“What is this day?” I asked the woman. “A feast day?” (There are so many feast days in Venice that almost every weekend a saint is celebrated at some church or other.)

She looked surprised, as if I was a visitor newly landed from a distant planet. “St Martin’s Day,” she said. “The children go around the town singing and banging. They want treats or money to buy the San Martin biscuits. You have not seen them in all the bakeries?”

I thanked her and fished in my purse for small coins, which made the children break into song again. They went on their way, their high, shrill voices echoing from the stone walls: “San Martin co culo par tera . . .”

I found these celebrations exciting, after the subdued harvest festival that was the highlight of our church year in England, and went to the nearest bakery, where the window was full of beautiful big biscuits in the shape of a man on a horse, decorated with a sugar crown. Of course I bought one, but it looked too good to eat. The children I passed had no such qualms, biting off the horse’s head before they went back to banging on their pots. Then suddenly I found myself looking at a small boy trailing at the back of the group. He had big, sorrowful eyes, and immediately my thoughts went to my child. Would he be unloved, unwanted? Would he be the one who trailed at the back of the group? And I realized I couldn’t ever do that to him.

I turned into the Calle Larga XXII Marzo, the main street heading to St Mark’s Square, and there was Leo, walking towards me.

“I was looking for you,” he said. “I was on my way to tell you that everything is set up with the bank. Do you know where it is? Come, I will show you.”

He turned to walk with me towards St Mark’s, crossing the small canal where I had fallen into the water, all those years ago, and where he had saved me. If he had not arrived in time, would I have drowned? I looked longingly at him. As if sensing my gaze, he turned to me and smiled. I thought, He loves me, so no matter what happens, or what others think, that is important and worth cherishing.

We came out through the colonnade and crossed the square, and then he led me through an arch on the other side. Just behind the square was the marble front to the bank. The symbol of St Mark’s, the winged lion, hung above the door. The windows were decorated with iron latticework.

Leo paused. “Of course, it is not open today, but during the weekdays you can go in and ask for Signor Gilardi. He is the one who will take care of you. I have explained to him.”

“Thank you,” I said.