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  Anne and Len slept in twin beds stretched out parallel to each other, the night table between them.

  There were tears in Julie’s eyes, and she did not know it, but then she did and looked quickly at her mother, then her father, for they must not know she would give anything to cry and cry, and be comforted and held … But they weren’t looking at her, only at the television. They had switched it on, without her noticing. Now all three of them sat staring at it.

  On the screen a woman announcer smiled the special smile that goes with royalty, animals, and children and said, ‘At eight o’clock this evening a newly born baby girl was found in a telephone box in Islington. She was warmly wrapped and healthy. She weighed seven pounds and three ounces. The nurses have called her Rosie.’ Hot waves of jealousy went through Julie when she saw how the nurse smiled down at the little face seen briefly by Julie in torchlight, and then again through the sleet outside the shed. ‘The mother is urged to come forward as she might be in need of urgent medical attention.’

  It was the late news.

  Surely they were going to guess? But why should they? It was hard enough for her to believe that she could sit here in her pretty little dressing gown smelling of bath powder, when she had given birth by herself in a dirty shed with only a dog for company. Four hours ago, that was all!

  ‘Why don’t we have a dog, Mum?’ asked Julie, knowing what she was going to hear.

  ‘But they are such a nuisance, Julie. And who’s going to take it for walks?’

  ‘I will, Mum.’

  ‘But you’ll have finished school in July, and I don’t want the bother of a dog, and I’m sure Len doesn’t.’

  Her father didn’t say anything. He leaned forward and turned off the set. The screen went blank.

  ‘I often wonder what Jessie thinks,’ he remarked, ‘when she sees something like this on the telly, I mean.’

  ‘Oh, leave it, Len,’ said Anne warningly.

  Julie did not really hear this, but then she did: her ears sprang to life, and she knew something extraordinary was about to happen.

  ‘That’s why we were so worried about you,’ said Julie’s father, heavy, grief-ridden, reproachful. ‘It’s easy enough to happen, how were we to know you weren’t –’

  ‘Len, we agreed we wouldn’t ever – ’

  ‘What about Auntie Jessie?’ asked Julie, trying to take it in. A silence. ‘Well, what about her, Dad? You can’t just leave it like that.’

  ‘Len,’ said Anne wildly.

  ‘Your Auntie Jessie got herself into the family way,’ said her father, determined to say it, ignoring his wife’s face, her distress. His face was saying, Why should she be spared when she’s given us such a bad time? ‘She wasn’t much older than you are now.’ At last he was looking straight at Julie, full of reproach, and his eyes dripped tears all down his face and on to his tie. ‘It can happen easy enough, can’t it?’

  ‘You mean … but what happened to the baby? Was it born?’

  ‘Your cousin Freda,’ said Len, still bitter and obstinate, his accusing eyes on his daughter.

  ‘You mean, Freda is … you mean. Auntie Jessie’s mum and dad didn’t mind?’

  ‘They minded, all right,’ said Anne. ‘I remember all that well enough. They wanted the baby adopted, but Jessie stuck it out and had it, and in the end they came around. I still think they were right and Jessie was wrong. She was only seventeen. She never would say who the father was. She was stuck at home with the baby when she should have been out enjoying herself and learning things. She got married when she was a baby herself.’

  By now Julie was more or less herself again, though she felt as if she’d been on a roller coaster. Above all, what she was thinking was, I’ve got to get it all out of them now, because I know them, they’ll clam up and never talk of it again.

  ‘Didn’t Uncle Bob mind?’ she asked.

  ‘Not so that he wouldn’t marry her, he married her, didn’t he, and she had a love child he had to take on,’ said her father, full of anger and accusations.

  ‘A love child,’ said Julie derisively, unable to stop herself. But her parents didn’t notice.

  ‘That’s what they call it, I believe,’ said her father, all heavy and sarcastic. ‘Well, that’s what can happen, Julie, and you’ve always been such a sensible girl and that made it worse.’ And now, unbelievably, this father of hers, whom she had so feared she ran away from home, sat sobbing, covering his face with his hands.

