“Are you willing to take part?”
“Maybe.
“Oo sent you?”
“We’ve been conducting some research in the local courts,” she said glibly.
“The name O’Brien popped up quite frequently.”
“Not surprised. Will I get paid?”
“Certainly. I’d need to talk to you for about an hour now to get a rough idea of your views. For that you will receive an immediate cash payment of fifty pounds.” Ma would turn her nose up at anything less, she thought.
“Then, if we think your contribution is valuable and if you agree to be ifimed, we will pay you at the same hourly rate while the cameras are here.”
Ma O’Brien pursed her meagre lips and proceeded to splatter aitches about the place.
“Han hundred,” she said, ‘hand hI’ll do it.”
Roz shook her head. Fifty pounds would clean her out anyway.
“Sorry. It’s a standard fee. I’m not authorised to pay any more.” She shrugged.
“Never mind. Thank you for your time, Mrs. O’Brien. I’ve three other families on my list. I’m sure one of them will jump at the chance to get their own back at authority and earn some money while they’re doing it.” She turned away.
“Look out for the programme,” she called over her shoulder.
“You’ll probably see some of your neighbours on it.”
“Not so ‘asty, Mrs. Did I say no? Course I didn’t. But I’d be a mug not to try for more hif there was more to be ‘ad. Come in.
Come in. What d’you say your name was?”
“Rosalind Leigh.” She followed Ma into a sitting room and took a chair while the little woman turned off the television and flicked aimlessly at some non-existent dust on the set.
“This is a nice room,” said Roz, careful to keep the surprise from her voice. A three-piece suite of good quality burgundy leather ringed a pale Chinese rug in pinks and greys.
“All bought and paid for,” snapped Ma.
Roz didn’t doubt her for a moment. If the police spent as much time in her house as Hal had implied, then she was hardly likely to furnish it with hot goods. She took out her tape recorder “How do you feel about my recording this conversation? It’ll be a useful gauge for the sound man when he comes to set levels for filming, but if the microphone puts you off then I’m quite happy to make notes instead.”
“Get on with you,” she said, perching on the sofa.
“I’m not afraid of microphones. We’ve got a karaoke next door. You gonna ask questions or what?”
“That’s probably easiest, isn’t it? Let’s start with when you first came to this house.”
“Ah, well, now, they was built twenty year ago, near enough, and we was the first family him. There was six of us, including my old man, but ‘e got nicked shortly after and we never seen ‘im again. The old bastard buggered off when they let ‘im out.”
“So you had four children?”
“Four in the ‘ouse, five in care. Bloody hinterference, like you said.
Kept taking the poor little nippers off me, they did.
Makes you sick, it really does. They wanted their ma, not some do-good foster mother who was only in it for the money.” She hugged herself.
“I always got them back, mind. They’d turn up on my doorstep, regular as clockwork no matter ‘ow many times they was taken away. The council’s tried everything to break us up, threatened me with a one-roomed flat even.” She sniffed.
“Arassment, like you said. I remember one time..
She required little prompting to tell her story but rambled on with remarkable fluency for nearly three-quarters of an hour.
Roz was fascinated. Privately she dismissed at least fifty per cent of what she was hearing, principally because Ma blithely maintained that her boys were and always had been innocent victims of police frames.
Even the most gullible of listeners would have found that difficult to swallow. Nevertheless, there was a dogged affection in her voice whenever she referred to her family and Roz wondered if she was really as callous as Lily had painted her. She certainly portrayed herself as a hapless victim of circumstances beyond her control, though whether this was something she genuinely believed or whether she was saying what she thought Roz wanted to hear, Roz couldn’t tell. Ma, she decided, was a great deal smarter than she let on.
“Right, Mrs. O’Brien, let me see if I’ve got it right,” she said at last, interrupting the flow.
“You’ve got two daughters, both of whom are single parents like you, and both of whom have been housed by the council. You have seven sons.
Three are currently in prison, one is living with his girlfriend, and the remaining three live here. Your oldest child is Peter, who’s thirty-six, and your youngest is Gary, who’s twenty-five.” She whistled.
“That was some going. Nine babies in eleven years.”
