recognizing full well the change in tone—fear, hesitancy—that always preceded the subject matter.
“You’re still of the view that you don’t want to know anything else about the incident, or about your mother, I understand?”
No smiling this time. “That’s right,” I said.
“There’s no need—I speak to her once a week, on a Wednesday evening, regular as clockwork.”
“Really? After all this time, that’s still happening? Interesting... Are you keen to... maintain this contact?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” I said, incredulous. Where on earth does the Social Work Department find these people?
She deliberately allowed the silence to linger, and, although I recognized the technique, I could not stop myself from filling it, eventually.
“I think Mummy would like it if I tried to find out more about... the incident... but I’ve no intention of doing so.”
“No,” she said, nodding. “Well, how much you want to know about what happened is entirely up to you, isn’t it?
The courts were very clear, back then, that anything like that was to be entirely at your discretion?”
“That’s correct,” I said, “that’s exactly what they said.” She looked closely at me, as so many people had done before,
scrutinizing my face for any traces of Mummy,
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