Fly in the Ointment by Anne Fine Page B

welcoming, but still I stepped in the hallway. He put out a hand to push open the door to the living room, then clearly thought better of that and went on to the kitchen. It was a whole lot cleaner and brighter than I’d imagined – tidy even, apart from a mouldering armchair jammed in the corner and the clutter of toys on the floor. I recognized the stacking bricks and loops of different colours, and felt my first ever wash of warmth for Janie Gay. At least she hadn’t thrown them out.
    And then I heard the squawk and noticed the cot in the corner. ‘Oh!’
    The boy was grinning. ‘Nobody sees him till he makes a noise. But it’s a whole lot warmer down here than in that bedroom. I put that board up so he can’t get splashed from the oven. But sometimes, when he’s asleep, even I can forget that he’s in here.’
    The squawk had turned into a determined wail. The boy reached over to scoop up the baby. Larry.
    Instantly the wailing stopped, and with the baby nestling against him, the young man temporarily seemed to forget that I was there as he soothed Larry. ‘Had a good long nap? Want some milk?
Course
you do. There’s my boy. Who’s a clever old thing?’ The whole time he was chuntering away, he was using hisfree hand to dig in a cupboard for a saucepan, then reach in the fridge. He discarded one carton. ‘No, that’s not your milk, is it, Larry boy? Yours is the proper stuff, isn’t it? There we go. Not long now. Just hang on a moment while Daddy warms it.’
    Daddy? Could that be true? Of course it was always possible, knowing what little I did of people Janie Gay’s age and their lives. And what a great relief that would turn out to be. But on the other hand, the word might mean nothing. I thought back to something one of Malachy’s teachers told me once, in an attempt to console me after some misdemeanour of my son’s that had filled me with shame: ‘He’s in with a challenging bunch of boys, Mrs Henderson. A lot of them lack stability. Do you know, walking behind a pair of them yesterday, I even heard one saying to the other, as casually as you like, “You’ve got my old dad now, haven’t you?” What do you think about that?’
    So maybe this was indeed my real and only grandson, and this was his very first ‘new dad’ so deftly pouring the milk one-handed into the pan, and lighting the gas by striking the match along the edge of the box tucked under his chin. I watched him dip in a finger to check the chill was off the milk, hold up the empty bottle against the light to make sure it was clean, then pour.
    Before the bottle was even halfway full, the babywas reaching to grab it. ‘You need three hands,’ I told him. ‘Can I help?’ He held out the bottle and I twisted the top in place. The baby snatched it with both hands, and together they fell in the armchair, looking the picture of comfort, the boy with his feet sprawled and Larry curled in his arms.
    And then the boy turned towards me. His whole demeanour changed.
    â€˜So,’ he said coldly. ‘Who are you after? Me – or Janie Gay?’
    â€˜After?’
    â€˜Oh, don’t play games! I’m good on faces. I recognize you from poor old Mally’s funeral. We had you sussed even back then. You have to be some sort of police nark.’
    I don’t know what came over me, I really don’t. I’d wasted all those hours inventing stories about starting a local playgroup, wanting to know if Janie Gay would answer a survey on shopping patterns, or asking if she had seen my missing dog.
    And what came out?
    â€˜Nonsense!’ I snapped. ‘I’m not a police officer. Nor some undercover agent or part of the drug squad. I was at Malachy’s funeral because I’m a social worker and Malachy was on my files. Now I’ve moved areas, into child health, and so I’m here tocheck that Laurence