Seymour didn’t know anything much about babies, but once he’d been in a queue at the post office behind a young mother. The baby she’d held had made him uncomfortable by staring at him fixedly with clear blue eyes, like glass buttons. But then, with no invitation on his part, it had suddenly smiled right into his face, an unpractised smile like someone learning to drive, but one of incredible sweetness and trust. Not knowing him, not knowing anything about him, even his name, but it had focused its clear eyes on his face and smiled like that. He still remembered how pleased and almost honoured he’d felt.

‘Of course, I’ll have a proper house by then,’ Angie said. ‘Something will turn up. Couldn’t possibly have a baby in this place, could I? That house we saw in Gresham Avenue, that’ll be the one. That’ll do to keep the rain out. My baby’s only going to have the best, right from the start.’

‘What would you call it?’

‘Names? Heavens, I haven’t got as far as that yet. I haven’t even decided whether to…Why, what do you think I should call it—that is, if I ever do decide to have a kid?’

Seymour tried to remember names from all the schools he’d attended. There had been a kid, way back when he was in Year Three and starting halfway through a term when everyone already knew everyone else. He still remembered that girl’s name, Melissa Miller, and the way she’d given him a bunch of grapes from her lunch box.

‘How about Melissa?’

‘Yes, that’s nice. What if it’s a boy, though? Tell you what, we could start making a list, and put down any good name we come up with. You never know, that list might come in handy sooner than expected. Melissa. We’ll definitely grab that one because you thought of it.’

She printed Melissa on a new page in a polka-dot covered memo book from her handbag. They both became so involved with listing names that a whole half hour passed, and Angie regained some of her sparkle. She began making up improbable, far-fetched names.

‘Cinnamon,’ she said. ‘Or how about Lancelot—that’d suit him if he turns out to be a famous surgeon.’

‘That’s sick. Archibald would do for when he’s a baby,’ Seymour said. ‘Babies don’t have much hair.’

‘Get out, my baby’s going to have the most beautiful hair in the world, right from the start. How about Tressaline? Or something really different—Pegasus. Bet no one’s ever been called that. Pegasus Tressaline Lancelot…’

‘Miss Reynolds,’ someone called, and rapped sharply on the door. ‘Miss Reynolds, I’d like a word with you, please.’

Angie tensed, her pink tasselled pencil scribbling to a halt. ‘Oh, shivers, it’s the old dragon about the rent!’ she whispered in consternation.