‘No. Too big.’

‘Turkish Delight?’

‘Too soft.’

In the distance, the big lake in front of the house reflects the white clouds and the sand-coloured house.

‘This place is like a chocolate box,’ I say. ‘I like it.’

‘I’m glad. But you haven’t guessed yet.’

‘Bounty.’

He considers. ‘The taste of paradise. Nice. But not my favourite.’

I look at him and laugh, and then I step in a rounded knob of sheep shit. ‘Look what you made me do.’

‘You should stop dreaming about chocolate and watch where you’re going.’

I lift my foot and flick the shit at Simon’s trouser leg.

‘Oi!’ He hops to the side.

I let out a yelp and start running towards the lake, but not so fast that he can’t chase me.

‘What are you doing with that boy?’ he asks when he’s caught up with me on the bridge. His face is flushed and shiny from running. I can see every pore on his chin. He pushes his specs back up his nose. Then he undoes his mac and rests his thumbs in his belt loops.

‘What boy?’ I lick the sweat from my upper lip and get the margarine taste of lipstick.

‘The one your mum says is backward.’

I lean against the wall of the bridge and puff out into the frozen air. My breath hangs there.

‘Joanna?’

‘What?’

‘Are you going to answer me?’

I turn away from him and look out over the lake. The clouds are going grey and stringy.

‘Joanna?’

‘Do you think he’s backward?’

‘I was asking you a question, but since you’ve asked, I’ll tell you. I think he’s – different. Damaged, certainly. Remedial, maybe. In need of professional help.’

I turn round. Behind Simon, the big house is glowing, its iron gates twisted, too high to climb over.

‘Everyone says that. But I don’t think they know what it means.’

He gives a little ‘huh’, like a TV journalist who thinks the answer’s all too obvious. ‘You know what it means, Joanna.’

‘I don’t.’

‘It means not all there. Not quite the ticket. Not the full quid. No one’s blaming him, but the boy’s not right, is he? Wasn’t he in some car accident? A bump on the head could have done it. Brain damage. They didn’t look into that sort of thing when he was young. Not properly.’

‘A bump on the head?’ I start to laugh. ‘It sounds like a cartoon.’

He shakes his head and sighs. ‘To be honest, I think it’s a shame,’ he says, in a quieter voice.

‘What is?’

The sun’s going down and his face is partly in shadow.

‘What is?’ I repeat.

‘I think it’s a shame that he’s like that. I think the whole thing’s a shame. It’s a shame for you.’