“Honestly,” I heard her say. “She wants a good slap, that kid.” I knew she was talking about me, and I went back into the lounge.
“No I don’t,” I said.
“Don’t what, pet?” asked Mrs. Harold.
“I don’t want a good slap,” I said.
“Oh,” said Mrs. Harold. “I don’t think—”
“That’s not something I want at all,” I said.
“I think perhaps—” said Mrs. Harold.
“No one wants a slap,” I said.
“Of course you—” said Mrs. Harold.
“Slaps aren’t good, anyway,” I said.
Steven’s mammy stood up in a slow, heaving way, like her body was a mountain of wet sand she was having to mush into a castle. All the other mammies flapped and twittered, and I decided I didn’t care enough to carry on nagging about the good slap. I didn’t think Vicky’s mammy would really slap me, even if she thought that was what I wanted. She was too scared of me. Most people were scared of me, at least a little bit. Just how I liked it.
Someone said Steven’s mammy shouldn’t go home by herself, and everyone looked at Betty’s mammy because she had been making sure everyone knew she was the one looking after Steven’s mammy when we were marching. She got flustered, probably because she knew if she took Steven’s mammy home she wouldn’t be there for the gossip that would start as soon as Steven’s mammy was out of the door. I could see her searching for a reason not to go, but she couldn’t find one in time, so she left looking fed up. I thought she would probably dump Steven’s mammy at her gate and run all the way back.
“Poor lamb,” said Donna’s mammy as soon as they were out of the door. “What a thing to happen.”
“Of everyone, they mixed him up with my Robbie,” said Robert’s mammy.
“Makes you mad, doesn’t it?” said Vicky’s mammy. “When they catch him, whoever it is that did this, you can bet they’ll get his picture right. Won’t be mixing him up with any other murdering bastard.”
“She’s so thin,” said Mrs. Harold.
“She is,” said Vicky’s mammy. “I took round a stew but she probably never touched it.”
“Yes,” said Donna’s mammy. “I took round a shepherd’s pie and a chicken casserole and a coffee cake and some soup for the freezer.”
“Oh,” said Vicky’s mammy. “Well. That was nice of you.”
“I’ve not taken any food yet, but Robbie drew a lovely picture for her. I took that,” said Robert’s mammy.
“Did you?” said Vicky’s mammy.
“Yes,” said Robert’s mammy. “You know, I think it was just what she needed.”
I sort of thought if your kid was dead then a picture drawn by a kid that wasn’t dead might not really be what you needed at all. But then I didn’t really have any kids, so I didn’t really know.
“Awful smell when I was there,” said Mrs. Harold. “Really putrid. I said to her, ‘Mary, would you let me clean the place?’ but she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t even let me into the kitchen to make a brew.”
“Been speaking to the kids, haven’t they?” said Vicky’s mammy in a secrety voice. She jerked her head at us in case the other mammies had forgotten what kids were. Vicky and Linda were blowing bubbles in their lemonade and laughing, and I pretended to be doing that too, so the mammies wouldn’t know I was listening. “Came asking for Harry the other day. Harry! ‘You do know he’s five?’ I said!”
“And Donna,” said Donna’s mammy. “They came this morning wanting Donna. Seemed to think she must have seen him that morning but wouldn’t say why. Sent them away with a bit of a flea in their ear, I did. ‘We were at my mam’s all weekend,’ I told them. ‘She couldn’t have seen nothing.’”
Then the other mammies all had to take turns saying the police had been to speak to their kids too. Bad temper grumbled in my guts. I wished Donna hadn’t been at her nana’s that weekend. That meant she definitely wouldn’t be going to prison.
“Seeing Robbie’s little face in that picture . . .” said Robert’s mammy. “That’s made me upset enough to die, that has. That’s just made me upset enough to be sick. Really.”
“Jennifer,” said Donna’s mammy sharply. “Die or be sick. It’s very much one or the other.”
“Well, that’s all very well for you to say,” said Robert’s mammy. “You’ve not had the shock I’ve had. His little face looking out at me . . . It makes you think, doesn’t it? The worst thing about this isn’t Steven dying. It’s not about burying a little boy. It’s about burying an era. All those times we let the kids play out and thought they were safe, didn’t think a thing like this could happen in the streets. That’s what we’ve really lost. Our innocence. What happened to Steven—that’s just the way we lost it.”
She stopped talking just as I had started to think she was going to carry on forever, droning and droning like the vicar on Sundays. The other mammies looked at each other with faces that said, “What was that all about?” and “Why did she say all that?” and “Do you think she’s actually gone mad?” and then Vicky’s mammy said, “I think it might be best if you didn’t say that sort of thing in front of Mary, Jennifer.”
It started to get dark outside and Vicky’s mammy started clearing away the food in the way people clear away food when they have decided it’s time for other people to leave their house. Robert’s mammy was looking at the paper again. I thought she was probably going to slip it into her handbag, so she could show some other people the picture of Robert-not-Steven and tell them how much it made her want
