The Unwelcome Guest

by Amanda Robson

  93

  Saffron

  When I told Miles it’s you or me, Caprice, I can assure you I meant it. I’m sitting in my office, following the link Ted has sent me, downloading Tor encryption software onto my computer. Next, I need to learn how to use it.

  94

  Caprice

  Miles is away at a conference in Los Angeles for two weeks. So this is it. This is my opportunity. He isn’t here, so he cannot be blamed for what is about to happen.

  Teatime. I slip cough linctus into the spaghetti Bolognese I’ve cooked for my grandsons. Easy to do, Saffron, because you are so distracted, checking emails on your iPhone. I use a generous dose, camouflaged with fresh basil and oregano. Cough mixture to make sure that my grandsons sleep well. I gave it to Miles and Aiden regularly when they were babies, to make sure they didn’t wake me in the night. I needed my beauty sleep then, just as I do now. And I am still beautiful, of course. More beautiful than you, my wiry daughter-in-law.

  I leave the kitchen and go upstairs. You are responsible for feeding the children and putting them to bed tonight. No one else will be going anywhere near them. In the morning, Hayley will wake them up, feed them and take them to school. You’ll be up at the crack of dawn, off to see a prospective client. Perfect timing. I smile to myself.

  I step into my bedroom to be surrounded by frills and flowers. Time passes with a long soak in the bath. Watching a film on Netflix. Spraying my pillow with lavender.

  But I can’t sleep. I toss and turn in bed, uncomfortable about what I need to do. Restless until my phone vibrates beneath my pillow at 2 a.m. Already awake, I stretch to tap it off. Relieved to be making a start at last – the sooner this is over the better – I slip out of bed and dress in black slacks and a black polo neck, black tights stretched over my head and face.

  Slowly, slowly, I open my bedroom door and creep onto the landing. Tiptoeing across, avoiding the floorboard that always creaks. Past your bedroom. Past Hayley’s. Into Ben’s room, decorated as a tribute to Manchester United. Red walls, Man United’s logo in the middle of each one. I step towards his bed, holding my breath. Asleep on his back, mouth open, arms above his head. Wrapped in his Manchester United duvet. A cheapy from Argos. Not even made of cotton. Why didn’t you take him to Harrods? They have an excellent selection from top designers. One day I’ll make sure he understands what constitutes taste. Do you want him to grow up to be a football hooligan?

  I lean over him. His breathing is deep and even. I put my arms around him and pinch his arm, softly rubbing with my fingers, wincing as I bruise him. Then I move to his bony chest and each side of his waist. He stirs and my heart races. I fear he is about to wake. But he rolls onto his side, mouth still open, and continues to sleep. Feeling sick at what I have done, I creep away, on tiptoe, too nervous to breathe.

  Step by step across the landing into Harry’s Thomas the Tank Engine utopia, styled by Caprice Jackson. This room is more like it. Slow motion across the bedroom. Harry is lying on his stomach. I lean over him and rub and press his back, feeling more and more nauseous, until the discolouration begins. He doesn’t stir, younger and lighter than his brother, thank goodness the hefty dose of cough mixture I have given him has really laid him out.

  Back across the landing. Back in my boudoir, I rip off my clothes and pull away the black tights that were squashing my nose. I throw myself into bed and shut my eyes tightly. But now, even though my task is complete, I still can’t sleep. I feel so bereft after bruising my grandsons. Then I remember your coldness, Saffron, and I know I have done the right thing.

  4 a.m. Moonlight streams around the curtain edges.

  5 a.m. An owl hoots. And I tell myself yet again that getting rid of you will be beneficial to my grandsons in the long run.

  5.30 a.m. The shower pump thuds.

  6 a.m. The front door opens and closes as you leave, Saffron.

  7 a.m. Hayley’s alarm tinkles in the distance. This is it. My masterplan begins.

  95

  Hayley

  The alarm shrills into my bedroom. Head pounding, mouth dry, I reach across to switch it off. I shouldn’t have stayed out so late with Jono doing shots. I drag myself out of bed, feeling sick. Flinging a tracksuit on, walking towards the boys’ bedrooms, holding my stomach.

