‘Mm,’ said Dulcie.

‘Couldn’t spare a few coppers, could you? Not for me,’ the boy assured her earnestly, ‘for my dog.’

Daring to look at last, Dulcie saw that the movement in his grubby lap was in fact a squirming beige puppy. Relieved that he hadn’t been exposing himself to her, she fished around in her pocket for change.

‘Sixty-five pence?’ The boy gazed at the coins in the palm of his hand. He looked disappointed.

‘I mean thanks, but I’m not going to be able to buy little Squatter much of a Christmas present with that, am I?’

Dulcie was beginning to feel like a plague victim. She appeared to be sitting in the middle of the Bermuda Triangle; everyone was giving her bench an extraordinarily wide berth. Some were shooting her sympathetic glances. Others, observing her predicament, were clearly thinking: sucker.

She took her purse out of her handbag and opened it while the boy looked on, his eyes bright with interest. She had, of course, used up the last of her change buying the cans of Coke.

Hating herself, knowing she was being half conned, half intimidated, Dulcie gave him a fiver and prayed he’d go away.

The boy grinned, revealing surprisingly white teeth, and tucked the rolled-up note into his sock.

‘The thing is,’ he said chattily, ‘if you can afford a fiver, you can afford a tenner.’

‘What?’

‘That wouldn’t be too much to ask, would it?’

‘This is called pushing your luck,’ said Dulcie.

‘It’s called trying to get by. Come on, look at you,’ the boy drawled, indicating the fifteen glossy carrier bags with a grubby thumb. ‘Look at the places you shop. How can it be fair, eh? You’ve got everything and I’ve got nothing. So tell me, how can that be fair?’

The Salvation Army band, having stopped for a breather, now picked up their instruments and launched into a jaunty version of ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’.

‘You haven’t got nothing.’ Dulcie had to raise her voice to make herself heard over the sound of the brass instruments oompa-ing away with gusto. ‘You’ve had a fiver from me and you’re not getting any more, so just leave me alone, okay?’

The façade of friendliness had gone now. His eyes were cold as he jeered at her.

‘Oh help, I’m sooo scared.’

Damned if she was going to be the one to get up and leave, Dulcie stared back. If he’d been one of the yuppie types at the Cat and Mouse, she would have told him exactly what she thought of him by now. But because he was hungry and homeless, she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

Which was weird, because he could.

‘Go on, you can afford it. Don’t be such a selfish bitch,’ he snarled. ‘Give me a tenner and I’ll go.’

‘There are two policemen over there,’ Dulcie lied coolly. ‘Shall I tell them you’re harassing me, demanding money with menaces?’

He snorted with laughter.

‘Menaces! I’ll deny it. I’ll tell them you were harassing me.’

‘Oh right. And who do you think they’ll believe?’ Dulcie retaliated. ‘The woman with everything, or a repulsive little creep like you?’

‘You can’t call me that,’ said the boy, stunned by the derision in her voice. ‘I’m homeless.’

‘I can call you anything 1 like,’ Dulcie snapped back, ‘because you’re a git.’

He went, loping off with his Tennant’s Export in one hand and the wriggling puppy in the other.

As he made his way across the precinct to the off-licence he turned and winked at Dulcie, and mouthed, ‘Worth a try.’

Dulcie stayed where she was. The encounter had depressed her; she wasn’t proud of the way she’d reacted to the beggar’s taunts. I’m just a horrible person, she thought wearily. No wonder Patrick prefers Claire.

The Salvation Army band played on, and when a young girl came round shaking a tin, Dulcie slid a tenner in. Anyone who wore one of those unflattering bonnets, she decided, deserved all the help they could get.

‘That’s really kind of you,’ whispered the girl in the bonnet, and all of a sudden Dulcie wanted to cry. She shook her head. ‘No it’s not.’

The girl moved on. Dulcie took another swig of Coke. What had the beggar called her, a selfish bitch?

Well, that was true enough.

His bitter, accusing voice rang again in her head: ‘You’ve got everything,’ and Dulcie felt a lump expand in her throat.

‘I don’t, she thought, feeling horribly sorry for herself. ‘I used to have everything, but I don’t any more.

A mother with two young children came and sat on the bench. Dulcie shifted her bags to make room for them.

‘Mum. Mum, I’m thirsty, can I have a Coke?’ clamoured the boy.

‘Me too, Mum, I’m thirsty too,’ his younger sister chimed in.

The woman, who had just eased off her shoes with a groan of relief, closed her eyes and groaned again.

‘Robbie, we’ve just sat down. Can you wait five minutes?’ Dulcie wasn’t a mother but even she knew this was a request doomed to failure.

‘N000! Mum, I’m thirsty now.’

