‘Come on, what is it?’ Detecting a bulge in his trousers, I pat him down like a murder suspect. ‘Why have you got an onion in your pocket?’

‘So I don’t get smallpox.’

‘What?’

‘I don’t want to get smallpox,’ he says in a very thin little voice. ‘I don’t want to get sick and die.’ He rounds on me, fists clenched, and pummels my stomach. ‘I want to go home. I want to see my friends.’ Then he starts crying; big fat tears which splash onto the fleece and are quickly absorbed despite a label on the back professing the garment to be water repellent.

‘Let me see that.’ I prise the damp worksheet from him. ‘Settlers’ Ailments,’ I read out loud. ‘For rheumatism, soak half a bucket of rusty nails in vinegar. For teething pains, warm the brains of a freshly killed rabbit then apply to child’s gums.’

Dear God. I close my eyes for a moment then open them to Jack’s pitiful face. ‘Go get your coat.’ I tell him.

We sit in the M&M and look at the menus. The place is empty except for an old cowboy, alone in a booth, tobacco tin and packet of papers neatly laid in front of him, elbows leaning on the scratched surface of the table as he painstakingly rolls a cigarette.

‘Okay,’ I tell the children, ‘no chilli ‘n’ beans tonight, no sheep’s eyeballs. Have anything you want. Eat till you feel sick. My treat.’

‘Why?’ they ask guardedly.

‘Because I’m adorable, that’s why.’

‘No, why really?’ Jack demands.

‘Because everyone’s grumpy and sad and I dragged you both out here and it’s all really different for you and you miss Daddy, and because there is stuff happening to you that shouldn’t happen to you and I’m sorry.’

Jack stares at me suspiciously for quite a long time then drops his eyes to the menu. ‘I’ll have pancakes with syrup and bacon and a chocolate milkshake.’

Emmy lays her hand on top of mine. ‘Don’t cry, Mummy,’ she says softly. ‘It’s not your fault.’

I blow my nose discreetly and spot Winfred Tennyson standing in the corner by the ice-cream chest, eating an Eskimo Pie. Reverently, he pushes the dark slab of biscuit and vanilla ice into his mouth using all eight of his fingers before his eyes roll back into focus and he sees me watching him.

‘Hey, Mrs Coleman!’ He wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his uniform.

‘Hi, Winfred.’

‘You having your dinner?’ he says in his clipped accent.

‘Pancakes, we just ordered them. Want some?’

‘Sure.’ He slides his robust frame in next to the children and orders a chilliburger from Barb, the waitress.

‘How ya do-in’, kids?’

‘Fine, fine,’ Emmy pips.

‘Fine,’ Jack echoes eyeing up Winfred’s holster.

‘What about you, Mrs Coleman? Been obeying the speeding laws?’

‘Oh sure.’