‘Okay, go on then.’
‘Have you ever met the family who live there?’
‘I’ve said hello a couple of times when I’ve walked past, I think. I haven’t paid them much attention.’
‘Because I saw the mother smacking her little girl last night.’
‘What do you mean by “smacking”?’
‘I mean exactly what you think I mean.’
‘What, like a smacked bum or a clip round the ear?’
‘I mean I’m sure she slapped her child around the face so hard that she hit the wall and fell to the floor.’
My hackles rise. I cannot abide cruelty to children, animals or the elderly, although I appreciate the irony of the latter. I move to the window for a clearer view.
‘And you’re positive you’re not mistaken?’
‘Yes, I’m sure that’s exactly what happened.’
‘You keep saying “I’m sure”, but did you actually see the slap?’
She hesitates for a split second, too long for my liking. ‘Despite what you may have told the world about my fictional mental state, I’m still compos mentis,’ she replies in a way that suggests I’ve offended her. ‘That little girl was locked in her room all night until this morning. She is being abused and neglected.’
Maggie meets my stare as we both recognise the similarities between her own circumstances and those of the girl. The difference between them is that no child can ever have done something that warrants such aggression. ‘Have you seen her tonight?’ I ask.
‘She was locked inside again for about an hour earlier. Then her dad came and let her out. We have to do something, Nina.’
If Maggie is being honest, then no, we can’t let a child suffer. But what if she’s confused or wrong? Or what if this is another one of her escape plans? Is she capitalising on my big heart to lull me into a false sense of security?
‘I’ll be back in a few minutes,’ I say, and leave her. I pause at her bedroom door and turn around, again looking for a sign that I’m right to be cautious. But she isn’t paying me any attention. She remains where she is, glued to the window. I want to think that she’s telling the truth.
I return with a tray containing both of our dinners. We sit side by side on the ottoman, eating sausage and mash from plates on our laps and watching the girl’s window over the road. Neither of us mentions our fight.
It’s the first time I’ve eaten with her in her bedroom. She picks up a metal knife to cut into a sausage and at the same moment, we both realise that I’ve forgotten to give her a plastic one. I’m angry with myself – only moments ago I was telling myself to be vigilant and here I am, handing her a weapon. She turns the knife around and passes it to me, handle first.
‘It’s okay,’ I find myself saying, so she continues to use it.
‘This is nice,’ she comments. ‘What’s in these sausages?’
‘They were on offer in Sainsbury’s,’ I say. ‘They’ve got chilli flakes in them.’
‘Chilli? Fancy that. You used to love sausage and mash when you were a girl.’
‘These days they call meals like this “comfort food”.’
‘My comfort food is beef, Yorkshire puddings and roast potatoes.’
‘I can never get my Yorkshires to rise like yours did.’
‘It’s all in the heat. If the oven temperature is too high, they won’t go up enough. You know Alistair couldn’t cook to save his life.’
The mention of Dad surprises me. She brings him up so casually, it’s as if we discuss him on a regular basis. And she never refers to him as ‘your dad’. She’s stripped him of his parental title. In return, I have done the same to her.
‘Yes, he could,’ I counter. ‘He was always in the kitchen at the weekends. I used to help him.’
‘He was. But they say you’re either a baker or a cook, and he was definitely a baker. What about the time when I was ill with shingles and he made dinner and put the fish fingers in the microwave for fifteen minutes? When they came out they were like doorstops.’
