‘You must be getting awful cabin-fever stuck in all day,’ said Emma, as they pushed through the lancing wind. ‘I know what it’s like. My oldest nearly went mad with Richard. She used to ring me up, just to hear an adult voice that could talk.’

Rachaela thrust the pram between the bare trees.

‘So if you want to go off on your own for a bit, and you’ll trust me,’ said Emma, ‘I can look after Ruth.’

‘Thank you,’ said Rachaela. ‘But what I really need is to get a job. The money’s run out fast.’

‘But you can get assistance, Rachaela, and you must.’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s foolish to try and manage on your own.’

Rachaela had not repaid Emma for the plethora of pink clothes, the blankets and toys, the pram and cot.

Emma had told her several times she did not wish to be repaid. Ruth was payment enough. Her ‘share’ of Ruth. They connived together: Emma taking a little more of Ruth at intervals; Rachaela gladly giving a little more.

‘I need space to think,’ said Rachaela.

‘Let me have her, then. As I say, if you can trust me... I’ll look after her if you want to go back to work. Only if you’re sure...’

‘Yes. I’m no good with—her. You’re marvellous,’ she added stonily, a meaningless accolade.

But Emma flowered in the winter park.

‘Well, I’ve had three. And I did see a little of Pauline, when she was small, just enough to remind me. She’s lovely, Rachaela. You know I’ll take care of her.’

She had already seen the new bookshop. It had opened in the high street. ‘Isis Books’. Feminist tracts and slim novels lined the windows. It already had a tatty, dusty look that reminded her of Mr Gerard on Lizard Street.

She went in and bought a novel set in India, whose prose appealed to her, and the heat and dust and cinnamon smells of somewhere else.

A soft fuzzy girl was at the till.

‘I’m looking for work. I used to work in a bookshop before I had my baby.’

‘Oh a baby,’ said the assistant. Women were the mothers, protected of Isis.

‘I’m wondering if you need an extra person.’

There had been three girls and a woman at first, now there was only this one.

‘What, part-time?’

‘No, full-time.’

‘Well, with your baby.’

‘A friend looks after her.’

‘Oh is it a girl? How nice.’ The fuzzy one gave Rachaela her change, correctly. The till was not computerized. ‘You need to see Jonquil. She’s not in today. She’ll be here tomorrow morning. Why don’t you drop by and have a word with her.’

In the morning Rachaela returned, leaving Ruth in her pen in Emma’s crowded flat.

Jonquil came from the back. She was about thirty-seven, tall and spare, with spiky grey-streaked hair. She wore jeans and a large jumper, cowboy boots, one stainless steel earring.