Single Mother

by Samantha Hayes

  She trots over to him, suppressing her own grin, allowing her hair to shield her face from view. ‘Hi, Uncle Micky. How are you?’

  ‘All the better for seeing you, that’s for sure, my darling,’ he says, hugging her close. ‘I brought the ultimate gourmet food. Get stuck in. There’s Coke for you, too, my dearest little urchin.’

  Kate laughs as he unleashes her from his arms.

  ‘This one is yours,’ he says, pulling out a marked packet. ‘I got you a jumbo sausage as well as fish and mushy peas, plus extra chips with lashings of vinegar, just the way you like it.’

  Mel watches on, the chill in her heart from Josette’s grilling dissipating as she sees how happy Kate looks with Michael fussing over her. Apart from herself, he’s the one solid rock in Kate’s life. And even then, Mel sometimes has doubts, knowing she’s made mistakes. Terrible mistakes. All she can do now is ensure that she never, ever repeats them. It’s her and Kate against the world. They don’t need anyone else.

  ‘Can I have it in front of the telly, Mum?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Mel replies as Kate turns to go. ‘But wait, I’ve got something for you too.’ She ducks out into the hall and returns with the carrier bag from work. ‘Here,’ she says, handing it to Kate, who’s impatiently picking at her chips. ‘A present for you. For being so amazing.’

  ‘What?’ Kate says, bemused, placing her food on the kitchen table before peeking into the bag. She gives a little gasp, one hand reaching in and pulling out a trainer. Her mouth opens wide. ‘Adidas?’ she says breathily, looking at Mel again before pulling out the other trainer and allowing the bag to drop to the floor. ‘No way! Are these for me? They’re exactly my size. They look brand new. But Mum…?’ There’s a flash of concern on her face, the glimmer of a frown.

  ‘They most certainly are for you, my love,’ Mel replies. ‘And they’re not quite brand new, but they hardly look as though they’ve been worn, right?’

  ‘Oh, Mum,’ Kate says, running up to give her a hug. ‘I love them, thank you! You wait when I turn up at school in these.’

  Mel smiles, knowing how much they mean to her daughter. ‘Go and eat your food before it goes cold, then you can try them on.’

  Beaming, Kate tucks the trainers under her arm and grabs her parcel of fish and chips. She high-fives her mum and Michael as she heads for the living room, a huge grin on her face.

  ‘Best day ever,’ she sings out.

  ‘Someone’s happy,’ Michael says when he and Mel are sitting alone at the kitchen table, their chip papers spread out in front of them. He takes a sip of his Chablis, his eyes narrowing into appreciative slits.

  ‘A welcome change,’ Mel admits. ‘And hopefully a self-esteem boost. I mean, I know it’s not the way to solve—’

  ‘Mel,’ Michael says, reaching out and touching her wrist. ‘It’s OK. You don’t need to justify how you make your daughter happy.’

  Mel pauses, half-rolling her eyes. ‘I know, but… but I just feel so guilty all the time. About all the dreadful stuff with her dad, all the moves we’ve had to make, the refuges, the uncertainty. I know for a fact she still adores him and hates that she doesn’t get to see him. But worse is that she doesn’t know why she can’t see him. When it happened, she was far too young for the truth, although she’d witnessed enough. I guess I didn’t think it through. Now she’s twelve, she deserves some kind of honesty. But then she’ll know I’ve been lying to her and—’

  ‘Second warning issued, Melanie Douglas. Eat, drink and don’t think about it. You made a little girl very happy just now. Oh, and while you’re at it,’ he adds, reaching for the solicitor’s letter, ‘for the love of God, read this. It looks important.’

  Five

  Mel stares at Michael, frowning, as she tries to process what she’s just read, what it all means. She reaches out and drains her wine glass, knocking back the remains in one go. Nothing. It means nothing, she tells herself.

  ‘Steady on,’ Michael says through a mouthful of chips. ‘That stuff’s not water, you know.’ He tops up her glass anyway, seeing the thoughtful look in her eyes.

  ‘It’s just well-written rubbish. A scam,’ she says, grabbing a forkful of chips and stuffing them in her mouth. ‘And cruel to prey on the vulnerable.’ She drinks more wine. ‘But I admit, they had me for a moment.’ In my dreams, she thinks, carrying on with her meal.

