Marta put her arm around her, pulled her close.
‘I want my mama,’ the girl wailed. The sentiment was so direct and unexpected that Marta felt her own eyes sting with emotion, a sudden ache inside and the memory of flinging herself into her mother’s arms.
A flash of rage scorched through her. It was so unfair. Was it so wrong to want a better life? Clothes that looked halfway decent, a home and a telly, something to play music on, food in the fridge? They were all working, not thieving, working bloody hard, opening their legs for men who’d spit at them as soon as smile.
‘Shush,’ she told Zofia. ‘It’ll be OK.’ It had to be and that was that.
*****
Chris Chinley was less than appreciative of Janine’s courtesy call. His hostility clear in every gesture, each word. He had opened the door a few inches – just enough to allow conversation. Janine noticed the reek of alcohol, his bloodshot eyes.
‘What do you want?’
‘I thought you’d like to know. The tests are clear.’
‘I’m supposed to be grateful, am I?’
She tried to explain. ‘Chris, you didn’t give me any option. What was I supposed to do?’
He turned and walked away, leaving the door ajar and Janine on the doorstep, feeling like a right idiot.
Debbie came out.
‘It’s all OK.’ Janine told her. ‘The tests.’
‘Would you like some tea?’
Janine was embarrassed by the kindness. ‘I best get back.’
Horrified, she watched Debbie’s face crumple. ‘Janine, Chris… this… we’re not going to make it.’
Janine stepped into the house, ushering Debbie with her.
‘Everything’s gone. Everything.’ She began to cry.
Janine put her arm around her, blinking hard, breathing though her nose, tricks to control her own responses. To stop her from joining in.
Janine could smell food when she walked in home and her mouth began to water. When had she last eaten? Pete was testing Eleanor on her German, the two of them obviously having fun with it. Michael was getting a pizza out of the oven. No sign of Charlotte which meant Pete had managed to get her down. Hallelujah!
Scattering hellos and shucking off her coat she watched Tom. He was sitting alone at the table, an empty chair pulled up close to his and on the table he had laid out two lots of pens and paper and beside each a cup of milk and a saucer with slices of apple.
‘Something smells good,’ she said to Michael.
‘Ham and pineapple.’
‘You going to eat all that?’
‘I was till you got here.’
‘Go on,’ she chided him, ‘cut us a slice. You should be in bed,’ she told Tom, gently.
