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the butcher’s own square sausage, he would likely eat that. Or if not, there was fish fingers and baked beans.

Bird seed
    â€˜â€˜Duncan, didn’t you say you were going into the village to get some bird seed, dear?’’
    Duncan’s pen halted on the Radio Times. The bird seed was simply a valid reason to go out. Mail order was far cheaper than the village pet shop.
    â€˜â€˜I was waiting till the rain stopped,’’ he said, not looking round at his mother.
    â€˜â€˜Well, I would like to get these thank-you letters off, dear, but of course it doesn’t have to be today, if you’re busy.’’
    â€˜â€˜I’ll go out before twelve,’’ he said, twelve o’clock being collection time.
    She put a small stack of letters down on the desk and tiptoed out of the room.
    Duncan stared out at the garden, drawing tiny circles on his cavalry-twilled knee with the capped end of the ballpoint. The previous day’s brief snow had been washed away. The climbing hydrangea next to the window was thoroughly sodden, heavy drips gathered along its naked branches. Had it rained so much last December? It had been dry at New Year, certainly, as some of their visitors had walked up the hill rather than coming by car. He wondered if Lesley would come this year, now that she was on her own.
    He circled some more radio programmes for the week ahead. He might or might not listen to all of them. He circled the Vivaldi recital. The Scottish Chamber Orchestra was generally acceptable, though in the last year or so he had come to prefer the authenticity of early music specialists. He had, in fact, been in Venice during the night, walking in his dream ahead of his mother and several of the Christmas Eve mourners down narrow streets where all the turns were at right angles, making it impossible to know if they led anywhere at all until the turning point was reached. The responsibility of leading the group was heavy on his shoulders. Why was he in charge? They assumed too much, these people. He did his best to read names and numbers on walls and doors but the words on the ceramic tiles were printed in tiny cramped letters, too small to read. Abruptly they had come upon a stretch of water. The waves were rough and the line of gondolas, deserted, made irregular slapping sounds against the water. When he turned, Lesley was watching him. She was holding out her hands. Did she want help, or was she offering it? As he moved towards her, a man of about his own age appeared, catching him by the sleeve. ‘‘I believe I am your long lost brother,’’ the man began, and Duncan knew at once that it was true. With that he’d woken, his first, immediate thought being how on earth he was going to ask his mother about the other child. It took him a few moments to remember that he was the only one.
    If he told Mrs Fleming about the dream, she’d most likely enquire how many cups of coffee he’d had the night before. Mrs Fleming was the most recent addition to the staff at the Library. Half his age, with a face covered in freckles, and a small bald baby that her husband brought with him when he came to collect her on late nights, Mrs Fleming was very concerned about his coffee consumption and kept trying to wean him onto something she believed to be healthier. She brought in various fruit teas. He’d tried peppermint to please her. It tasted like hot mouthwash.
    â€˜â€˜And what are you doing at Christmas, Duncan?’’ she’d asked.
    â€˜â€˜Oh, just the usual. Just the two of us. We like a quiet Christmas. We have people in at New Year.’’
    It occurred to him that she might be about to invite him to the party he knew they were having. She had talked about it a lot, a Murder Mystery Evening, with the guests coming in costume. Not something he’d greatly enjoy, he thought, but he pictured himself in his father’s old Navy uniform, preserved