The Earth Hums in B Flat by Mari Strachan

before going home for dinner I’ll just call at Number 2 in our terrace that was empty earlier; there’s someone home now, I can see the light on in the living room. It may be that the last person I ask will have seen Ifan Evans.
    I don’t see Mam until in a rush of air she grabs my arm. ‘That’s enough of that,’ she says, and drags me up the road towards our house. ‘Get in the house. I’ve got a bone to pick with you.’
    Mam’s face is white with red blotches on her cheeks just like the Toby jugs have when they’re puffing away hard at their pipes. ‘Someone’s been coming out of every other house on my way home to tell me about your goings on,’ she says, her spit spraying onto my face. ‘I’ve been working hard all morning and the last thing I need is to have people complaining to me about your behaviour.’
    â€˜I’m only trying to find Ifan Evans. And you’re hurting my arm.’
    Mam flings my arm away from her and I stumble after her into the living room. She hisses at me and I have trouble hearing what she’s saying.
    â€˜I just want to help Mrs Evans,’ I say.
    â€˜Quaint,’ says Mam. ‘That’s what they’re saying about you. That you’re quaint. That’s the next thing to odd. That’s what they’re really thinking.’
    â€˜But I’m not odd,’ I say.
    Mam drops her shopping basket on the floor and grasps me by the shoulders and shakes me. ‘Odd,’ she shouts. ‘Odd, odd, odd. That’s what they’re saying.’ She lets go of me and slumps into her armchair holding her face in her trembling hands. ‘What have I done to deserve a child like you?’ she says.
    John Morris uncurls from where he’s lying on Tada’s chair and sniffs the air. He jumps down and starts to snuffle and scrabble at the basket, a frantic growl in his throat.
    Mam draws a deep breath. ‘Pull that packet on top out of there,’ she says from behind her hands. ‘I got some lights from Jones the Butcher. Take them into the scullery and cut them up for him.’
    â€˜I can’t, Mam. You know I can’t,’ I say. ‘All that blood makes me feel ill.’
    Mam springs from her chair and snatches the packet from her basket and marches into the scullery. John Morris darts after her. I hear the soft, wet plop of the meat onto the chopping board. John Morris is hysterical. The knife thuds and thuds on the board until Mam scrapes the lights into his saucer. The fishy stink of blood wafts into the living room; I try not to think about Mrs Evans’s poor mouth or the red wound in the fox’s side. I glance up and see the Toby jugs turn scarlet with the effort of holding their breath.
    â€˜Nain says it will turn him wild, giving him raw meat,’ I say.
    The tap turns off in the scullery and there’s a silence until Mam comes back into the living room and takes off her coat. Her face has come out in more red blotches. Perhaps the blood has splashed on it. I don’t look at her.
    â€˜If you listened to me half as much as you listen to Nain,’ she says, ‘I wouldn’t have the whole town telling me you’re odd every time I walk home from work.’
    â€˜Only today,’ I say, ‘and you said it was every other house, not the whole town.’
    Mam takes another deep breath. ‘Just get into that scullery and start making dinner,’ she says.
    â€˜What are we having?’ I say. I walk past all the faces in the distemper with their wide open eyes and don’t look at the saucer of lights.
    â€˜Bread and cheese,’ says Mam. ‘I’ll have to stoke this fire up to get the kettle going.’ She rattles the fire with the poker. ‘I must be the last woman in this town to have to cook on the fire.’
    She isn’t. But I don’t say so out loud.
    I lift the big white loaf from the bread bin onto