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him, until he settles down? Does he have ASD, or
some such?’ Abby’s eyes widen. So she knows the term Autism Spectrum Disorder – this woman seems to have some experience.
    Abby nods.
    ‘It won’t be any trouble,’ the woman urges, as if she can read Abby’s mind. ‘I’ve got to nip in anyway, get a few bits for myself.’
    Normally Abby would never give money to a stranger, but there’s something about this woman that radiates kindness and sympathy, and the idea that a heavily pregnant lady would run off with
her cash seems most unlikely. ‘Are you sure . . . ?’
    ‘Quite sure. It’s my day off, so I’m in no rush.’
    ‘Then yes please,’ says Abby, still kneeling with Callum, who, thank goodness, is quieting a little, ‘it would be
brilliant
if you could get me a few things.’
She adjusts her position so she can safeguard him with her legs, then pulls her purse from her pocket and fumbles for a ten-pound note.
    ‘Could you get me some—’ She stops. Buying food for her son is a challenge. He has bland tastes, yet his digestion seems to be affected by wheat and milk so she tries to avoid
them. ‘Er . . . rice and some sort of sauce – I don’t mind what, one of the fresh ones for pasta, just make sure it hasn’t got cheese in it – and teabags and a pint of
soy milk?’ It’ll hardly be an exciting meal, but it’ll have to do. It’s a complicated list already.
    She watches the woman head through the doors and into the store, and soon Callum calms enough for her to lift him from the flagstones and set him upright.
    ‘That nice lady is helping us. We can stay here
. Stay here
,’ she repeats, pointing. ‘With Mummy.’
    Callum moans. Maybe he’s aware he isn’t going to have to go inside; perhaps he’s just exhausted. In either case, he is no longer resistant.
    ‘Give me your hand,’ says Abby, and holds out her palm. Astonishingly, Callum places his fingers in hers, and they stand side by side at the shop door. For a blissful few minutes
they remain there, patiently waiting.
    A while later the woman returns. ‘Success,’ she smiles, and passes over a bag. ‘Hope I got everything OK.’
    ‘I’m sure it’s fine.’ Abby can’t look inside the carrier without letting go of Callum.
    ‘And here’s your change.’
    ‘Fantastic, thank you. You couldn’t slip it in my jacket pocket, could you?’ The woman does as she’s asked. ‘This is terribly kind of you.’
    ‘Honestly, it was no bother.’
    ‘Well, it’s made all the difference to us.’
    The woman checks the oncoming traffic. ‘Here comes a number 7, best be off.’ She seems embarrassed to be thanked so profusely. ‘Hope the rest of your day is good.’ And
she hurries away to the bus stop.
    * * *
    Even though Michael marks the prices of the bouquets so low he won’t cover his costs, no one shows any interest in the arrangements he made for Hotel sur Plage all
afternoon. They’re too formal for most homes, he thinks, and this is a time for clearing out, not accumulating. As if to prove the point, a car drives past with a Christmas tree wedged in the
boot, doubtless heading for the nearby recycling centre.
    At five o’clock he cuts the stems of the amaryllis right down and rearranges the flowers into small, round posies in the hope that he’ll broaden their appeal, though it galls him to
do so. He even stays late in case he can lure someone to make a purchase en route home, but the crowds appear thinner than usual; maybe people are still on holiday.
    It was the very customers I now depend on who scuppered my trade, he thinks. Down-from-Londoners.
    In the late nineties, pushed out of the capital by escalating house prices, commuters started buying homes near the station in droves. It didn’t take landlords long to spot an opportunity,
and increase retail rents way beyond what Michael could comfortably afford. The arrival of a more affluent clientele sealed his fate; they seemed more interested in twee