The large black bird remained, sat on its throne of oak, staring down at her from his perch.
‘He’s okay, Charlie. That’s probably his home.’ Her mother leant over the back of the pushchair, eased her daughter’s arms back inside.
‘But, mummy…mummy, nanny always says they are sorrow – if you see one then it’s sorrow.’
Katherine smiled, stopped walking, moved to the front of the pushchair and knelt before her daughter. She took each of the little girl’s hands in her own and smiled at her questioning expression.
‘Oh, that’s just nanny and her silly old stories. Besides, I think she meant magpies – you know, the posh looking ones – look like they’re off to dinner with their black suits and smart white shirts? They’re the ones she says the silly old rhyme about. So, silly socks, you are worrying about nothing’.
Charlotte pouted, shook her head.
‘No, mummy. You’re wrong, it’s magpies too, but Mr Crow is worser. He’s much worser.’
Katherine looked up and into the steely black eyes of the bird above, and the eyes stared directly back at her.