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immediately bursts into tears and that makes me feel guilty. And all because Great-aunt Adelheid used to play the viola. But that doesn’t necessarily make me musical, does it???” There are three question marks here,’ said Wohlfarth, lowering the page.
    The woman with the grown-out perm leapt up and cried, ‘But it’s not true. You should hear Bruno! I played Mozart to him in the womb! And in preschool he could play ‘Twinkle, Twinkle’ on the recorder and –’
    â€˜What you have to say does not interest me in the slightest,’ said Wohlfarth coldly. ‘All I am interested in is what your children have to say. This one, for example: “I’m ten, but my mother treats me like a baby. I’m not even allowed to go to my friend’s house by myself, and he only lives around the corner. And even if it’s warm outside, I have to wear my scarf and gloves. Everyone laughs at me and calls me a mammy’s boy. I’m not allowed to go to the playground with the others either, because I might break something.”’
    The short fat one gave a loud sob. ‘But you should have seen Timmy when he was born. He was so tiny!’ She indicated the size of a hamster with her hands.
    Wohlfarth would not be distracted. He read on and on. At the end, seventeen women sat and stared at the ground. None of them dared to look at her neighbour, so unpleasant was all that they’d heard.
    â€˜But why are we here now?’ asked a woman who had so far kept quiet. She was tanned and muscular. When she opened her mouth, you could see that she had a piercing in her tongue.
    â€˜Have you seen those letters on the building?’ asked Wohlfarth. ‘WIMI. Can you think what that might mean?’
    Most of them shook their heads.
    â€˜It means Wohlfarth’s Institute for Mother Improvement. Wohlfarth is me, and the mothers – that’s you.’

Chapter 9
    Bruno gave a punch. Whammm! And again. Wham! Wham! The punchbag swung to and fro. Bruno had to duck to avoid getting it in the face. Then he jumped up, danced around the punchbag and gave another punch. He felt strong. He felt alive. And most of all, he felt happy.
    He had hung Jim’s punchbag on the thickest branch of the oak tree. Now he boxed the punchbag with a series of faster, lighter punches.
    â€˜Bruno!’ called a voice. ‘Bruno, there was a phone call for you.’
    Aunt Anna came along the garden path towards him. She was carrying a tray with a glass of strawberry-flavoured milk on it.
    â€˜You need something to keep your strength up,’ she said, smiling at Bruno.
    She was always smiling. At first, Bruno had found it a bit irritating. But he’d got used to it.
    â€˜Who phoned?’ he asked ‘Mum?’
    â€˜No. Your piano teacher.’
    Bruno went ice-cold. Today was Thursday, and he had genuinely forgotten that he should have been at his piano lesson. He hadn’t played the piano for a week. Actually, since Aunt Anna had been in the house. She had closed the lid of the piano, locked it and thrown the key down the toilet. Bruno had stood helplessly by. How could she do a thing like that?
    â€˜Now you don’t need to feel guilty for not playing,’ she’d said.
    Bruno’s father didn’t know a thing about all this. He had been pretty surprised when he came home that first evening to find, not his wife, but a complete stranger. He’d tried to phone Bruno’s mother on her mobile.
    â€˜Of course, all I’m getting is the voicemail,’ he’d cried. ‘Isn’t that just typical!’ But his anger soon dissolved when he saw what Aunt Anna served up for supper. Steak that was still bloody, with potato wedges dripping with fat. Bruno’s mother never cooked anything like that. Aunt Anna hadn’t prepared the meal herself. She’d got it from a nearby steakhouse
    â€˜I can’t cook a thing,’ she’d