  ‘Call me nosy, but I had a skim read downstairs. It’s about an inheritance, Mel. I really don’t think it’s a scam. Listen.’ He swipes up the letter and begins reading. ‘“Dear Miss Douglas, reference the Moreton Inn estate”.’ He glances up. ‘Does that mean anything to you?’

  ‘Nope,’ Mel replies indignantly, rolling her eyes. But then she takes a moment to think. ‘No, no, it doesn’t. But that’s the whole point of the scam, surely? Something random and tantalising to make me believe I’ve got some distant relative leaving me their fortune. They picked the wrong person for that.’ She eats some of her fish. ‘This is delicious, by the way. Tony’s on form tonight.’

  Michael carries on reading. ‘“As agents for the executors of the will for the above referenced matter, I am writing to inform you that you are a beneficiary of the estate. Probate has been granted and associated affairs resolved, but since this is a complicated matter, with several attached conditions, I invite you to contact me by telephone or email at your earliest convenience, so we may discuss how to proceed with distribution.”’ He glances up, waiting for a response from Mel. But all she does is shrug and shake her head. ‘“Please find details about our firm in the enclosed documents, plus an information form which you will need to fill out with your personal details, sign and return to our office”—’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ Mel says, rolling her eyes and laughing. ‘Don’t tell me, they want me to fill out my bank details, National Insurance number, mother’s maiden name…?’ She trails off then, making a scoffing sound when she realises what she’s said.

  Mother’s maiden name… as if she’s ever known it.

  ‘And how much do they want from me upfront so I can claim my glorious fortune? Fifty quid? A hundred quid? Or are they chancing their luck with a juicy grand? I can’t even buy my daughter new trainers, let alone give these piss artists anything.’

  Michael sits back in his chair, the look on his face telling Mel that he knows she’s mistrusting to the core – understandable, given everything that’s happened in her life.

  ‘Where did those trainers come from, by the way?’ Michael asks. ‘Charity shop?’

  Mel thinks back to earlier in her boss’s office, how Josette had been so nosy about the carrier bag. Her cheeks begin to colour with anger just at the thought of it.

  ‘Close. There was a charity donations bag at work. Stuff left over from the spring fair to raise funds for the residents’ recreation room. As if The Cedars bloody needs financial help,’ she adds bitterly.

  ‘Anyway, there was a second-hand clothes sale, a cake stall, a tombola. I was working, so didn’t have a chance to look. Stuff that didn’t sell was bagged up to take to a charity shop, except no one’s got round to taking it yet. I spotted the Adidas logo through the top of a bag.’

  ‘Surprised they didn’t sell,’ Michael commented.

  ‘Me too, but given the average age of our residents is about eighty-three, and their families are generally in their fifties and sixties, it’s hardly surprising.’ Mel laughs. ‘Anyway, I had to grab them for Kate. They were her size. And of course I donated the fiver on the price tag to the fund.’

  ‘Lucky find,’ Michael says, his eyes twinkling. ‘Now, back to this.’ He opens up the enclosed papers, scanning each of them briefly. ‘Green, Lupton and Hedge… Family solicitors specialising in wills and probate.’

  ‘They sound like a landscape gardening company,’ Mel says as Michael pulls his phone from his pocket.

  ‘Let’s see what Google says about them.’ He taps in a search and pulls up their website. ‘They seem legit, look.’
He gives Mel a glance at the screen. ‘Their website certainly appears real and has a list of staff. About ten in all. This letter is from Robert Hedge. Look, here he is.’

  ‘Anyone can pull up a generic image of a bloke in his late fifties in a suit to stick on a fake website, though,’ Mel says, barely looking at it when Michael shows her again.

  ‘What? Wait. So you think the website is fake as well as the letter?’

  ‘Actually, no. I don’t think the website is a scam. In fact, I’m pretty certain I’ve even heard of the firm. They’re in Solihull, right? They’re not far from my work.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right,’ Michael says, clicking on the ‘contact us’ link. ‘They’re on High Street. So you think an established firm would risk their reputation by running a scam?’