‘So am I, so am I, Mum, so am I-I-I!’

‘Oh God,’ croaked their mother, wearily fumbling around for her shoes. ‘Okay, okay.’

‘Here, they can have this one.’ Dulcie leaned across and offered the woman her second can. ‘I bought two but I’m not thirsty any more.’

‘Are you sure?’ The woman’s gratitude was overwhelming. ‘Oh, thank you so much. You’ve saved my life! That’s really kind of you.’

Another really kind. Two really kinds, thought Dulcie, and one selfish bitch.

The children fought over the Coke and guzzled it down, while the woman waggled her pop-socked feet, making the most of five minutes’ rest.

Dulcie watched the brass players shake spit out of their trumpets and ready themselves for the next carol.

‘I know this one,’ exclaimed the girl next to her on the seat, swinging her legs in excitement.

‘It’s "Silent Night". We sing it at playgroup. I’m nearly four,’ she informed Dulcie proudly.

‘We’re having a navitivy play next week and I’m an angel.’

‘Really?’ said Dulcie. ‘That’s brilliant. I’ve always wanted to be an angel.’

The girl jumped off her seat and stood in front of Dulcie. ‘I’ll sing it for you,’ she announced, eyes shining. ‘Si-lent night, Ho-ly night, All is calm, All is bright ...’

Not to be outdone, her brother joined in, his clear, true soprano ringing out in the cold night as he guided his young sister’s reedy warble through the second and third verses.

Dulcie had to swallow hard as he soared into the descant; she’d always had a weakness for descants. She watched the two of them singing their hearts out and felt her bottom lip begin to quiver. What in heaven’s name was the matter with her today?

. . sleep in heavenly pee-eace, sle-ep in heavenly peace,’ concluded Robbie and his sister, romping home well ahead of the band.

Dulcie plastered a bright smile on to her face and applauded. ‘That was terrific. Thank you!’

‘Couple of show-offs,’ said their mother with a grin. ‘Guess what Father Christmas is bringing me,’ chirruped her daughter, ‘a Barbie and a bicycle.’

‘With stabilisers,’ Robbie interjected brutally. ‘My bike won’t have stabilisers.’

‘And he’s bringing it on his sleigh and the reindeers are going to help him get it into our chimney.’

Robbie was looking superior, as if he was itching to tell his sister Father Christmas didn’t exist.

Noticing this, their mother forced her feet back into her too-tight shoes and stood up.

‘Right, you two, we’ve got a bus to catch. And Robbie, sshh.’ Ruffling her son’s hair and raising her eyebrows in mock despair, she said to Dulcie, ‘Have you got any?’

Children, presumably. Not buses, Dulcie decided. She shook her head.

‘No, ‘I haven’t.’

‘Lucky you,’ said the woman, plainly not meaning it. She smiled. ‘Thanks again for the Coke.

‘Bye. Merry Christmas.’

For the second time that evening, shoppers gave Dulcie’s bench a seriously wide berth. They glanced out of the corners of their eyes at the woman sitting on it and hurried past determined not to get involved.

Dulcie saw them and didn’t care. She carried on sobbing, unable to help herself. She didn’t know why it was happening, she just knew she couldn’t hold it in a minute longer.

Tears streamed unstoppably down Dulcie’s icy cheeks. They ran down her neck and soaked into her black polo-necked sweater. She searched blindly in her coat pockets for a tissue and pulled out something soft and knitted instead.

Dulcie stared at what she saw. That was it; she’d really hit rock bottom now. You couldn’t sink much lower than shoplifting Father Christmas mittens from BabyGap.

‘Honestly, it’s a bit much,’ hissed an irritated middle-aged woman to her friend. ‘1 mean, why doesn’t somebody do something about her? That’s what we pay our taxes for, isn’t it?’

‘It’s all care-in-the-community these days,’ tut-tutted her friend, ‘but what good does it do them?

‘I bet she’d far rather be in a nice psychiatric hospital than out in public like this.’

‘Poor thing.’ The first woman’s voice softened. ‘You can’t help feeling sorry for her.’

Her friend chivvied her along. ‘Come on, Jean, don’t get involved. I told Edward we’d be home by nine.’

Bibi, who had overheard this conversation, glanced briefly over her shoulder to see who the two women were talking about.

She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw it was Dulcie.

Dulcie, in turn, thought she was hallucinating when she looked up and saw, through a haze of tears, Bibi standing two feet in front of her.

Chapter 52

But Bibi was definitely real. Recalling the last time they had faced each other — the night of Patrick’s fortieth birthday, the night she had managed ... oh God ... to ruin Bibi’s life — Dulcie covered her face and flinched away.