  Ben’s room first. As I lay his school uniform on his chair, my nausea increases. He slips out of bed and pulls off his pyjama top. I inhale sharply. Bruises. On his chest. On his waist.

  ‘What have you done to yourself?’ I ask, swallowing to push back my nausea, moving closer to inspect him.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asks as he picks up his school shirt.

  Bruises on his arms too. They weren’t there when I took him swimming yesterday, after school.

  ‘Who put you to bed?’ I ask.

  ‘Mummy.’

  I force a smile. ‘Breakfast will be ready soon. See you downstairs.’

  I go to Harry’s room next. He is sitting up in bed rubbing his eyes. I lay out his uniform and watch carefully as he peels his pyjamas off. Multiple bruises on his back.

  I head downstairs to the kitchen, to cook and serve breakfast. Pancakes and syrup, blueberries and strawberries.

  ‘Have you been fighting?’ I ask, as I watch them tuck in.

  They look up at me, wide-eyed. ‘Of course not,’ Ben replies. ‘Mummy says we mustn’t fight.’

  After the school run, stomach tight with concern, I step into the kitchen to clear the remains of breakfast. Caprice is sitting at the table doing the crossword. Suave and sophisticated in cream and toffee coordinates. Carefully applied make-up heavier than usual. Eyebrows a little too artificial. Concealer beneath her eyes like plaster.

  I take a deep breath. ‘I found bruises on the boys this morning that weren’t there when I took them swimming yesterday. Saffron looked after them last night. Either she inflicted them, or the boys had a fight,’ I blurt.

  Caprice purses her lips. She shakes her head slowly. ‘I’ve tried to warn you, Hayley. And now you need to report her to Social Care. Our boys never fight.’

  ‘But you’re part of the family,’ I splutter. ‘If you’re concerned, surely it’s your responsibility to discuss it with Miles, and do something about it – not mine?’

  96

  Caprice

  ‘You discovered the evidence, and are able to say the bruises weren’t there when you took the boys swimming.’ I pause. ‘Also, it’s awkward for me. Saffron hates me as it is.’ I pause again. ‘And what about my relationship with Miles?’

  A frown ripples across her face. ‘I had noticed an atmosphere between you and Saffron.’

  ‘An atmosphere is a polite way of putting it,’ I reply.

  ‘Maybe. But then I’m a nanny, so it’s best to be polite.’

  ‘You’ll keep your place whatever happens. If Saffron can’t look after the children, Miles will need you more than ever.’

  ‘If you feel so strongly, you should contact Social Care, not me. You’re Miles’ mother.’ Her voice is begging. Plaintive. Hayley shakes her head and sits looking into the air in front of her. ‘I just don’t think it’s my place to interfere.’

  ‘It isn’t interfering. You are the children’s nanny. In a position of social responsibility. The authorities will listen to you. If I interfere they’ll just stereotype me as a difficult mother-in-law.’

  ‘But … but … how can I report such a thing when all I ever see of Saffron is kindness personified?’

  ‘But you now know that isn’t what’s happening behind the scenes. You have visual proof of her abuse. It’s really important you take photographs of their bruises right away.’

  You sit staring at the floor. Silence descends. After a while you look up, face filled with anguish. ‘Maybe I could report it anonymously. Then Social Care could evaluate the situation independently, without asking me to give evidence. They must be expert at that. But I am not taking photographs. That would prove I was the snitch.’

 
I smile inside. I’ve won at last.

  97

  Saffron

  Saturday lunchtime, I’m eating American Hot pizza with the children, when the doorbell rings. Miles is still away at his conference. Caprice is shopping at her favourite boutique. Hayley is off somewhere with her boyfriend, Jono. I wasn’t ex-pecting anyone. It’s 1.30 p.m. Strange time for a visitor to call.

  I open the front door. A mousy woman with shoulder-length wavy hair stands in front of me, wearing a cream-coloured trench raincoat and flat court shoes. No make-up. No jewellery. Carrying a large black briefcase.

  ‘Can I help you?’ I ask.

