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She tapped her nose. ‘Smart move, Mr Catchlove. Tea and cake, then.’

14

They wound their way towards the kiosk, which was easy enough to spot with its roof brightly painted with stripes. It was already teeming with people queuing for takeaway items and outdoor tables.

‘If we go inside, we might stand a better chance,’ Tom suggested.

Fleur nodded. ‘More expensive, though.’

‘My treat.’ He grinned and took her arm, guiding her into the restaurant part of the kiosk, which had bright chequered tablecloths and jugs of flowers on the tables. Sharp-eyed Tom spotted a couple preparing to leave. ‘There,’ he said, pointing. A waitress met them. ‘May we?’ Tom asked, gesturing to the table that was suddenly absent of guests.

‘Of course. I’ll just lay it fresh again if you don’t mind waiting.’

Within minutes they had each ordered a pot of tea and a slice of cake. Fleur had gone for a wedge of jam and cream sponge cake, while Tom couldn’t resist the ginger fluff sponge.

They both groaned with pleasure at their own cakes but before long they began to share.

‘Can’t take the country out of the boy, eh?’ Fleur jested. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever tasted that before, but I think Dad has mentioned eating it as a boy.’

‘Mum used to bake them for my father. Her cake would stand this tall,’ he said, gesturing with hand away from the table.

She laughed. ‘That’s very fluffy.’

‘No, that’s very delicious!’

Fleur refreshed their cups of tea and sighed. ‘This is lovely. Thank you for treating me like this.’

‘What else can I spend my wages on other than a wonderful day out alongside a beautiful girl?’

‘Any old beautiful girl?’ she enquired.

He became serious, his features straightening from his previous look of amusement as he shook his head. ‘There’s only ever been one for me.’

Fleur covered his hand with hers and tried to convey silently through touch that she felt the same way. As she did so, she became aware of a baby’s insistent cries. When Fleur stole a look, the child’s mother, sitting nearby with a family, appeared calm but Fleur’s impression was that she was deliberately ignoring those who had begun to stare; a quick glance around the restaurant showed several looks of pointed objection and pursed lips of disapproval at the noise interrupting their morning teas.

Fleur looked back at the scene, where a man with only one arm, it seemed, was gathering up three children, while steering the crying baby’s pram, obviously making to leave. The children were clearly unhappy at being hurried away from their treats, the remainders of the famous green, pink and chocolate frog cakes, unique to Balfours Bakery of South Australia, still on their plates. The older child, a boy, turned first and ran back to the table to grab his green frog. Then the other, presumably his younger sister, howling at the notion of leaving behind her own pink frog, twisted out from her father’s gentle hold. Her much younger brother also joined the charge back to the table, rushing forward and getting tangled in his sister’s legs and knocking over a chair.

Fleur heard gasps from nearby tables and saw the mother’s cheeks flush with embarrassment at her children’s behaviour, while the baby had by now reached a new level of despair and was turning purple with the effort. A senior waitress came over and said something to the children that brought a stammering apology from the family before she turned on her heel and stalked away.

‘Tom, I have to do something,’ Fleur said, letting go of his hand and walking over to the table, while casting admonishing glances to all the nearby pinched expressions. He rose too, and as she admonished the diners within earshot, Tom calmly bent and picked up the chair, setting it straight. ‘They’re just children,’ she said, exasperated, ‘excited to be at the zoo and enjoying their cake. I’m sure they didn’t mean to misbehave – that was a simple accident.’ Not waiting for a reply, she turned to the mother. ‘Excuse me for interrupting, but can I help?’

Close up, Fleur realised the mother was older than she’d appeared, perhaps in her early forties, but her figure was so trim and her complexion so lovely that they seemed to defy her age.

The woman gave Fleur a soft look of thanks. ‘Our baby’s not well, as you can hear, and my husband is struggling a bit with the other three.’

Fleur nodded. ‘Take no notice. Perhaps these people have forgotten what it is to nurse an upset baby. What are your children’s names?’

The woman told her.

Fleur smiled. ‘If you’ll permit me, perhaps I could take them to the monkey house? We were headed there anyway, and then you and your husband can settle down the baby. I’ll keep your other children distracted but within your eyesight. I’m Fleur Appleby, by the way, and this is Tom Catchlove.’ He and the woman exchanged a smile. ‘Tom, would you buy some sweets please, and also some peanuts for the elephant if you can?’

‘Of course. I’ll settle our bill and I won’t be far behind.’ He nodded at Fleur and the woman, and departed.

The woman seemed to sink a little in relief. ‘I’m Claire Wren. My husband is James . . . er, Jamie. And thank you, that sounds perfect.’

Fleur grinned. ‘See you at the monkeys,’ she said and didn’t linger, making a beeline for the children who were following their father out of the restaurant.

She skipped to their side. ‘Hello, I believe you are William.’ The boy nodded. ‘And this must be Susan.’ The girl smiled shyly. ‘And you must be little Matthew.’