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point. She and Mrs Sharpe edged their way out of the wooden pew from which they had watched an apparently endless procession of accused appear before the bench. A young man who seemed to have been representing most of them approached Mrs Sharpe.
    “Are you Tommy Hatley’s mother?” he asked.
    “No; that’s her there, son.”
    “Mrs Hatley,” he shook hands with them both, “my name’s Oliver McLowry. I’m representing your son.”
    “Is he all right, Mr McLowry? What happened to him? When will he be up?”
    Mr McLowry took Margaret gently by the arm and led her and Mrs Sharpe out of the court and into the now almost deserted foyer.
    “Don’t be worrying,” he told them, “Tommy is in good form. He’ll be up about two o’clock this afternoon. I’ll see if I can get him bail.”
    By now the trio—Mr McLowry in his dark suit between the two middle-aged women in their brighter summer coats—were picking their way down the court steps and into Townhall Street.
    “I’ve to rush back to the office for an appointment, ladies. You’ll get a tea or coffee over there in that pub. We’ll see how Tommy gets on this afternoon, and,” he handed Margaret his card, “here’s my office number. Phone me tomorrow and my secretary will make anappointment for us to get together to discuss the case. Don’t be concerned if Tommy doesn’t get bail today. There were a lot of arrests last night and the DPP is opposing bail. Your Tommy has no previous record so he might just be one of the lucky ones.”
    He smiled again. Margaret scarcely heard what he had been saying.
    “When can I see our Tommy?” she asked.
    “If he doesn’t get bail you’ll get a visit after he’s up. He’s all right, dear. Try not to worry. I must run now.”
    He shook hands with them both again and hurried off towards Chichester Street. Margaret and Mrs Sharpe wandered down towards the pub at the corner. They didn’t go in: neither of them had been in a pub before. Instead they walked around to the back of the City Hall and had tea and sandwiches in the International Hotel. They barely had their bus fares left when they came out again.
    “I’ll fix you up, Mrs Sharpe, later on,” Margaret promised. “It’s not fair on you spending all that money for such tiny wee sandwiches and not even a crust on them. I’ll fix you up as soon as we get home.”
    “Oh, no, you won’t. You needn’t bother your barney fixing me up for nothing. That’s what neighbours are for. And anyway, sure didn’t I only pay for what I ate myself. Wait till I tell our ones about me and you swanking it in the International.”
    Margaret chuckled. “Our Tommy’ll pay, so he will. It’s the least he can do for putting us to all this trouble. He’s lucky we let him off so lightly. Let’s go back round now and make sure to get our seats.”
    Tommy was up at two o’clock. He looked pale and dishevelled as he stood alone and vulnerable in the dock. He smiled at his mother when Mr McLowry pleaded his case and he waved at Mrs Sharpe as the magistrate responded, and then he was led away again.
    “What happened?” Margaret asked in disbelief.
    “He got remanded for a week,” Mrs Sharpe told her.
    “What? A week? What about his bail?” She looked helplessly towards Mr McLowry, but already he was engrossed in the affairs of another client.
    “C’mon,” Mrs Sharpe comforted Margaret, “let’s get out of here.” She allowed herself to be led from the courtroom.
    “We should go home now. The children will be home from school and you’re worn out. We can phone Mr McLowry’s office from my house later on,” Mrs Sharpe advised.
    “I’m seeing our Tommy, Mrs Sharpe, so I am, before I go anywhere.” They were standing in the foyer. “Mr McLowry said I could see our Tommy after he was up, so that’s what I’m going to do. You go on home and I’ll call in on you when I get back. There’s no point the two of us waiting here.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “Of