In the Spar, on automatic, I stuff a batch of white bread under my arm, paying only for the luminous-orange ice pop Tommy presents me with on the way out. No one even asks about the other, presuming a woman of my bearing and stature and, yes, breeding wouldn’t bother with anything as low as snatching bread. Anyway, it’s for the ducks, no harm involving the shop in my philanthropic activities.

The sun is a soft lemon shade of yellow today, or ‘mellow wellow’, as Tommy says, licking his orange ice pop as we walk around the duck pond. I lift my face to receive its gentle caresses and feel myself settle back down inside. That encounter with Mrs O’Malley was distressing, and stealing, though I’m such a pro, always gets my heart racing as if it might fly out of my mouth. I find a bench and sink down into it, pulling my dress above my knee to expose my long limbs and slim ankles, an attribute that only those in the theatre world gave a damn about: ‘Such dainty ankles and wrists, such a “drawing room” physique.’ Indeed. I stretch my legs and point my toes and let myself remember the feeling of being adored.

‘Stop them, Yaya. Stop them. They’re hurting her.’ Tommy is shouting. How he instinctively knows it’s a she I don’t know, but the two of us grab sticks and a ball and anything we can find and lob it at the gang attack. Five drakes are going at one duck, dragging her under, banging her head against the concrete rim of the pond. I pick up a big stone, throw it, whack one of them, but they’re only momentarily distracted, and then go at their victim even harder.

A man leaning on a walking stick speaks very loudly: ‘What an example to teach your young boy.’

I throw with more fury. ‘I’m teaching him it’s not ok for a female to be raped.’

The man shakes his stick at me. ‘Lunatic. You’re going to hurt one of them.’

‘That’s the intention, old man.’ Can hear the mania in my voice, see my boy all riled up, the colour high in his cheeks, his focus intense. Herbie is running up and down along the side of the pond making a wailing sound like keening.

Tommy trips over his clown-like feet. I put the wrong shoes on the wrong feet, of course I did, and now my boy is hobbled. A big swan glides to the edge of the pond and hisses. I see white.

5

‘Is Mary’s house made of sweeties, Yaya?’

‘I don’t think so, darling. Mrs O’Malley’s house looks like bricks and mortar to me.’ When did he start calling her Mary?