  Her mother was weeping, her eyes bright, her cheeks red.

  In a moment Julie would be bawling too.

  ‘I’m going to bed,’ she said, getting up. ‘Oh, I’m sorry Mum, I’m sorry, Dad, I’m sorry …’

  ‘It’s all right, Julie,’ said her mother.

  Julie went out of the room and up the stairs and into her room, walking carefully now, because she was so sore. And she felt numbed and confused, because of Aunt Jessica and her cousin Freda. Why, she, Julie, could have … she could be sitting here now, with her baby Rosie, they wouldn’t have thrown her out.

  She didn’t know what to think, or to feel … She felt … she wanted … ‘Oh, Debbie,’ she cried, but silently, tucked into her little bed, her arms around the panda. ‘Oh, Debbie, what am I to do?’

  She thought, In July, when I’ve finished school, I am going back, I’m going to run away, I’ll go to London and get a job, and I can have my baby. For a few minutes she persuaded herself it was not the silly little girl who had run away who said this, but the Debbie-taught girl who knew what things cost. Then she said to herself, Stop it, stop it, you know better.

  She thought of Aunt Jessie’s house. She had always enjoyed that house. It occurred to her now that Debbie’s place and Aunt Jessie’s had a lot in common – noisy, disturbing, exciting. Which was why her parents did not much like going there. But here, a baby here, Rosie with her long wrinkled cunt here … Julie was laughing her raucous, derisive laugh, but it was unhappy because she had understood that Rosie her daughter could not come here, because she, Julie, could not stand it.

  I’ll take Rosie to Debbie’s in London, said Julie, in a final futile attempt.

  But Debbie had taken in pregnant Julie. That was what had been paid.

  If Julie brought baby Rosie here, then she would have to stay here. Until she got married. Like Auntie Jessie. Julie thought of Uncle Bob. Now she realized she had always seen him as Auntie Jessie’s shadow, not up to much. She had wondered why Auntie Jessie married him. Now she knew.

  I’ve got to get out of here, she thought, I’ve got to. In July I’ll leave. I’ll have my O levels. I can get them easily. I’ll work hard and get my five O levels. I’ll go to London. I know how things are, now. Look, I’ve lived in Debbie’s flat, and I didn’t let myself get hurt by them. I was clever, no one knew I was pregnant, only Debbie. I had Rosie by myself in that shed with only a dog to help me, and then I put Rosie in a safe place and now she’s all right, and I’ve come home, and I’ve managed it all so well they never even guessed. I’m all right.

  With her arms around the panda Julie thought, I can do anything I want to do, I’ve proved that.

  And she drifted off to sleep.

  Sparrows

  Twenty minutes after the rain stopped, the first visitors came into the café garden. They were two elderly women and a smiling Labrador, very much at home, for they went straight to a certain table at the back, and the dog took his place on the grassy strip there without a command. The women tipped upright the chairs that had been slanted forward on to the table because of the rain. One hooked an umbrella on a chair-back and sat, bringing out packages of food from a holdall. The other went into the café building and emerged with one little coffeepot and two cups. Assuring each other that one pot was plenty for two, they ate sandwiches with a contemplative detached air that disdained guilt.

  All over the northern reaches of London people were saying, ‘The rain’s stopped: let’s go up to the Heath.’ Already they wandered along
the path where you can look down at the Kenwood lake, settled themselves on benches in case the sun did come out, and descended the stairs on the way to the café indoors. But where was the sun? It was sulking behind banks of black cloud, sliding for minutes at a time to their edges from where it stained trees and grass a promising sultry yellow, but then withdrew.

  Some teenagers emerged from the building balancing trays loaded with fizzy drinks, coffee, cake. They pushed two tables together and sat sprawling. Elegant, dramatic clothes, profuse and many coloured hair, created a festive occasion. Their discontented indolence – their style – caused the two frugal observers to raise eyebrows and murmur, ‘Some people don’t know when they’re lucky, do they, dear?’

