Rita Flowers was in my class at school. Writing letters was an exercise in nakedness when you were five or six. Your baby she said, meaning my brother.  The idea that the baby was everyone's, that a family received a baby together, I wouldn't have thought of. Rita's mother was very small and rode a shiny black bicycle, with a spruce, capacious basket on the front. She stood holding the handlebars in her fitted coat, her head tilted up and onward, midway between a frown and a smile. There was a brother, and a nanna up Wantz Road, I don't know about a father. The brother, Keith, threw a dart into my wrist as I reached for the door handle. The dartboard was on the back of Nanna's door. One spring I went with Rita and her mother, all of us on our bikes, to a wood a few miles away, to pick primroses. We picked bunches of them and tied the bunches with wool, and to each other. I wondered why Rita's mother needed so many. Later I thought she must have been selling them. She knew you had to pay a lot of money when you had a baby.