Saving Missy. Beth Morrey

his costume as his mother launched into a rant about the government. I noticed Otis’s Hulk feet were trailing, picking up debris. We should roll them up for him in the playground. As Angela’s voice reached a higher pitch, I pretended Otis was Arthur, though they were quite different, really. My grandson had a rather forceful personality whereas Otis seemed more pensive. But they both had the droll, quintessential charm of little boys.

      ‘Anyway, it’ll be fine,’ concluded Angela, having got whatever it was off her chest. By then we’d arrived at the arboreal avenue that led up to the café, the few leaves that still clung to the branches bristling as the gentlest of castanets. The air was crisp and there was a pleasing freshness to the day, as if everything were newly minted.

      Angela nodded towards the lakes. ‘I heard a rumour that the fish all died. The shock was too much for them.’

      ‘The electric shock?’

      ‘No, the shock of being in a different pond.’

      She went off to get her coffee while I stood with the little one watching the park’s resident goats stump around their enclosure. After a minute or two of silence he said, ‘Goats have rectangles in their eyes.’

      I looked over at the impassive mask, two dark circles regarding me solemnly from within.

      ‘Do they? I didn’t know that.’

      ‘Yes.’ He pulled me towards the fence. ‘Look!’ As the darker goat passed us and snuffled its nose against the wire, he pointed at one rolling eye. Bending and peering, I saw that the pupil was rectangular-shaped, like a horizontal slit. It looked rather alarming.

      ‘How extraordinary,’ I said, squeezing his hand. ‘Why is that, do you think?’

      ‘That mean,’ – he had such a quaint way of speaking – ‘that mean he gets hunted. The hunted animals have square eyes. The ones who hunt them are round.’

      ‘Our eyes are round,’ I noted.

      ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘That mean we are the hunters.’ He scampered off towards Angela, who was approaching with a steaming paper cup, puffing away on a cigarette.

      ‘You go on ahead, I’ve got to get this smoked before I can go in. Fucking shirty mums,’ she grunted.

      At this time of day the playground was sparsely populated, just a few mothers chatting as their children scuttled around. Otis immediately climbed onto the trampoline, tripping over his Hulk feet and sending the witch’s hat askew. By the time Angela rejoined us I was holding the costume and Otis was jumping in his normal clothes, holding Arthur’s car.

      Angela stood next to me, shivering in her leather jacket. ‘God, this is awful, isn’t it? Half the time I’m panicking he’s going to break something or get snatched by a paedophile, and the other half I’m going out of my mind with boredom. I could do with a drink, they should put a bar here or something.’

      I thought it was perfectly pleasant to watch the children playing and enjoy the fresh air, but Angela was already furiously jabbing at her phone. She would periodically dash out of the playground to greet people she knew, though she seemed more interested in their dogs. Frankly, she didn’t watch Otis as well as she should have, but I suppose that was the point of inviting me. An extra pair of hunter eyes.

      Every time she returned there was a new tirade. The park wardens were jobsworths, the cyclists went too fast, the joggers were wankers and whoever poisoned the pond and the fish deserved to drink their own toxic water. She held forth on a number of subjects, another cigarette perched between two fingers, despite the disapproving looks, as Otis ditched the climbing frames in favour of chasing pigeons and digging rice cakes out of his mother’s bag. I hadn’t warmed to Angela particularly, but true to her profession she was something of a raconteur, and I began to enjoy the stream of invective, storing tidbits of gossip for Alistair. A famous news correspondent had had his morning jog interrupted by a Cockapoo and had started a furious row with its owner: ‘like he thinks his pissy little run is as important as Syria.’ A Red Setter had got into the playground and his subsequent rampage had parents up in arms: ‘they should shut the fucking gates then, shouldn’t they?’ A Retriever had run off with an old lady’s wig: ‘She was livid but it wasn’t the bloody dog’s fault, was it? It was his tosspot of an owner; too busy chatting up some tart with a Chihuahua.’

      She paused for breath. ‘Otis, not over there!’ she bellowed. ‘Tramps piss there and stuff.’ She turned back to me. ‘Listen, talking of dogs … I need to ask you about my friend. The one you saw the other day. She’s in a bit of a mess and I’ve got this idea …’

      ‘Angela, darling, why aren’t you wearing a proper coat?’ We turned to see Sylvie ambling towards us, eyes crinkling at the corners as she picked her way through scurrying children.

      ‘I feel quite the adventurer in here, with no little people. Millicent! No – Missy! How lovely. I came to invite you all to lunch. I’ve just bought some Le Creuset and want to show it off.’

      ‘All right,’ said Angela. ‘We’d better go now though. You left the gate open and Decca and Nancy have got in.’

      ‘Heavens.’ Sylvie swivelled round and saw her dogs frantically digging in the sandpit, showering nearby children, who shrieked with laughter and flung sand in each other’s faces as their mothers bore down on us, fingers wagging.

      ‘Oh, hell.’ Angela grabbed a passing Otis by his sweater and pushed him towards the gates. ‘Let’s get out of here before one of them takes a shit on the seesaw.’

      Lunch at Sylvie’s; my crazy-old-lady fantasy made flesh … I wondered how to say no, but it seemed they just assumed I would be coming, so I picked up Arthur’s discarded car and followed, feeling rather light-headed.

      ‘Why did Sylvie call you Missy?’ asked Angela, as Sylvie secured her dogs and, scattering apologies, we left the playground.

      ‘Just a silly nickname,’ I hedged, still embarrassed about it.

      ‘It suits you,’ she said, and I couldn’t decide whether to be pleased or not.

      Sylvie lived in an elegant Georgian house west of the park, with a glossy wrought iron gate and an exquisite little parterre in the front garden. She led us up the flagged path, and turning back as she unlocked the front door, winked at me.

      ‘My abode,’ she said, and pushed it open.

      We were immediately greeted by the smell of cinnamon, and a very grand black and white cat who weaved around our legs as we entered. The walls were papered in the same William Morris design that adorned my old college halls and I felt a sense of nostalgia as we made our way through to her kitchen and wandered amongst the artful clutter of crockery, copper pans and poinsettia, the room as homely and twinkling as Sylvie herself. Thinking of my own bare and antiquated space, I decided she must never see it.

      We had the most delightful lunch, perched (in my case, rather precariously) on bar stools around the peninsula. Home-made hummus and plump olives, a quiche warm from the oven, tangy blue cheese, flatbreads dipped in a broad bean and feta concoction that was salty and moreish, all displayed on matching teal blue crockery. I’d never seen food as something to be fussed over, but there was something about Sylvie’s unaffected pleasure in it all that was infectious, encouraging me to relish every mouthful. Otis lay on the sofa in the sitting room, draped in cat and dogs, hummus around his mouth as he watched CBeebies. Angela was reading Country Living, occasionally stabbing a page to complain about the size of people’s houses, as Sylvie bustled about, arranging her smart new pots and dishes.

      ‘How do you two know each other?’ I asked, picking up an olive.

      ‘I kidnapped her dog,’ mumbled Angela, through a mouthful of bread.

      Sylvie chortled. ‘It’s true. Four years ago. She stole Nancy from the park. I sent out a search party and found a dog walker who’d spotted her with a mad-looking Irish woman and a screaming baby. Then someone else pointed the way to Angie’s garret. Found them both on the sofa eating