  A tall, pale, straw-haired youth like a ballet dancer appeared at the kitchen door. He was all yawns and sleep, but he was adjusting a blue and white striped apron, and this transformed him into the picture of a willing waiter. He surveyed his scene of operations, pondering whether to straighten the chairs around tables that had pools of rainwater on them, or even to wipe the tables. But he cocked an eye at the ominous sky and decided not to bother.

  The two ladies were throwing bits of sandwich to sparrows that gathered around their feet, crowded the backs of chairs and even ventured on their table. At the end of the garden, not too emphatically displayed, a board said, PUBLIC HEALTH NOTICE. IN THE INTERESTS OF HYGIENE PLEASE DO NOT FEED THE BIRDS. The waiter shrugged and disappeared.

  Three people appeared from inside, almost obscured by the heaped trays they bore, but when these were set down, three Japanese were revealed, a young couple in smart black silk jumpsuits, and the mother of one of them. She too was overdressed for this place in black ‘designer’ clothes, jewellery, the lot. They pulled a table near the one they had chosen to sit at in the middle of the scene, to hold all that they carried and what was on the tray brought to them by another waiter. This buffet not being enough, a second table was brought close and covered with food. They were about to eat full English breakfasts, wedges of cream cake, scones and butter and jam, several other kinds of cake, plates of salad and chicken, and, as well, coffee, Coca-Cola, fruit juice.

  The waiter who was from somewhere around the Mediterranean, a dark, lithe, handsome youth, surveyed this repast with admiring incredulity. ‘Japanese? Good appetite!’ He lingered, raised his brows in private exclamation, and went off. The sparrows, having exhausted the amenities of the two pensioners, arrived in a flock to examine new possibilities. The Japanese mother let out cries of angry indignation, stuffing her highly made-up face ugly with bad temper and greed, with one hand, while she swatted ineffectively with the other at the sparrows as if they were flies.

  The teenagers clearly felt they were being forced to examine all this from much too close so they gracefully rose and removed themselves to several tables away. They did not bother to take all their food and left crisps and peanuts all over their deserted table. The sparrows fell on this bounty, arriving from trees, roof – everywhere. The Japanese matron loudly commented on this, but her children ignored her, eating as if they had been deprived of food for weeks.

  The two elderly ladies watched this scene. They did not seem able to take their eyes off it. Their disapproval of the teenagers had been ritual, even indulgent, but this – their expressions said – was something else! One of them put down a hand that trembled, and stroked the big dog’s head.

  ‘There you are, good dog,’ she said in an unhappy voice. A sparrow arrived too close to the Japanese matron and she let out a shout. Still another waiter arrived at the kitchen door and examined the scene like a general. A short, stocky, competent youth, his hair brushed straight up, everything about him neat and clean, he was obviously destined to be running his own firm or at least a department within, at the most, five years. He strode forcefully about, scattering clouds of sparrows by flinging out his arms energetically as if he were doing exercises. He smiled with a nod at the Japanese and went back into the kitchen. The sparrows returned.

  A middle-aged couple shining with health and suntan lotion arrived, each holding one austere cup of coffee. They had evidently just come back from a holiday in the blissful sun, and could afford to smile now at where it hid behind a bank of black that covered half the sky. They put their cups on either side of a small lake of rainwater on their table, and sat on the edge of their chairs in a way that told everybody they were about to demolish the distances of the Heath at a dedicated trot.

  The middle-aged couple that arrived now couldn’t be more unlike them. They walked cautiously up the steps and came forward, watching how they set down their well-cleaned shoes. Each carried a tray with tea and a single scone and butter. They chose a table at the back, near the little grassy strip.

  Behind them was the tall brick wall with its mysterious, always-closed door, like the Secret Garden. The woman sat stirring her tea, while she smiled at the Labrador, then at the banks of bushes and trees on the right, all shades of heavy, lush green, then at the tops of the trees that showed over the palisade on the left, finally looking straight ahead with approval at the long shapely building, a wing of Kenwood House, once a coach house and servants’ quarters, that was now rapidly filling with people having breakfast, tea and lunch. The open upper windows hinted at the satisfactorily interesting lives going on inside, and on the long, low, roof, birds of all kinds, but mostly sparrows and pigeons, carried on their no less interesting affairs. She regarded with particular appreciation the sparrows who crowded a tree just behind them, watching for what might befall them next. Her husband was already leaning forward to consume his scone in the fussy, urgent way of a man who would always attend to whatever was in front of him, finish it, and then wonder why he had been in such a hurry.

