‘Never mind,’ he’d said. ‘It’s not my colour, anyway. I’ll leave it.’

‘I believe it comes in navy, too. And powder blue …’

‘No, it’s fine. I’ll put it back.’ He’d pointed through the entrance doors, towards the street outside. ‘My car’s parked there, you see – that nice green Morris – and I think I left the handbrake off.’ He’d been looking at her supervisor all the while, but Joyce had got the message. ‘Have a pleasant afternoon. I know I’m going to.’

She’d left it ten or fifteen minutes – maybe even less than that – before she’d asked to be excused so she could use the ladies. Slipping out the service door and round the back, there’d been a fizz of energy inside her, knowing she was risking everything. But there’d been no real thought of backing out. The Morris had still been there, parked over the road, and she’d hurried down the street to knock upon the window.

Mal had hardly blinked. ‘It’s open, girl,’ he’d said, and she’d climbed in. ‘I’m glad you came.’

‘I shouldn’t have.’

‘My mother used to say that when she’d eaten too much cake. It never stopped her baking, though.’ He’d clutched her fingertips and pecked her on the hand. ‘I’m Mal.’ His beard was softer than she’d guessed it would be. ‘And what should I call you?’

‘I’m Joyce. But Joy will do.’ She’d seen a roadmap folded on the dashboard, with a circle drawn beside the crease. ‘Where we going?’

‘Anywhere you fancy.’

‘Anywhere?’

He’d turned the engine on. ‘The weather’s holding. Sun might just come out eventually. Let’s make the most of it. A picnic, or a nice walk on the beach.’

‘Well, I’ve always meant to see the zoo but never had the chance.’

‘The zoo it is, then. Hold on tight.’

She’d talked in nervous bursts the whole way there, watching as he’d steered with a loose grip upon the wheel, an elbow on the door ledge. By the time they’d reached the car park, Mal knew all about her aunty and the neighbours and the stolen pearls; they’d even broached the subject of the bombs that landed on her parents’ house, and he’d told half a story of his service as an army cook in Borneo. At the zoo, he’d paid for everything – the tickets, two big helpings of ice cream, the picture she’d had taken riding the stuffed lion, which was really meant to be for kiddies only but he’d slipped a few bob in the pocket of the old photographer. Once they’d seen most of the animals and had some fish and chips in the canteen, the rain had started teeming, so they’d walked back to the car.

‘Well, you can cross it off your list now, can’t you?’ Mal had said. ‘To think you could’ve wasted a whole day at work instead of having fun with me and all the animals.’

There was no doubt it had been a happy, carefree afternoon, and it had given her a flavour of what life with Mal could be like, always: no responsibility to anyone besides themselves. But then, on the drive home, she’d thought about her brother, wondering what he’d have made of all those strange hyenas, leopards, kangaroos and talking parrots. She’d imagined the expression of amazement on his face and felt a sad detachment from him. Recovering the photo from her bag, she’d seen her silly image: a giant, grinning jockey on the back of a dead lion. What a picture! Maybe she could send it off to Charlie so the lad could have a proper laugh at her expense.