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presence of a bag of stale bread and were whizzing across the water towards them.
    â€˜Hey, look at the ducks, Charlie!’ Sara knelt beside him and threw a handful of bread into the water. Charlie was solemn, staring eye to eye at a bold Canada goose that had come out of the river and was fast approaching, too close for comfort in Sara’s opinion. On land it was a huge thing, way bigger than Charlie, standing almost to her own waist and in too-easy pecking range of the baby’s fuzzy-haired oversized head. She shooed it away, throwing bread for it to chase, and it ambled off, back to the river, to fight it out with ducks and swans.
    â€˜Funny how no one ever says that break-your-arm thing about the geese, isn’t it, even though there’s not much in it in size between them and swans?’ Sara turned to see if she was the one the voice (male) was addressing. There was no one else around, so it had to be her. The man who’d spoken was sitting with the last inch of a pint of something at one of the pub’s picnic tables, out on the raised terrace alongside the slipway. Coming up to high tide, the water lapped at the edges of the paving. It would soon be flooding right across, as it did at every spring tide. He was about her age; more actor than accountant, she’d say at first glance. An early summer tan, longish dark hair that was greying here and there, crumpled loose blue linen shirt that had surely never seen an iron and was all the better for it.
    She smiled at him. ‘Maybe geese are known to be a bit weak in the wing. Maybe it really is only swans that could break your arm! There have probably been tests. Any minute now we’ll read about it in the papers, one of those scientific reports where you wonder why anyone would waste their time trying to find out what they’ve learned.’
    He laughed. It was a warm, soft laugh – no sarcasm in it, just enjoyment of the moment. ‘Definitely. Like the one where women walk differently when they’re fertile! I don’t know – I wouldn’t like to be on the wrong end of either a goose or swan in an arm-breaking contest. But . . . er . . . if your baby wouldn’t object, can I offer you a drink?’
    Sara hesitated, then thought about what Marie had said that morning about time out just for herself. What was to race back for? A daughter full of post-natal bad-boyfriend gloom, Pandora arriving any minute and certain to crow ‘told you so’ at her poor sister, Conrad childishly negative about any possible plans regarding his forthcoming birthday (just as he would be if there weren’t any plans), dinner to finish cooking . . . She felt the warm, lazy, spring sun on her hair . . . it was no contest.
    â€˜OK, thanks, yes, that would be good. A spritzer would be lovely and I’m sure Charlie won’t mind staying here for a bit longer. And he’s not my baby, by the way, he’s my daughter’s!’
    She wheeled the buggy away from the river and went to sit on the bench across from this casually friendly man.
    He laughed. ‘You’re a grandmother ? Good God, they’d better redefine the term. You look about eighteen!’
    She did look young, Sara was well aware of it. Unsurprisingly, given the age difference, when they first got together it had often been assumed that Conrad was her father, not her lover. But then she’d gone on looking like a teenager well into her late twenties, and had learned not to mind the uncontrollable looks of mild horror when people realized the truth. The first had been a barman in a pub in Henley – she recalled it well. He’d said to her, ‘OK, so that’s a pint for your dad, and what can I get you?’
    â€˜He’s my lover, actually.’ Sara, defensive, had gone for the bravado option. The barman had looked as if he would like to throw the two of them out on grounds of all-out perversity. She’d been that close to