‘Well, pick it up,’ says Philip and he looks slightly disappointed in me.

‘He’s scared,’ and Rachel turns to him with a crooked smile.

‘No. No, I’m not.’ I stare at the twisting mass of feathers, the beak snappering open and shut, the long, pale pink tongue that looks as if it has eaten strawberry dip-dab. ‘There’s something wrong with it.’ I swallow.

‘No there isn’t, you’re just scared to pick it up.’

‘No, there is,’ I flush, ‘I know about ducks. I know about ducks and you – you don’t – and there’s something wrong with it.’ I stop and look at their faces, my eyes are pleading but the faces just seem to get bigger somehow and for once I don’t think Philip will understand. It won’t be like when he tells me not to worry because I’m bad at football, this time he genuinely seems cross and Rachel’s arms are folded with a cruel mask of pursed lips asking ‘So?’ And I try to sound grown-up and serious, not spluttering on a well of forming tears.

‘I think it must be the hot weather,’ and I can feel a burning trickle of sweat collecting under one arm. ‘They can get heat stroke. We had one that died it of last year. I – I ...’ Rachel moves her weight onto the other foot, ‘I think that we probably shouldn’t have chased it.’ The bird’s orange legs thrash away unevenly, etching desperate lines into the ground; its feet occasionally clatter against the sheets of iron. It still makes no sound, but all of us stare into its yawning mouth.

‘I think it’s trying to call out,’ Rachel says, and it’s true – it does seem to be trying to say something.

‘What should we do?’ Philip asks, and the cobwebs in my mouth melt away because I am in charge again and able to say, ‘I think we should leave it and then come back.’ And suddenly it’s like the end of school and we easily file away.