“The Song From Moulin Rouge”

The cloud has thinned, so the heat of the day is less oppressive. A soft shimmer rises from the grass as Cottons Park settles into its evening rhythm: children’s voices thinning out, people heading home. The warm air is a little dusty, carrying the faint smells of cut grass and sun-softened tarmac.

Iris enters the park through the London Road gate, letting the warmth loosen the stiffness in her shoulders after a day behind the drapery counter. The swings creak lazily in the playground; the pavilion café shutters are halfway down, the aroma of tea lingering in the stillness.

She follows the path a little way, then chooses a bench near the wide stretch of grass where a group of boys are playing football. Not a formal match, just a fumbling, listless kickabout. Their shouts rise and fall, echoing from the backs of nearby houses..

She sets her handbag beside her and lets her feet rest.

Behind her, a bicycle bell gives a single, polite ring. Sam approaches along the path, pushing his bicycle by the handlebars. He’s wearing a pale cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled, the faintest shadow of a mark on one shoulder where the working day has brushed against him. He slows and nods when he catches her eye.

“Evening, Iris.”

“Evening, Sam.”

Before he reaches the bench, one of the boys misjudges a kick and charges too close to the path. The child swerves at the last moment, nearly clipping Sam’s bicycle. Sam reacts without fuss: one hand steadying the handlebars, the other catching the boy lightly by the arm.

“Easy, lad,” he says, calm as anything.

The boy grins, breathless, then tears off again. Iris watches the ease of it; the way Sam doesn’t make a show of helping, just does what needs doing.

He reaches her then, nodding toward the bench. “Mind if I stop a minute? Feels good to stand still.”

She shifts her bag. “Go on.”

He leans the bicycle against the end of the bench and sits, leaving a companionable space between them.

She catches the metal and petrol tang coming from his clothes, then the human musk of his body. It’s not an unpleasant combination and sits oddly well with the warm grass and the dusty air.

From one of the houses along Marks Road, the sound of a wireless drifts into the park: thin at first, then clearer as the gentle breeze shifts. Mantovani’s Song from Moulin Rouge, the strings rising and falling like someone breathing in a quiet room.

Iris smiles without looking at him. “There it is again.”

“It’s everywhere,” he says. “Heard it twice at work. The boss says it keeps the customers calm.”

“Does it keep you calm?”

“Not really. But it makes the place feel less like a shed full of engines.”

She laughs softly. “In the shop it makes people stand straighter. They look at the fabric as if they’re somewhere grand.”

“You could be somewhere grand,” he says. Not as flattery, but as something he’s thought before. “You’ve got a way with people.”

She looks down at her hands. “It’s just a shop.”

“Still counts.”

A shout from the grass interrupts them: a different boy this time, smaller, who’s gone down from a sloppy tackle. Sam stands without thinking, crosses the few yards of grass and crouches beside him. He checks the boy’s knee, brushes away the grit with the edge of his thumb, murmurs something Iris can’t hear. The boy laughs and jumps to his feet. Sam ruffles his hair and sends him back into the game.

When he returns to the bench, Iris notices how clean his hands and nails are. The faint citrus and turpentine scent of Swarfega rises from his skin.

“You’re good with children,” she says.

He shrugs, embarrassed. “My sister’s got three. You learn to keep an eye out.”

A father calls his son in for his tea. The football game begins to break up. The boys wave at Sam, who lifts a hand in return. A cooling breeze moves across the grass, carrying the hint of honeysuckle from someone’s back garden. A couple with a pram pass by, nodding politely.

“I nearly decided to stay home tonight,” Iris says. “But it felt too warm to sit indoors.”

“I didn’t fancy going straight home,” he says. “Thought I’d cut through.”

They sit a moment longer, then both stand as if an unspoken decision has been made. Sam takes up his bicycle and they walk together across the grass toward the Marks Road exit, their steps falling into an easy rhythm.

At the gate, Sam hesitates. “I was thinking of the pictures tomorrow,” he says. “They’ve got From Here to Eternity on at the Ritz. If you were going… we could go at the same time.”

She doesn’t answer straight away. She thinks of the posters outside the cinema, the hush when the lights go down, the way he brushed grit from that boy’s knee.

“All right,” she says. “Six o’clock by the station.”

He smiles; a small, relieved smile that makes him look younger. “Six it is.”

They part there: Sam mounting his bicycle and pedalling further up Marks Road; Iris crossing to Mildmay Road, where their paths widen gently though the distance doesn’t grow.