pointing to the quickness of movement, the whiskered face, small swimming body.

‘Ratty’, said Alice. ‘Wind in the Willows. They’re rare.’

They watched and waited, but Ratty was gone, nothing like a rat. A canal barge wandered past, carving through the ice, its stove smoking. They waved to the couple on board, fiftyish, with two cocker spaniels. When the water was still, they saw Ratty again, scrambling out, climbing the bank. They watched for one charmed minute. Then it was over, the last crumbs fed to the last duck. No more Ratty. Alice said, without reproach,

‘My hands are still freezing. We didn’t buy any gloves.’

Stella nodded. Playtime was over, the day growing darker. In her bag, there was a list of tedious things to buy, knickers, socks, toothpaste, soap. Half-term, so the streets teemed with parents, nannies, conscripts. Stella thought, sourly, grandparents should refuse. Very few looked happy, especially the men. They’d served their time. The sales that began before Christmas were desperate now… In some windows, bright mannequins shivered in pastels or jewel colours, wore Capri pants, crop tops, sarongs… Stella shuddered, needed work wear, not hypothermia.

In the cobbled streets, there was barely room for two abreast. Stella gripped Jane’s hand tightly. Alice lagged a few paces behind. Stella kept turning round to check on her. Reaching M & S, she pushed at the heavy door, turned because someone was shouting, the words a torrent of rage. Then a child’s shrill scream… Stella swung round, saw the attacker in action, kicking, lashing out with feet and fists. A hundred faces stared. Nobody moved. None of the words made sense.

‘That’s what you get! That’s what you deserve. For what you did to me, when I was little.’