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Marilyn Monroe—and Deborah was a very pretty little girl. It was just surprising in babies.
    At any rate it took no more than a demonstration trundle or two for Deborah to grasp what Toby wanted and start pushing the barrel while he crabbed along beside it studying the rotation of the ball. They ended with a bump against the larger slide. Toby prepared to shove the barrel back along its course, to give Deborah a chance to study the phenomenon, but she had spotted an unattended tricycle. She rushed off, commandeered it and brought it back. There was a slight Chinese-puzzle element in getting it past the rim of the barrel, and though Poppy could see how it would have to go she decided to let them work it out for themselves. They were still at it when Peony appeared.
    â€˜Hello,’ said Poppy. ‘You don’t look that good.’ ‘Jesus, have I puked!’ said Peony.
    Everyone had a tan that summer, but her skin was drab grey-brown and her eyes bloodshot.
    â€˜Have you eaten something, do you think?’ said Poppy. ‘Hangover, mostly. My own fault. Shouldn’t of let him talk me into trying that brandy. Lethal, that was.’
    The name of Peony’s Liverpool boyfriend slid conveniently into Poppy’s mind.
    â€˜You had Randy down?’ she said.
    â€˜Wasn’t him. Imagine Randy eating squid? He’d die! Jesus!’
    Poppy could hear the note of smugness under the groans. At least Peony had enjoyed herself the evening before, whatever she was suffering now.
    â€˜You’d better take it easy,’ she said. ‘I’ll keep an eye on Deborah. She’s no trouble while she’s got Toby to play with.’
    â€˜Thanks a lot, Poppy. Listen, Mrs C. says I’m to take you back to tea one of these days. Some time she’s there. OK?’
    â€˜So she can check if we’re suitable playmates for Deborah?’
    There was something about the idea of Mrs Capstone which made it difficult to keep the mockery out of one’s voice, but Peony was in no state to notice. The children were happy for the moment with their barrel, so Poppy got out her copy of Floodlight and started to leaf through for language and word-processor courses, distracted by other possibilities. What openings were there, for instance, for a middle-aged, German-speaking, computer-literate dry-stone-waller in Central London? Peony dozed. The children rolled the tricycle in the barrel, and then each other, and then got in it together and wobbled it to and fro. Then they tried a variant of their yodelling game, using the barrel as a sound-box. Poppy began to listen with interest, and when Peony stirred she said, ‘Listen. Can you hear? I think Deborah’s taught Toby to sing.’
    â€˜Uh?’
    â€˜He’s not just yelling into the barrel. That’s a note. Of a sort. Are the Capstones musical?’
    â€˜Her Dad is, though it’s not my idea. Stuff he’ll listen to—like cats being fried alive!’
    â€˜Don’t! How are you feeling?’
    â€˜Not so bad. What’s the time? Think I’ll take her home in a minute. You won’t say anything to Mrs C about me having a sore head, will you? Only she might ask, see. She’s like that. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea—she’s been ever so kind to me. She’s not like they say, Poppy—really not, not at home, anyway. Mind you, he gives me the creeps.’
    â€˜I’ll give you my number, and then perhaps you or Mrs Capstone can ring me and arrange a day.’
    When Peony moved to break up the game and take Deborah home. Deborah loosed a bout of screaming, the first of the afternoon, but not as piercing or prolonged as usual, and in the end she settled into her push-chair with a good grace. Toby pecked her goodbye and then meandered about for a while, eventually settling into the sandpit, where he became fascinated by the way that, as he dug, the soft sift from the edges of