It was chalked on the bog wall and spread quickly round school – a whisper to a chant in the playground.
“Pippin’s mum’s only got one tit!”
We’d played darts at Pippin’s last summer. The house on the corner, halfway up Steep Street. I kept score.
We smoked his mum’s cigarettes, drank his dad’s scrumpy.
“Withered apples,” Pippin explained.
“They drive too fast down Steep Street.”
One day a milk lorry overturned.
Milk pooled in the street. Pippin’s mum was already out there, drenched.
An almost ghost, with bucket. It made no sense.
I pocketed the chalk.