48

‘What do you see out there, Tommy?’

‘The colour of happy.’

‘And what else? Real things?’

‘Sky and fluffy clouds and hard clouds and marshmallow mountains of clouds.’

Such an imaginative little thing. I start to sing, contained and clear, ‘Happy birthday, dear Tommy…’ He pushes his face against the windowpane, squashing his nose and cheeks. He doesn’t stick his hands in his ears, which makes a bubble of happiness swell inside me.

‘I see the colour of happy too, Mr T. Mine is pink, what is yours?’

He doesn’t answer, which is fine, perhaps there are no words, or perhaps a specific colour is too limiting, perhaps it’s a spectrum of colours. His silence is fine. I can leave him with it, and I don’t need to make it mean that he’s being disrespectful, or that he’s ignoring me. He’s entitled to his silence.

I drive slowly, luxuriating in our new-found ease of saying nothing.

We stop off at our local shop on the way home, the two boys from that day when I lost Tommy slouching behind the counter, a shared recognition, though, wisely, a wordless one.

‘It’s the little fella’s birthday!’ I say.

‘Happy birthday,’ they say almost in unison.

‘We need Rice Krispies, cake holders and melting chocolate. Oh, and matches and candles!’

They run down different aisles and return in triple-quick time with the items.

‘Thank you, boys. Very kind. We’ll bring you in some chocolate krispie cakes.’

I pay, they wave, smiling, in relief. ‘Bye, birthday boy.’

Yelps of excitement greet us as I open the front door and let the animals out into the yard, the evening air mellow and kind, not too cold, wet, damp, windy, or anything at all, the kind of weather I’d usually call insipid. Back in the kitchen I melt the chocolate, pour it into a large bowl. Once it’s cooled, I allow Tommy to dig his hands in. He goes to feed Herbie.

‘Hey, chocolate is poison to dogs.’

He looks at me like he doesn’t quite believe me, but says, ‘How about cats?’

‘I wouldn’t risk it.’

He lifts a mouthful to his lips. ‘Poor Marmie, poor Herbie.’ Closes his eyes, savours.

‘Want to pour in the krispies?’

He takes the open packet and pours the contents in. ‘Snap, pop, Yaya.’

‘Crackle,’ I say as we knead our hands into the mix. I lay out little bun cases and we scoop handfuls into them.

‘Let’s leave them to set in the fridge for a while, ok?’

He opens the fridge, sniffs, looks around, as I place a tray of krispie cakes on the bottom shelf.

‘Hey, how about we blow up some balloons, Mr T?’

He squints at me as I pull the packet apart, hand him a pink one, then change my mind, and give him yellow, me pink. It’s going to be a pink-balloon night; I’ll make sure of that. We both blow, his tiny, mine huge, and I tell him to hold them as I stretch their necks, loop and tie, then throw them in the air.