The first time, it was a cool, bright day and we’d spent the afternoon in the park on the far side of the river. I had more time to spend with you but little money – at least, until I went back to work again – and we often hung about in the park, one of our many sources of free entertainment.

You played on the swings for a while, then rode your scooter up and down the paths, looking like an astronaut in your bulky pink helmet. Finally, we stood together on the embankment and threw bread down to the ducks that waddled far below on the stony shore revealed by low tide.

We had just hurled the last crust and shaken a final rain of crumbs out from the corners of our plastic bag. The mallards and large Canadian geese turned and waddled back towards the water and, one by one, launched themselves into the current, starting to disperse. I reached for you with one hand and, with the other, stuffed the empty bag in my coat pocket.

You tilted your face to the low, white cloud over the river, thoughtful.

‘Mummy, do angels live in the sky?’

I blinked, then stooped to hear you better. ‘Angels?’

Your face was solemn. ‘Can they see us right now? If we wave?’

Below, the remaining geese squawked and pecked round each other’s feet. You swung my hand in yours, pulling me forward.

‘No, my love,’ I said. ‘Angels aren’t real like that. Not like us.’

‘Yes, they are.’ You looked cross. ‘I met one.’

I steadied my breath. You had been known to tell tall stories. You didn’t mean to lie. You were still working out the difference between what was real and what was imagined. I remember finding a page torn out of a book and saying sternly: ‘Did you do this, Gracie?’ and you looked me right in the eye and said: ‘No, Mummy, Bear did.’

But this seemed different. I steered you to one of the wrought-iron benches on the other side of the path and sat you down beside me.

‘What do you mean, Gracie?’

‘You made him laugh.’ You looked thoughtful, remembering. ‘In the hospital. Sticking mouse’s ear back on the wall.’

My breath stopped in my throat. ‘In the hospital?’

You smiled, gave an emphatic, exaggerated nod. ‘Typical Mummy. That’s what he said. Always trying to put things right.’

The lorries and double-decker buses made dark silhouettes against the sky as they followed the rounded arc of the bridge. I thought of the peeling picture of Minnie Mouse and the way I’d stood on the table to press it back. How did you know? Did someone else see and tell you? That was the only way I could explain it.

I slowed myself down, choosing my words with care.

‘Gracie, do you remember when you were in the play at nursery? Angels are a lovely part of Christmas. But we don’t actually meet them. Not nowadays.’

You frowned, squirmed, looked at your tangled fingers.

‘But I did.’

I sighed. ‘Maybe you had a very special dream, Gracie. When you were in the car.’

You shook your head and pushed out your lower lip. ‘It wasn’t a dream. It was real.’

You looked away from me, out over the water where seagulls were swooping.

I steadied myself, trying not to get cross. ‘Sometimes I have dreams that feel very real.’

‘No!’ You screwed up your mouth.

I reached out and put my hand on your back and stroked you between your hunched shoulders. You shrugged me off, annoyed.

‘OK. Tell me about it then.’

You glanced at me, judging whether it was worth saying more. A young woman in a tracksuit jogged past, listening to music. A moment later, a dog nosed round our feet, sniffing, and you drew up your legs, frightened of being licked.

When the dog’s owner passed, calling the dog after him, I tried again.

‘So where did you see him?’

You hesitated. ‘Remember when we had the accident?’

‘Of course.’

You hesitated, searching for the words. ‘Well, in the car, I had a funny feeling in my head.’

‘A funny feeling?’

‘In here.’ You pointed to your forehead, then hesitated. ‘I was all floaty and I could see myself in the car seat and the car was all crumpled like paper and there were big men shouting and using knives to cut off the doors and get in.’

‘You remember that?’

You nodded, your eyes clear. ‘They put something round my neck like a dog and put me on a bed and we went in the ambulance. One of the men called me petal but that’s silly, I’m not a flower. And suddenly I left them all behind and started to fly.’

‘To fly?’

‘One minute, I was looking down on them, rushing, rushing, and the next I went whoosh through a dark tunnel and there was a bright, bright light at the other end and he was standing there with his arms open, stretched really wide like this, waiting for me.’

You looked sideways to see how I was taking this. I tried to keep my face impassive.

‘What makes you think he was an angel?’

‘He was tall and he had light shining.’

I hesitated, thinking about the pictures of angels we’d coloured at Christmas, complete with wings and halos.

‘He gave me a big cuddle and he was so happy to see me and I was happy too and he took my hand and started to lead me away.’ You smiled. ‘It was amazing.’

I bit my lip. You seemed lost in the memory.

‘Then what happened?’

‘We talked for a bit and then he asked me if I wanted to go with him or if I wanted to go back. When I looked round, I saw Daddy outside the hospital and when they lifted me out of the ambulance, he came running, shouting, and he was crying.’ She paused. ‘I’ve never seen Daddy cry before.’

‘He cried the day you were born,’ I said. ‘But that was because he was happy.’

‘Then I saw myself on a trolley and they put a needle in my arm and a mask on my face and pushed the trolley into a big lift and a nurse pressed the button with a four on it. When we were in there, the ambulance man put his hands on my chest like this and leaned on me and Daddy was shouting.’

I didn’t know what to say. I just kept quiet and let you talk.

‘Daddy was sad and I knew you would be too so I told the man: I think I’ll go back please. And then I was there again, in my body on the trolley, and my head hurt and I felt sick and my ears were full of noises and when I opened my eyes, lights in the ceiling were rushing past me and I thought they were hardly lights at all, compared to the light I’d just seen, but Daddy’s face hung over me and the doctor’s and that man said “Stay with us, petal, stay with us”, and then I fell asleep.’

You seemed tired when you finished and I reached an arm round you and hugged you to me, stroking hair from your forehead.

‘Do you believe me, Mummy?’

I didn’t want to tell you that I didn’t believe you – it seemed to feel true to you and it is a terrible thing not to be believed by people you love. So I just said: ‘I’m very glad you came back, Gracie. You don’t know how glad. I love you very much.’

A chill wind blew along the river and clouds thickened overhead. You were starting to get cold. I stood up and you jumped to your feet and we walked back towards the bridge, hand in hand. I clutched you very tightly. I wanted to be normal with you but my head throbbed with the effort of understanding the implications of what you’d said.

‘Please will you tell me,’ I said, trying to sound matter of fact, ‘if you remember anything else?’

‘OK.’ Your voice was chirpy.

A moment later, you let my hand fall and started to skip, jumping sideways on and off the edge of the path, your hair flying as if you’d forgotten about the whole thing.

---

That evening, after we’d read a story and I sang you to sleep, I sat on in your room, gazing down at your face in the shadows. Just you and me, in the silence.

You were sleeping on your knees, hunched forward over your bear, one arm flung out, your head lolling to one side, hair splayed across the sheet. You were so still that I kneeled down beside you and lowered my face to yours to catch the soft, barely audible suck of your breathing. You didn’t stir when I put my lips to your cheek and stroked the hair from your eyes. Your skin smelt of lemons.

You stirred and I retreated at once and settled in the lumpy armchair and sat, my legs curled under me, my cheek against the rough fabric, thinking about you and how blessed I was to have you back again, here, alive. And thinking about that poor young woman, Vanessa, the estate agent, and her desperate mother, somewhere out in the darkness, who had lost her daughter forever.