  ‘Are you Saffron Jackson?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Married to Miles?’ Another nod. ‘And you have two sons, Ben aged eight and Harry, who is six.’ She flashes a wallet containing a badge. ‘Sonia Watson. Social Care. Elmbridge Borough Council.’ She pauses. ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Why? What are you here for?’

  She takes a deep breath and widens her shoulders. ‘We’ve had a complaint about the care of your children. That someone may be harming them.’

  I go cold inside. ‘What …?’ I splutter. ‘As if that could be happening! Who has complained? Who is lying about us?’

  She shakes her head. ‘Calm down. I’m not allowed to say. It’s confidential. I just need to see your children to ask them a few questions.’

  She flashes her badge at me again. A photo of herself with an inky stamp across it. ‘I’m just going to phone the council to check your identity.’

  Her face darkens. ‘It’s Saturday. The office is closed.’ She pauses. ‘If you refuse to allow me to enter your property, I will have to file a report of non-cooperation. That never looks good when we are reviewing cases.’

  Fear pulsates through me. Cases? When did my life become a case?

  ‘Do come in,’ I manage, trying to push my fear away. Breathe. Breathe. All I need to do is keep calm and show her my happy children.

  She steps into the hallway and pulls a pad and pen from her coat pocket. ‘Does anyone else apart from your direct family live in this house?’

  ‘Yes. My mother-in-law, Caprice, and our nanny, Hayley.’

  She makes notes in a spidery scribble. ‘Are you satisfied with your nanny?’ she continues.

  ‘Yes. Yes. She’s great,’ I reply.

  She stares at me. ‘Great in what way?’ she asks.

  ‘Kind. Competent. Reliable.’

  ‘What about your mother-in-law? Does she help look after the children?’

  ‘Yes, from time to time. But she’s nearly seventy so we don’t like to put upon her too much.’

  Sonia Watson carries on making notes. ‘Is she good with the boys when she’s with them?’

  ‘Yes. Yes. Of course.’

  She looks up at me. ‘So, who is here today?’

  ‘Just the boys and me. We’re having lunch in the kitchen and then we’re going to swim in our pool. They love swimming.’

  ‘Where are the other inhabitants of the house?’

  ‘My husband is away on a business trip. It’s my nanny’s day off, so she is out with her boyfriend. My mother-in-law is out shopping.’

  ‘As I explained when I entered the premises, I need to interview your children. Check that they are all right.’

  ‘Of course they’re all right,’ I reply as I lead her into the kitchen, where the boys are finishing off their pizza. Harry has cheese dribbling down his chin. I get a piece of kitchen roll and wipe his face.

  ‘Boys,’ I say, ‘this is Sonia. She wants to speak to you. Is that OK?’

  ‘Yes, Mummy,’ they say politely. ‘Are you a friend of Caprice’s?’ they ask.

  ‘Is Caprice your granny?’

  ‘Yes, but we’re not allowed to call her that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it makes her feel old, so she gets bad-tempered. She wants to be young again. If we call her Granny she glares at us with horrid eyes, and wags her finger. Her fingers are knobbly like a witch’s.’

  Sonia turns to me, face like stone. ‘Please could you leave us. I need to speak to them alone.’

  I tremble inside. Who is this woman? What is she doing here? What if she isn’t who she says she is? Or maybe it’s worse if she is. I step into the hallway and look her up on my iPhone. As soon as I type her name into Google, her photograph and job description appear. Sonia Watson. Exactly who she says she is. And she has an OBE for fund-raising for Childline. Panic rises inside me. Childline. Children who complain they are being abused. Why is she here, focusing on us? I stand by the door, ear pressed against it, straining to listen. But I cannot hear anything except the soft, whispering, background resonance of her voice. Of the children’s voices.

  Every minute she is in there questioning my children feels like a year. When I finally see the door handle turning, I step back quickly and pretend to be rearranging the flowers in the hallway, like Caprice so often does.

  Sonia Watson steps out of my kitchen, pushing her hair from her eyes, shaking her head and frowning. She doesn’t look happy.

  ‘Can I have a word in private?’ she asks.

