‘Moved around, eh? That's what I'd have expected of you. And what if one of them had been sick? where would we have found you? Moving around somewhere. Oh no my girl, you can't buy these children back, they need love.’ Love. What was she talking about? Roimata realised quite suddenly that she was tired and the whole conversation seemed a bit silly. The beginnings of a goofy smile hovered on her lips. ‘Don't you laugh at me — you …’ Then, after words had failed for a moment, out they came, a great torrent of words lashing about them all, storms from strange seas, tides of anger out of the deeps, despair, disgust. The children crouched under the table whimpering. And at last, at long last, the fury eddying away, receding, and amongst the flotsam, the word ‘police’ tossing untidily around the room. So that was it. The police could stop her taking the children with her. It began to make some sort of sense. No matter where she went, she would be hounded. No matter who she went to, they would not be good enough for the law. No matter how her arms ached to hold her babies, they would be torn from her grasp. She collected herself together, and headed for the door. ‘I — got a tie in there for Robbie, ‘mongst that lot,’ said Roimata, pausing and nodding foolishly at the parcels. ‘A tie for Robbie? Oh God — you're hopeless. What did you expect to get from Robbie? He was always a good boy — only when you came along he got mixed up. That's over now, he's all right again. Go on, take your stuff with you. Take it.’ ‘No,’ said Roimata, suddenly firm. ‘No I won't take it. It belongs to them.’ She indicated the children. Mrs Allen picked up a parcel, and catching her roughly by the arm tried to shove it into her hands. Roimata pulled away. ‘I wouldn't do that,’ she said dangerously, then taunting her, ‘I might get the pol-eece after you for assault, mightn't I?’ She walked outside, wishing she could be proud of her parting shot, but it seemed an empty victory. Behind her in the doorway, Debbie appeared. Roimata stood at the gate watching. The child walked down the path, stooping halfway to pick a daisy from the border. She continued, clutching the flower in front of her. ‘Your present, Mummy,’ said Debbie, holding it out. For a moment mother and daughter looked at each other. Then swiftly Roimata leaned down and kissed her child. As she straightened up, she curled her fingers round the small hand. ‘It's a lovely present Debbie,’ she whispered, ‘Lovely present darling. But you must take it to Nana. You must look after Nanny now. She needs a present.’ Her daughter studied the rejected offering curiously, then slowly turned back down the path, towards her grandmother. Up above, the sun had wheeled higher. The thrush still sang praise, all praise, upon the day. The road Roimata would take swam before her. The morning had broken apart.