  A sparrow dropped from the tree and sat on the back of the tilted-forward chair next to the woman. She carefully pushed some crumbs towards it.

  ‘Hilda, what are you doing!’ expostulated her husband in a low, urgent, peevish voice. ‘It’s not allowed, is it?’ And he craned his neck around to assure himself the Public Health Notice was still safely there.

  ‘Oh well, but that’s just silly,’ said she serenely, smiling at the sparrow. He glared at her, a piece of scone halfway to his mouth, with the frustrated look of one who did not feel in control of anything. Then, as the sparrow fluttered cheekily towards his hand and the scone, he stuffed it in, swallowed it, and said, ‘They’d steal the food out of your mouth.’

  Hilda gently set the tilted chair upright, and then the one next to it. At once sparrows descended to sit on their backs. She put a crumb quite close to her and sat waiting. A seasoned sparrow, one of many summers, a lean hunting bird, grey blotched with chocolate and black, darted in, snatched it, and flew off to the roof of the coach house, with two others in pursuit.

  On the back of the chair nearest to her three sparrows sat watching, side by side.

  ‘Look, Alfred,’ she said, ‘they are babies: look, they’ve still got a bit of their gape left.’

  The corners of their beaks were yellow. All three were neat and fresh. New-minted. Their greyish-brown feathers glistened. The man was staring at them with a look of apprehension too strong for the occasion.

  From a distance this man seemed younger than he was, a sprightly middle age, being cleaned and brushed and tidy, but from close you could see fresh crumbs on his cardigan, and a new tea stain on his tie. He had a greyish, drained look. His wife was a large full-fleshed woman who sat up straight there beside him, everything about her showing she was in command, her hands kept and capable, hair neatly waved, clothes just so. If she was not much younger than he was, then that was what she seemed.

  She laid some crumbs close to the three birds and the boldest hesitated, darted in, and flew off with one. The second fought with himself, took off from the chair-back, but halfway to the crumb, his goal, panic overtook him, and with a swirl and a flutter of wings he turned in mid-air and returned to the chair-back.

  ‘Go on, be a brav
e bird,’ she admonished it. Again the hesitant take-off, the mid-air swerve and whirl of wings when for a few seconds it hovered, then retreated. At last this sparrow managed to overcome its fear and resist the need to turn back halfway, and he reached the crumb and showed he would have a successful future because he picked up several, very fast, and flew off somewhere with a full beak to enjoy them.

  The remaining sparrow sat on there, alone. He was very new, this little one, with remnants of baby fluff showing here and there. The yellow corners of his beak were bright. He had been sitting watching his fellow ex-fledglings with the calm, round-eyed, detached look of a baby in a pram.

  ‘Come on, you do it too,’ she said. But the little bird sat on there, watching, not involved at all.

  Then a new bird arrived on the table among the crumbs, and pecked as fast as it could. It was an older bird, its feathers no longer fresh and young. And now the little sparrow hopped on to the table, crouched, fluffed out its feathers so that it became a soft ball, and opened its beak.

  ‘What’s the matter with it?’ demanded the man, as if in a panic. ‘It’s sick.’

  ‘No, no,’ soothed his wife. ‘Watch.’

  The older bird at once responded to the smaller bird’s crouching and fluffing by stuffing crumbs into its gape. This went on, the baby demanding, as if still in its nest, and the parent pushing in crumbs. But then a brigand sparrow came swooping in. The parent sparrow pecked it and the two quarrelling birds flew off together to the roof. The little sparrow, abandoned, stopped cowering and spreading its feathers. It closed its beak, returned to the chair-back and resumed its bland baby pose.