It’s been a proper scorcher for this early in June, and the air’s thick with pollen as they break into Mrs MacReady’s. I feel like a spare part, hovering by the front door with its tell-tale pint of semi-skimmed sitting in a little puddle of dried-up spilled milk. If only I’d been here earlier to see it.
“Is Mrs Mac going to prison?” Billy asks.
“No, love!” I pick him up, though he’s getting too big for that really. “The police are just going in to make sure she’s all right, seeing as she wasn’t answering her door.”
“What if she’s out at the shops? Won’t she be cross they’ve broken her window?”
“Mrs Mac only goes out on Saturdays, when the taxi calls, remember?” He’s too heavy, so I put him down before I do myself a mischief. But I keep my arm around him. “Is she all right?” I ask the
