‘Which you’ll be giving to the collection plate this Sunday.’
I burned with resentment until dinner time. After that, fresh concerns took over.
‘Do you think Olivia Paul’s been killed?’ I asked her.
Her hands hovered in mid-air over the salad bowl, frozen in the act of tossing the lettuce.
‘Who said that?’
‘Matty.’
Her lips tightened.
‘Well, he shouldn’t have.’
A pressure lifted.
‘So, you think she’s alive?’
‘I think you should stop worrying. Supper’s nearly ready. Have you washed your hands?’
I walked away scowling. From now on, I knew where to take my questions.
Later she and Matty had a row that had clearly been brewing all through supper. I listened in, ear to my bedroom door.
‘What possessed you to tell her that girl’s been murdered?’
‘It was on the TV.’
‘What were you thinking?’
‘She asked me a question. Was I supposed to lie?’
‘About that? Yes.’
‘Seems to me you’re best answering a kid honestly, Ams. Else how will they ever trust you?’
A warm feeling settled inside me. Finally, someone I could count on. It didn’t occur to me till a long time afterwards that might have been exactly what he wanted me to think. And as a chronic eavesdropper, it was a safe bet I’d be listening.
Turned out Matty’s pronouncement about the killer had been a safe bet too.
He and my mother were whispering on the sofa, discussing a surprise for my birthday. I was secretly hoping it would be the new BMX I’d been dropping not-so-subtle hints about. I strained to hear but it was all sibilance and sea sounds.
Matty seemed to be the one pushing for whatever it was. My mother had her arms folded, clearly more reticent.
He gave her a wry look.
‘Don’t tell me you wouldn’t get a kick out of it,’ he said, back to normal volume.
He glanced over to where I was sitting at the kitchen table surrounded by paint pots and brushes.
‘What you doing there, pumpkin?’
‘Maths homework,’ I told him.
He wasn’t the only one who could do wry.
‘Cover the table please, smarty-pants,’ my mother said. ‘I’ve finished with the newspaper. Use that.’