He beckoned him only once. Once was enough. Come, it said. Come away.

The swaddling made the gesture crude, inarticulate, but Mungo understood.

James was biting his split lip. The rushing traffic blew his tawny hair over his eyes, the wheat and the barley, the sticky pulled sugar of it caught and ate the last of the sinking sun.

to remember the smile that made everything better, the mouth full of happy gappy teeth.

He wanted to see if his cheeks had turned their usual bluish-pinkish tartan in fresh air.

a stony-faced way of staring,

Mungo smiled something small and timid.

he was pure gasping for a small tea with two teabags.

James raised his broken hand in a half-greeting. It was discreet, tentative, like they were only strangers. But it was only for Mungo. It was for no one else.