Felicia looked at the child estimating, by its height, finger dexterity in peeling the top layer of icing from a display cake, and ability to construct language (“Mommy, I want a wee now”) that it was four or five years old. Any older and it would be in school, surely?
Third in the queue, her ears pricked when she heard the word ‘bread’ as in, the grocer had none. “We’ve had no delivery, see,” he said. “Ted’s late.”
“He’s never late,” said Mrs. Dalloway. “I’ve known him thirty years, regular as clockwork. Gets up at four, he does, to make his bread and delivers by eight.”
Felicia turned and left the premises. There would be no delivery today. She remembered now what the scent was last night. Gillian had smelled of warm beds and home and chip butties for tea. She had smelled of fresh baked bread.