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When I saw that the Mammy was appearing in our town I wanted to go and see her. I was beginning to forget what a mammy was, but I knew that to have one was important to a boy. The teacher used to show us pictures of mammies in a book. She said mammies were always kind and rosy cheeked and held your hand.

‘A mammy is someone who belongs to you,’ the teacher said.

All I remember is a smell.

I don’t care if Mrs. Busby does take some of my wages off. I’ve got to see the Mammy, to prove those boys wrong, the ones who said that the Mammy was a mermaid and couldn’t breathe air, and that her skin had become all wrinkled from being in the tank and that she had forgotten how to talk and that she didn’t love us anyway.

In the city centre fair there is a helter skelter and a big wheel and a shooting gallery, but I run past all them to stand outside her tank. The tank is wide enough for her to swim a few strokes. I watch her sweep the floor of her underwater house with a broom. There is a cooker in the corner of the tank, just like in a real kitchen. You know it’s pretend, but when she touches it, it goes whoosh with the water as if it’s lighting up...