  ‘No-oo again,’ Mel says in that way of hers – ending with a laugh to show she appreciates Michael’s concern, but also that she’s not stupid. ‘I have a friend – had a friend,’ Mel corrects, remembering how she had to cut off so many people after she finally escaped, fearing she’d be found. ‘And she had this exact same thing happen. A letter from a legal firm, telling her she’d inherited half a million quid from a long-lost relative – only they’d had the foresight to use her actual surname in the scam, so it really did seem like a relative. And all she had to do to release the funds was fill out a form with all her personal info, including bank details, and send it back with an administration fee of fifty quid.’

  ‘And?’ Michael says.

  ‘Hook line and sinker,’ Mel says, shrugging. ‘It wasn’t the fifty quid they were after as such – though I imagine they’re nice little bonuses if they hit several thousand gullible victims. No, they cleaned out my friend’s bank account overnight. They had all the information they needed to steal her identity. Even though she only had a couple of hundred, it nearly finished her off. Her marriage was on the rocks anyway, but this took it over the edge. She just felt so… stupid. So vulnerable.’

  ‘And you’re not…’ Michael says, eyeing her over the rim of his glass, knowing he’s on thin ice. ‘Vulnerable?’

  ‘Oh do fuck off,’ she says, play-kicking him under the table as the wine winds through her veins, helping her relax.

  ‘Anyway,’ Michael continues, ‘this letter doesn’t say anything about a relative. Just Moreton Inn, whatever and wherever that is.’

  ‘It’s still going in the bin,’ Mel replies, leaning forward to grab the letter.

  Michael swipes it out of the way.

  ‘Not so fast. I really think you should follow up. There are no weird-looking phone numbers here. Only the office landline, which is the same as the one on the website.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I don’t really want to think about it right now. Like I said, I don’t have money to part with for “admin fees” or whatever they’re asking for.’

  ‘They’re not, Mel. And look,’ he says, reaching out and taking her hand, ‘as your best mate, I hate seeing you so… so defensive all the time. I don’t just mean this letter. But whenever anyone tries to help, you put up your guard and shut them out. Even with me, these days.’

  ‘And why the hell not?’ she replies with a snort. ‘I’ve finally got myself into a place where I can just about keep my head above water, financially and emotionally. Money’s tight, but Kate and I are doing OK. I may not have got everything right in life, but I’m protective of how things are now. You know that better than anyone.’

  Michael sighs. ‘Protective of how things are until…’ He purposefully trails off, doesn’t need to say what goes through Mel’s mind every single day. Until Billy gets out of prison…

  ‘Hey, what do you guys think?’ comes a chirpy voice, snapping Mel out of her thoughts. She and Michael turn to the kitchen doorway to see a beaming Kate standing there, new trainers on her feet.

  ‘Cool or what?’ she says, giving a twirl, holding her bunched-up chip papers.

  ‘They look amazing, love,’ Mel says, her heart warming.

  Kate comes over, wrapping her arms around Mel. ‘I think I might even sleep in them,’ she says, laughing and kissing her mum’s cheek.

  As Mel hugs her daughter back, she glances at Michael over Kate’s shoulder, unable to help the little sigh as they each exchange a knowing look.

  Six

  ‘Ah, Melanie,’ Josette says, her glossy dark bob and harsh fringe in sharp contrast against her pale skin. ‘Finally,’ she says, glancing at her watch.

  ‘Morning, Josette,’ Mel replies breathlessly. ‘Sorry I’m a bit late. The traffic was awful. I’ll work through my lunch hour, don’t worry.’

  Josette pauses, looking Mel up and down. ‘Oh, I’m not worried.’ She forces a smile. ‘Come with me, please.’

  ‘Er… sure,’ Mel replies, hesitating before following Josette as she strides off down the corridor.

  Finally, she stops outside the door to the staff room. Josette stares at it, then she stares at Mel, waiting for her to open it. Despite her hands being full with her packed lunch, clean uniform and her handbag, Mel pushes the door open and lets Josette pass through before following her in.

  It’s a bland room with pale green decor, divided up into a locker area and a relaxation zone with a few clinical armchairs for taking breaks. There’s a kettle, a fridge for lunches, some magazines, a couple of plants that no one remembers to water. It’s nothing like as luxurious as the residents’ areas, but it does the job.

