Mrs O’Malley is outside, watering her pink and red old-lady chrysanthemums, or rather loitering, hoping for a view of us. ‘Hello, all,’ she sings. ‘And how are we today?’ I wave, put my head down and attempt to walk by, but Tommy runs over and throws his arms around her considerable bulk, his face burrowing into the fat above her knees. Must teach him boundaries, let him know it’s not ok to go hugging virtual strangers. ‘Hi, little man. And where are you off to?’ Herbie is tugging at my arm, his whole body shaking with excitement. I always thought that dog had such an instinctive understanding of people; he’d usually never go anywhere near anyone except Tommy and me. Get your own goddam dog and son – my head is beginning to fill with that angry swarm, dark and maddening. Mrs O’Malley lumbers towards me, one hand grabbing Tommy’s.
‘Sonya, have you given some thought to what I said yesterday?’
Shake my head to drive out the insistent hum and buzz. ‘We’re just on our way to the park and then for lunch. Tommy?’ Mrs O’Malley checks her watch. Stupid, Sonya, careful. ‘A late lunch/early supper, that is…’ The old meddler whispers something in Tommy’s ear and hands him a biscuit, home-made no doubt, from the pocket of her apron, one for Herbie too. They both swallow without even chewing, like savages. Where are their manners?
‘Let’s all have dinner together later. We can talk then, Sonya.’
Interference, like static, builds in the air in front of my eyes and I swat it away.
‘Yaya, there’s nothing there.’
‘I know that, silly, I was just feeling a little hot. Now, come on, let’s go feed those hungry quack-quacks.’
Tommy hugs Mrs O’Malley again before saying, ‘Bye-bye, thank woo.’
‘Seven o’clock, Sonya. I’ll have some dinner for the boys.’
Mrs O’Malley morphs into a giantess with a looming shadow that covers me in shade and gloom. I fight the good fight and stop myself from throwing curses her way. Pull my shoulders back, plant my feet squarely on the ground and stand tall: all regal and upright. ‘Thank you. We’ll be delighted to come later, won’t we, boys?’ Tommy nods, Herbie wagging that treacherous tail as I grab them both, one by the collar, the other by the hand, before taking my leave. Don’t look back, don’t look back, don’t look back. Once we’re out of earshot, words fly out of me: ‘Don’t ever go near that woman again. She’s trying to take you away from me and keep you in her house and fatten you up like the witch in Hansel and Gretel.’ My little boy’s face crumples. Where did I get such capacity for cruelty, for puncturing happiness? My father’s voice: ‘No daughter of mine is going to be parading her wares in front of any Tom, Dick or Harry…’ And this, straight after I received the letter of acceptance from one of the most prestigious drama schools in London.
In the Spar, on automatic, I stuff a batch of white bread under my arm, paying only for the luminous-orange ice pop Tommy presents me with on the way out. No one even asks about the other, presuming a woman of my bearing and stature and, yes, breeding wouldn’t bother with anything as low as snatching bread. Anyway, it’s for the ducks, no harm involving the shop in my philanthropic activities.
The sun is a soft lemon shade of yellow today, or ‘mellow wellow’， as Tommy says, licking his orange ice pop as we walk around the duck pond. I lift my face to receive its gentle caresses and feel myself settle back down inside. That encounter with Mrs O’Malley was distressing, and stealing, though I’m such a pro, always gets my heart racing as if it might fly out of my mouth. I find a bench and sink down into it, pulling my dress above my knee to expose my long limbs and slim ankles, an attribute that only those in the theatre world gave a damn about: ‘Such dainty ankles and wrists, such a “drawing room” physique.’ Indeed. I stretch my legs and point my toes and let myself remember the feeling of being adored.
‘Stop them, Yaya. Stop them. They’re hurting her.’ Tommy is shouting. How he instinctively knows it’s a she I don’t know, but the two of us grab sticks and a ball and anything we can find and lob it at the gang attack. Five drakes are going at one duck, dragging her under, banging her head against the concrete rim of the pond. I pick up a big stone, throw it, whack one of them, but they’re only momentarily distracted, and then go at their victim even harder.
A man leaning on a walking stick speaks very loudly: ‘What an example to teach your young boy.’