Matty let the door slam and waited in the hallway, scuffing toes on the mat. Waiting for Dad to stick his head round from the kitchen, his eyes narrowed in foxish amusement, to say, what feckin’ time d’you call this, crackerjack?

Nothing. Only the clock, and the traffic outside.

Mamma appeared at the top of the landing. She was still in her dressing gown. ‘Where have you been?’ Her voice didn’t have any colour in it.

‘Nowhere. Just out.’ Matty kicked the skirting board gently, wanting to ask ten questions back. Where’s Dad? Kick. Why aren’t you talking about him? Kick.

‘You want to make me think that you are gone too?’

Matty hadn’t thought of that. ‘What’s for tea?’

Mamma’s shoulders went straight and her head jerked to the side. ‘What’s for tea,’ she said, in the same flat voice. ‘Is this all I do? Sit here and make you tea? If you are old enough to go out on your own and not come back for hours, you are old enough to make your own tea.’ She turned and went back into their bedroom.

Madonna was on the telly, the video of one of her songs. She wore loads of wristbands and a cross hung from one ear. Matty had another spoonful of baked beans from the bowl and drank the warm can of Fanta that had remained unopened all afternoon, sitting close to the screen with a sticky orange mouth. In the video, they kept cutting to a man and woman, and the woman looked like Mamma when she’d had that perm. They seemed really in love, and Madonna was holding her microphone as if it was precious. Cyndi Lauper was better. A city princess dancing around with multi-coloured hair and a voice like glacé cherries. Loads of girls wanted to look like her. Sometimes you saw girls like Siouxie Sioux too, even in Golders Green, witchy eyebrows and heads shaved, looking really moody.

Top 40. They never showed hip-hop on Top of the Pops, except for Grandmaster Flash and Melle Mel once. That was the best music. Kyle from school sometimes lent his big brother’s cassettes, themselves sent from a cousin in America. The Sugarhill Gang, the Wild Style original soundtrack. Speaking, not singing, words like little punches. Matty liked the ones about parties and the ones about thieves and problems in the streets. The Eurythmics were on now. The short-haired singer with her white denim jacket and white trousers singing about angels.

There was a new layer of sound in the song. Matty leant over and turned the volume down on the TV. Mamma was on the phone. Her voice was low, but occasionally it got louder.

‘Non lo so. Non lo so, mamma. No, non lo ha fatto.’