“Lucie, do you see that man in the square? The one in the red shirt? Who is he?”

The child pulls a face. White chocolate mice are her special weakness; five for ten francs. I slip a couple of extra ones into the paper cornet.

“You know him, don’t you?”

She nods.

“Monsieur Muscat. From the cafe.”

I know it; a drab little place down at the end of the Avenue des Francs Bourgeois. Half-a-dozen metal tables on the pavement, a faded Orangina parasol. An ancient sign identifies it; Cafe de la Republique. Clutching her cornet of sweets the small girl turns to go, reconsiders, turns again.

“You won’t ever guess his favourite,” she says. “He hasn’t got one.”

“I find that difficult to believe,” I smile. “Everyone has a favourite. Even Monsieur Muscat.”

Lucie considers this for a moment.

“Maybe his favourite is the one he takes from someone else,” she tells me limpidly. Then she is gone, with a little wave through the display window. “Tell Anouk we’re off to Les Marauds after school!”

“I will.”

Les Marauds. I wonder what they find there to amuse them. The river with its brown, stinking banks. The narrow streets drifted with litter. An oasis for children. Dens, flat stones flick-flacking across the stagnant water. Secrets whispered, stick swords and shields made of rhubarb leaves. Warfare amongst the blackberry tangle, tunnels, explorers, stray dogs, rumours, purloined treasures… Anouk came from school yesterday with a new jauntiness in her step and a picture she had drawn to show me.

“That’s me.” A figure in red overalls topped with a scribble of black hair. “Pantoufle.” The rabbit is sitting on her shoulder like a parrot, ears cocked. “And Jeannot.”

A boy figure in green, one hand outstretched. Both children are smiling. It seems mothers – even schoolteacher mothers – are not allowed in Les Marauds. The Plasticine figure still sits beside Anouk’s bed, and she has stuck the picture to the wall above it.

“Pantoufle told me what to do.”

She scoops him up in a casual embrace. In this light I can see him quite clearly, like a whiskered child. I sometimes tell myself I should discourage this pretence of hers, but cannot bear to inflict such loneliness upon her. Maybe, if we can stay here, Pantoufle can give way to more substantial playmates.

“I’m glad you managed to stay friends,” I told her, kissing the top of her curly head. “Ask Jeannot if he wants to come here some day soon, to help takedown the display. You can bring your other friends too.”

“The gingerbread house?” Her eyes were sunlight-on-water. “Oh yes!” Skipping across the room with sudden exuberance, almost knocking over a stool, skirting an imaginary obstacle with a giant leap, then up the stairs three at a time – “Race you, Pantoufle!”

A thump as she slammed, the door against the wall – bam-bam! A sudden stabbing sweetness of love for her, taking me off guard as it always does. My little stranger. Never still, never silent.

I poured myself another cup of chocolate, turning as I heard the door-chimes jangle. For a second I saw his face unguarded, the appraising look, chin thrust out, shoulders squared, the veins popping out on the bare shiny forearms. Then he smiled, a thin smile without warmth.

“Monsieur Muscat, isn’t it?”

I wondered what he wanted. He looked out of place, glancing, head lowered, at the displays… His gaze fell short of my face, flicking casually to my breasts; once, twice.

“What did she want?” His voice was soft but heavily accented. He shook his head once, as if in disbelief. “What the hell did she want in a place like this?” He indicated a tray of sugared almonds at fifty francs a packet. “This sort of thing, he?” He appealed to me, hands spread. “Weddings and christenings. What’s she want with wedding and christening stuff?” He smiled again. Wheedling now, trying for charm and failing. “What did she buy?”

“I take it you mean Josephine.”

“My wife.” He gave the words an odd intonation, a kind of flat finality. “That’s women for you. Work yourself senseless to earn money to live on and what do they do, hi? Waste it all on-” Another gesture at the ranks of chocolate gems, marzipan fruit garlands, silver paper, silk flowers. “What was it, a present?” There was suspicion in his voice. “Who’s she buying presents for? Herself?”

He gave a short laugh, as if the thought was ludicrous.

I didn’t see what business it was of his. But there was a kind of aggression in his manner, a nervousness around the eyes and the gesticulating hands, that made me careful. Not for myself – I learned enough ways to take care of myself in the long years with Mother – but for her. Before I could prevent it an image leaped out from him towards me; a bloodied knuckle etched in smoke. I closed my fists under the counter. There was nothing in this man I wanted to see.

“I think you may have misunderstood,” I told him. “I asked Josephine in for a cup of chocolate. As a friend.”

“Oh.” He seemed taken aback for a moment. Then he gave that barking laugh again. It was almost genuine now, real amusement touched with contempt. “You want to be friends with Josephine?”

Again the look of appraisal. I felt him comparing us, his hot eyes flicking to my breasts over the counter. When he spoke again it was with a caress in the voice, a crooning note of what he imagined to be seduction.