He has been sitting on the rock for a while before Mum appears below him, climbing up the path, an old straw cloche hat jammed onto her head, holding the hem of her butter-yellow dress out of the way of bramble and bracken. A little out of breath, she clambers up onto the rock and sits down beside Tom. A pair of ravens is mobbing the buzzard, diving and wheeling around him. The buzzard rises and falls, giving its harsh mew whenever a raven gets too close, and the ravens croak to each other in excitement. Tom can feel the same tension beside him in his mother. She is sitting on her hands, breathing deeply, her back rigid. She hasn’t so much as glanced at Tom. He has the strange feeling that this is what it feels like to be a grown-up. The thought unsettles him, and he reaches into his pocket for his cigarettes. He has already taken one out when he remembers that Mum doesn’t know he smokes.

‘Honestly, Tommy.’ He winces: Mum is regarding him from beneath the fraying brim of her hat, frowning.

‘Sorry, Mum. I …’

‘I think you’d better let me have one of those,’ she says, and with a mixture of unease and elation he offers her the packet and lights a match for her. She inhales deeply, tilts her head back and blows a plume of smoke towards the buzzard, who has given up and is flying off dejectedly towards the high moor.

‘What are we going to do?’ asks Tom, finally.

‘Do? I don’t know. Yet.’ Mum regards her cigarette as if she is surprised to see it there between her fingers.

‘I’m glad he’s gone,’ Tom whispers.

‘He’s still your father, Tommy. You shouldn’t think things like that.’

‘Don’t you think them?’ Tom can’t remember ever feeling so confused.

‘What I think … No, I’m sorry. But then I suppose I’m sorry about a lot of things.’

‘It will be all right, won’t it?’

‘Of course. Terrible things happen to perfectly decent people all the time. Every minute. Horrible tragedies.’ She sighs. ‘This one is very insignificant, I’m afraid.’

‘So will everything be different now? What about school? Are we going to be poor now?’

‘Oh, Tommy.’ Mum leans against him, puts her arm around his shoulders. ‘I wish I could tell you …’ She throws her cigarette away into the grass. ‘You mustn’t worry. We shall be absolutely fine. It’s Da who takes care of us. Your father is much too clever to spend his own money, you know.’

‘Oh.’ Tom considers this. ‘What a beast,’ he says, experimentally.

‘I don’t ever want to hear you say that again,’ says Mum seriously. ‘But, yes. An absolute, utter beast.’ She looks up. ‘I wish the ravens would leave the poor buzzard alone.’