I was broadening my social circle. I had a red Malvern Star and I could get to wherever I wanted on it. I rode along the river and met kids under the Richmond bridge to walk the undercarriage: the struts were big and geometrical; it was easy, it wasn’t dangerous at all. It only looked dangerous from the ground. And if you fell, you’d just go into all that brown river water full of carp. The pink chemicals they pumped out from factories along the banks would probably hurt you more than the fall. We went in drains too, skinny ones where you had to crawl and big ones where you could put your hands out and only just touch both sides. Boys collected in these places, practising to be tough; names were not even important. Their younger sisters yelled at them to come down or come home. Some of the boys smoked cigarettes and occasionally someone brought alcohol which we snuck around among us, a capful at a time—it was horrible, but not as bad as the cigarettes, which made me feel like my guts would fall out. There were homeless men down there too sometimes: you’d come around a corner on the river path and find one up on the bank asleep or drinking from a paper bag and yelling crazy things. They were scary and sad and you stayed away from them, even though, by now, Mrs Parish had read Great Expectations to me and I knew a tramp could leave you a big fat inheritance if you played your cards right.

Ornella smelled the smoke on me, and smacked me, and then sighed ruefully when Carlito lit up a Camel and offered me the pack.