hue.
‘They don’t need to. You do all the talking for them. Who the hell do you think you are, anyway, Florrie Hyatt? Mouthpiece of Bolton? Why don’t you get under the clock in the Town Centre, maybe they’ll give you a loud-hailer.’
‘’E did things. You know ’e did.’
‘I know nothing, Florrie and neither do you.’
Tom looked anxiously at me, then waved an arm towards the door, asking me, with a raised eyebrow, to step outside with him, but I shook my head. I was not going to miss this. For once, I might learn something about Eddie Higson.
Mrs Hyatt continued. ‘I know ’e were wild and evil, that’s what I know. ’E were a bad lad and bad lads becomes bad men.’
My mother slammed the teapot back onto the table, causing cups and spoons to rattle. ‘Do you want me to get the law on you, Florrie Hyatt? Is that what you want, a big scandal? Because I will, you know, I shall get a solicitor. And if Eddie knew what you were saying . . .’
‘Why, what ’ave I said?’
‘That he’s a bad lot.’
‘Prove me wrong, then.’
‘Oh no, you prove you’re right. I know enough about the law to know the onus is on you. Innocent till proved otherwise, Florrie Hyatt. You just remember that. Whatever happened all those years ago – if anything ever did happen – was before I ever lived in Ensign Street and if you hadn’t kept your great mouth flapping it would have died a death by now. Eddie’s a good man. He works hard, he’s got the house nice – what more proof do you want?’
Tom looked quickly at me. ‘There’s a time and a place for this sort of thing. Have neither of you any consideration for this child? And you listen to me, Mam, once and for all. A lot of lads sow wild oats but turn out decent. So shut up, will you?’
This was, by now, totally beyond my comprehension. As far as I could work out (and it wasn’t very far) Eddie Higson might have done something bad and then again, he might not. Whatever he might have done had made Mrs Hyatt go a funny colour and Tom said it was something to do with sewing. I had never seen Eddie Higson sewing. It was always my Mam who did the mending and stitching and sewing on of buttons.
Whatever it was all about, Tom and his mother were leaving and I might never see Tom again. As my mother and I stood in the doorway watching them walk away, I felt the tears of self-pity pricking my eyelids. I had not enjoyed my First Communion day one little bit.
Swiftly, I pulled myself away from my mother and ran down the road, the long satin skirt lifted high and bunched carelessly in my two clenched fists.
‘You won’t forget me, Tom?’
He looked down at me, his own eyes suspiciously wet. ‘No, I’ll never, ever forget you, Annie.’
‘And you’ll write to me?’
‘That I will. Soon as I get there.’
Mrs Hyatt bent to give me a kiss and whispered in my ear, ‘Remember, lass, any bother at all an’ tha comes fer me an’ Freddie. OK?’
‘OK.’
I sighed deeply as they walked away. Grown-ups were such a puzzle to me, telling half a tale, warning you about things you couldn’t understand.
But I was to understand only too soon what they had meant, what they had been trying to guard me against. I was eight years old and teetering on the brink of a nightmare that was to last for many years to come, a bad dream from which I would not wake until I had gained considerably in age and experience.
For a while at least, forgiving Tom and Mrs Hyatt would not be easy, for they might have protected me if they had tried harder. But they were, after all, no blood kin to me and I was no responsibility of theirs.
Forgiving my mother would, strangely, be easier, because I would have to care for and protect her from the evil in our midst.
But I would never, as long as I lived, forgive Eddie Higson for what was about to happen to me.
Mrs Cullen was having a clearout.
This was something she did two or three times a year and it was carried out with a