in the room. Which was understandable, and my eyes strayed back to the pictures. I felt sorry for her. It was odds-on that she’d struggled all her life with her own son, and had no doubt needed to fight for every little bit of help she could get. No wonder there was so much bitterness in her voice. So thank goodness he was now being taken care of. If he was a child in a man’s body – and, from what I’d learned, I imagined he must be – there was no way a lady of Mrs Gallagher’s age and stature would be able to look after him on a full-time basis. I knew from experience just how physical a job it could be – had probably been a struggle from the time he’d hit puberty – with, presumably, the usual pubescent dramas. Of course she’d be angry that someone like Sam’s mum appeared to get away with whatever she wanted, and though I disagreed with her assessment of her neighbour’s ‘mental home’ as being ‘cosy’, I certainly understood where she was coming from.
I’d also had a rethink on the empathy front. She might not empathise with Mrs Gough, but with the troubles she’d had, it was evidence of a very kind heart that she cared so much for the little victims of it all. And as she’d been a constant in their short lives, and wanted to continue to be so, I didn’t doubt she’d be a positive in Sam’s life as well. And if anyone needed positives in his life, little Sam did. Perhaps even more than his brother and sister. Who at least had each other, after all.
We chatted on, about nothing much, Mike admiring her back garden, and, by extension, he got the same tour upstairs as me and Colin had, where, in the drizzle, next door’s ‘garden’ couldn’t have provided more of a contrast, the rotting dog enclosure filling more than a third of the space. I wondered, given the situation with Sam’s mother, how soon it would become a home again, instead of an eyesore. It couldn’t have been nice to live next door to.
Mrs Gallagher pressed us to take a few cakes home. ‘Whoever else will eat them?’ And though we promised to, because her lemon buns were apparently Sam’s favourites, we knew we wouldn’t pass them on to Sam himself. So Mike tucked in almost the minute we drove away.
‘So, Cinderella,’ he said, through a mouthful of cake crumbs, ‘looks like you will be going to the ball after all – and without the worry of having to be home by midnight either. And you never know, if it all goes well then the mini-break world is our oyster!’
‘Stop being silly,’ I said, tutting, and brushing crumbs from the centre console. ‘We can’t take advantage of the poor woman. And we don’t know how it’s going to go, so we shouldn’t get our hopes up. This is Sam, and he might just hate the idea of going back there, however fond he is of her. And Mrs Gallagher, for all her kindness, might find it all too much. Let’s just think one day at a time, at least for now.’
‘Oh, my dear wife,’ Mike said, ‘for all the many sayings your lovely mother taught you, she really didn’t teach you the best ones, did she? I mean, what about never looking a gift horse in the mouth?’
I couldn’t help but smile. ‘Okay, fair enough. But what about not counting your chickens before they’re hatched?’
‘Okay, touché!’ he said. ‘But, Case, you have to admit it – I think we’ve found ourselves a real gem in that woman, don’t you?’
I could only agree, even as I didn’t want to count chickens. As blunt as she was, Maureen Gallagher was a diamond in the rough, and I was thankful she was now in our lives. A good day, I thought. A productive one, too. Because when we returned it was also to hear all about Sam’s ‘brilliant’ adventure, which had included dog walking, exploring, the bestest burger ever, an egg hunt – he had the loot to show for it too – and being taken to a place that was so special and secret, only the best superheroes knew where it was. Or, in Colin’s terms, ‘some old country park ruin’.
And that was another plus – that there was such a good connection, right there. Sam might have been the expert in demolishing Lego but the little building blocks were being put in place that would give him some foundations. Stronger ones, hopefully, than those he’d had before.
There was much building to do yet, and perhaps the early blueprints hadn’t been perfect, but, brick by brick, we were at least heading upwards. And though I’m not that superstitious, when I went to bed that night, I touched the bedside table before I drifted off to sleep.
So far so good. And – touch wood – that would continue.
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