  ‘Over here, please,’ Josette says, striding towards the lockers. That’s when Mel sees Stacy Fearn, the HR manager, and Amit Basu, general manager of The Cedars. Their faces are deadpan and serious, not returning Mel’s smile, even though they’re usually friendly. As a single parent too, Amit has always been sympathetic to childcare difficulties, allowing Mel to bring Kate in to work occasionally when Josette’s away. Kate has even helped out with the residents a few times.

  ‘She has a way about her, that girl of yours,’ Amit had said just the other day as he spotted Mel watching Kate fondly, proudly. ‘There’s a holiday job waiting for her when she’s older,’ he’d continued.

  Kate wasn’t aware that Mel was in the doorway of Bob’s room as she knelt down, helping him get his shoes on before their walk. Bob was recounting tales of his time in the Navy, how he’d been on submarines and aircraft carriers all over the world.

  ‘I’ll take over from here now, Kate,’ Mel had finally said, not wanting to interrupt the tender moment. Josette was due back at the care home soon and she didn’t want to get a dressing-down for allowing Kate to help. There was bound to be some health and safety or insurance reason why Kate shouldn’t even be on the premises, let alone helping out. But Kate had gone off happily enough to wait in the staff room, giving Bob a glance and a smile over her shoulder as she left.

  ‘Stacy, Amit, hi…’ Mel says nervously now. The tension in the atmosphere is palpable.

  ‘Morning, Mel,’ Amit manages, but Stacy just offers a flicker of a smile, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other.

  ‘Which is your locker, Melanie?’ Josette says, though each are clearly labelled. Mel’s especially stands out, as Kate made a sign for hers, decorated with big, bright letters.

  ‘This one,’ Mel says, forcing herself not to add obviously. She glances between the three faces, only Josette’s showing no emotion.

  ‘Would you open it for us, please?’ Josette says.

  ‘What… why?’ Mel asks, unable to hide her indignance.

  ‘Just open it, Melanie.’

  Mel shrugs, rummaging in her bag for the key to the padlock.

  ‘There,’ she says, opening the metal door. ‘Can I ask what this is about?’ She looks at Josette, who ignores her, and then to Amit and finally Stacy, whose expressions give nothing away.

  ‘Remove your belongings,’ Josette says, her tone flat.

  ‘But… OK, sure,’ Mel says, shrugging again. ‘Excuse the junk in here. It’s due a good clean-out, but I always have to dash off for Kate, and—’
r />   ‘All of it,’ Josette says, impatience creeping in.

  Mel’s eyes widen and she pauses, shaking her head briefly before pulling out a spare pair of work shoes – ugly, rubber-soled things she hates wearing, but which save her feet by the end of a shift. She drops them onto the floor. Then she takes out a carrier bag of old sports clothes from when she’d decided to get fit in her lunch break a couple of months ago. The daily runs lasted less than a week, and she’d forgotten to take her kit home to wash.

  Josette takes the bag from her as she’s about to drop it on the floor. She peers inside and makes a repulsed face, letting it fall.

  ‘Oh, this is where it got to!’ Mel says, rolling her eyes. ‘I was looking for it everywh—’ She stops when Josette snatches the denim jacket from her, checking inside the two top pockets before also dropping it on the floor.

  Mel folds her arms across her chest, frowning. ‘Josette, I don’t mind showing you the contents of my locker…’ She hesitates, eyeing the crisp packets and old tissues, wishing she’d had a bit of warning. ‘But can you tell me what this is about? Are you checking everyone’s lockers?’

  ‘No, just yours,’ Josette says, her eyes fixed on the inside of the locker. ‘The rest, please.’

  Mel sighs. ‘Okaaay…’ she says, perplexed as she pulls out a folded uniform tunic, a paperback she’d only half read, a mandala colouring book that Kate was amusing herself with last time she was here and, finally, a small nylon zip-up bag that, if Mel was perfectly honest, could contain absolutely anything.

  ‘What’s in that?’ Josette demands.

  ‘I’m guessing my black sparkly top,’ Mel replies, knowing it’s the only smart thing she owns, even though it’s a bit small now. ‘I was going to go to Barb’s drinks party but couldn’t make it in the end. Shows how much I go out. I’d forgotten this was even—’