Tracey sits in the big tent at the music festival watching the band. Irish or Celtic, something like that. The music is good. Not so loud, the quality that it has above all is clarity. It rings like a bell in the night air, and the crowd is under a spell. Tracey is listening but more than that she is watching the family sitting in front of her, the very next row. Dad has just got back with two glasses of wine, and the mum is holding their child who must be maybe a bit shy of two, Tracey guesses. The mum is bouncing the child on her knee and the music is heart-achingly sweet and the child is so close, Tracey could reach out and touch him. She wishes for a moment that the woman would pass her this child, take a break for herself and her husband, kick back for twenty minutes with their wine and relax, and let her take care of this small, small boy who is wrapped up in a woolly blanket and a beanie and has sleepy eyes. Tracey sits and listens and aches and makes wish after wish.


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