  I try to smile at her, but my lips don’t move. ‘Come into the drawing room,’ I suggest.

  She follows me in and sits on the sofa. I sit on a chair by the fireplace bracing myself for what’s coming next.

  ‘I want you, or someone in the family, to take the boys to a GP for a thorough report on their medical condition. It’s Saturday today so the surgery will be closed. I’ll give you three days.’

  ‘But … why?’ I splutter. ‘What could possibly be wrong with them?’

  She frowns. ‘As I mentioned when I arrived, we’ve had a complaint about the care of your children. It was anonymous, from someone outside the household. We have to take all complaints seriously to protect the nation’s children.’

  ‘But who has complained? Why would anyone? No one in this household would harm them. They are surrounded by love and kindness.’ I pause. ‘I love my children more than life itself. I’d do anything for them. I’d give my own life to protect them.’

  ‘You would do anything, would you?’ she asks, eyebrows raised, expression as sour as vinegar. ‘Well, it’s quite simple then. As I said, we just need a medical examination, as soon as possible, to make sure they’re all right.’

  98

  Hayley

  I return in the early evening from a day out with Jono, to find Saffron sitting in the kitchen with her head in her hands.

  ‘What’s the matter? What’s happened?’ I ask.

  She shakes her head. Tears stream down her face. ‘It’s the Social Care Department from the local authority. They’ve been here to talk to the children about abuse.’

  ‘About abuse?’ I repeat, frowning as I ask, hoping I look sufficiently shocked.

  ‘Yes. A complaint from someone outside the family, apparently. I just feel so upset. So sick. How could anyone think we would harm our children?’

  ‘I just can’t imagine,’ I reply, voice stretched with pain as I remember my walk into Esher.

  To the phone box on the corner by the pub. The one Jono had told me was still in use. I stepped inside. The acidic stench of urine attacked my nostrils, compounded by the stale malignancy of regurgitated stomach contents. My shoes stuck to the floor every time I tried to lift my foot. It was obvious they don’t clean phone boxes in the UK anymore.

  I fumbled in my purse to find a pound coin, pushed it into the slot and dialled. Much to my surprise the phone actually worked. I heard it ringing out. A cheery male voice answered. ‘Social Care. Can I help?’

  I took a deep breath and swallowed. ‘I want to report a possible case of child abuse.’

  ‘Please can I have your name and address?’

  ‘No. I want to remain anonymous. I’m a neighbour, advising you to look into the health of Ben and Harry Jackson, Wellbeck House, Lexington Drive, Esher.’

  Oh guilt, you burrowing wor
m.

  99

  Saffron

  I wait in the doctor’s surgery, watching the receptionists answering the phone and listening to the kindly tone of their voices. Harry and Ben, one on either side of me, are reading. Harry is engrossed in Redwall by Brian Jacques. Ben’s head is stuck in Fantastic Mr Fox by Roald Dahl. I’m sweating. Stomach churning. How has my life come to this?

  ‘Ben and Harry Jackson,’ the tannoy screeches like a crusty-voiced Dalek. ‘Doctor Pennington, room 3.’

  I stand up. ‘Come along, boys.’

  We walk along the corridor, towards the doctor who has looked after them since they were babies.

  Dr Pennington is an angular man, with the lean body of a runner. He swivels his chair away from his desk, and faces us.

  ‘How can I help?’ he asks, with his quirky lopsided smile.

  ‘I explained to the receptionist on the phone. We need an independent assessment of the boys’ physical condition, for … for …’ I pause and swallow. I can’t say it in front of the children. ‘Please could you just look at the notes,’ I almost whisper.

  Dr Pennington taps his computer keys, pulls up the boys’ files, and reads.

  ‘OK, I need to see them one at a time. Ben first. Would you and Harry wait on the chairs outside?’ he asks.

  ‘Of course,’ I reply.

  Harry and I step back into the corridor, and sit on the plastic office chairs outside. Harry puts his nose straight back into his book. My world has stopped. My body is not a body, but a conduit of suppressed panic. After fifteen minutes that feel like fifteen hours, the door opens. Dr Pennington’s head appears around it and Ben emerges.