She looks up to see a woman standing close to her, a baby around the same age as Tom in her arms. “I was told it was OK for little ones.”

“I know. I think perhaps you have to keep to the corner.” Cate gestures to the mat beneath her.

“Really?” The woman looks cross. “Well, what’s the bloody point in that?”

The woman’s baby has seen Tom and is reaching out for him. The mother notices, amused. “You want to get down?” She kneels and puts her child on the mat. The baby is dressed in hand-knitted, haphazard style. She wears a home-spun bonnet which gives her the look of a small mushroom, or a Bruegel peasant. The woman plucks her daughter’s hat from her head and black curls spring forth, then throws off her own sweater. She is small, with a gentle intensity to her features, short brown hair, angular bangs.

On the mat, their children are groping for each other. Their hands touch and they both scream in delight. The woman laughs. “Who’s this?”

“This is Tom,” says Cate.

“This is Nora,” says the woman.

“That’s a good name.”

“You think? My partner decided on it. All the ones I wanted had some sort of tragedy attached to them. Antigone. Iphigenia.”

Is she joking? Cate can’t tell, but the woman catches her eye and smiles. She sits back and blows her bangs from her forehead. “Where’s the Tom from then?”

“Oh, well, we just liked it I suppose.”

“Fair enough.” The woman reaches out and places a toy in front of Nora. It has lots of buttons which Nora presses in turn, blaring out Americanized versions of nursery rhymes.

“Oh, nononononono.” The woman leans in and turns the sound off. “We’ve had quite enough of that for one morning.” Nora presses the buttons a few more times, but when they yield nothing, loses interest and crawls over to where Tom is bashing a block against the side of a table. “I like the onesie,” says the woman, gesturing to him.

“Oh.” Cate can feel herself blush. “We were late, and he was sleeping, so—”

“I’d wear one myself if I could. Can you imagine, someone putting you in a onesie and tucking you in? Letting you sleep? Heaven.” The woman closes her eyes, and for a moment exhaustion takes over her features, until there is a cry and she snaps them open again. Nora is reaching for the wisps of hair on Tom’s head. “Oh no no, we don’t grab, darling,” says the woman, lifting her child away and onto her lap as Nora’s fingers clutch on air.

“Nora Barnacle!” says Cate. “Joyce.” She has spoken before she has thought.