Her nephew kneels beneath the portico, his breath misting the air. In his hand is the stick that he uses to propel his toy hoop. That hoop, however, is nowhere in sight. Instead he pokes tentatively at a magpie.

‘Whatever are you doing? Be a good boy and leave that nasty thing alone.’

He carries on, regardless. ‘Aunt Aggie, it’s got a baby! Look!’

She bends down to his height and instantly recoils.

A pink, downy lump squirms on the ground, the stubs of its wings circling frantically. The eyes are sealed, bluish bumps; only the beak gapes wide.

Agnes glances at the magpie and realises it cannot be the chick’s mother. It has plundered the nest of a wood pigeon.

‘Oh! Well, you had better let it be. Do come inside, Cedric dear.’

‘But I want—’

‘This instant, young man.’ Her upbraids never sound convincing. No wonder he often ignores them.

A couple strolling gaze in their direction. Agnes smiles tightly at them, attempting to appear in control of the situation.

‘Do as you are told, there’s a good boy.’

It is the magpie that moves, kicking the chick, making it scream.

‘Why is it doing that?’

She seizes his arm. ‘I must show you something, Cedric.’

‘No, don’t!’

Before he can fend her off, she pulls him inside the house. The stick clasped in his hand leaves a dirty scrape along the hallway wall.

She elbows the front door shut just in time. The next sound from outside is a terrible squelch.

Of course she has seen it before: the cannibalism of magpies. It never ceases to appal her. Cedric may love his stories of monsters, but she does not want him to really see a bird turn on its own kind, picking off the young and weak with no compunction for its atrocity.

‘Auntie Aggie, you’re hurting me.’

She drops his arm at once. ‘Do forgive me, Ced. But I would not have to pull you about if you heeded me when I speak to you. Those birds can spread all manner of disease and I want you far away from them. It is for your own good, dear.’

He cocks his fair head to consider this. Or perhaps he is listening to the disturbing, wet noises creeping through the door.

‘Is the baby bird eating his breakfast?’ he asks.

‘Yes,’ she says hurriedly. ‘Yes, he is eating. Now you must go along to the kitchen and eat too. I have made your favourite: egg fritters. Chop-chop.’ She shoos him with her hands.

Sighing, Cedric trudges towards the back of the house, dragging his stick on the floor behind him, as if she has denied him some unparalleled treat. A great knot of love and frustration tightens inside her chest.