The Man Behind Closed Doors

by Maria Frankland

  As they walked down their garden path a short time later, Paul whispered in Emily’s ear.

  “Daddy needs to talk to Mummy. I want you to put a programme on upstairs until I say it’s good to come down.” Her knowing nod tugged sharply in his belly.

  Michelle raced ahead of them and let herself into the house. Clearly on a mission, she strode straight into the living room.

  As Emily and Paul dashed in behind her, they realised she was battering the TV with the doorstop. It was as if she had already planned her attack.

  “Daddy!”

  “Upstairs! Quickly! Now!” He raced into the living room, where for a moment he remained rooted to the spot as his wife attacked their TV. He wouldn’t have thought she was strong or angry enough to inflict this amount of damage. The present from his brother had masqueraded proudly over their living room since their wedding day. It was his pride and joy. In fact, it was the whole family’s pride and joy.

  “Enough!” As he bolted towards her, she stopped attacking the screen with the doorstop but rammed her foot against it instead, as she screamed out in temper. “What’s got into you?” Grabbing her from behind, he held her firmly with her arms at her sides, until the anger drained from her body, to be replaced by a violent trembling. God, he was out of his depth here.

  “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I can’t take it anymore.” Her feet were hardly touching the floor as she leaned against him with the entire weight of her body.

  “You can’t take what?” There was no way he was letting her go - there was every chance she could fly at him and she still had the doorstop in her hand.

  “You don’t love me. Emily doesn’t love me.” Tears were sliding down her face with the force of a waterfall. “I can’t take it anymore!”

  Emily appeared, surveying the TV. Michelle had not managed to smash through its robust screen but the numerous dents and shadows covering the display made it obvious it would only be fit for the tip.

  Tears filled her eyes. “I’ll be the only girl at school without a TV. It’s not fair!” Carla followed behind Emily innately, as she stamped back up the stairs, probably guessing it was the safest place to be.

  Paul dragged the mangled TV into the back garden. It would have tormented him if it had remained in the house where he could see it. It was going to break his heart to cart it to the tip.

  “Daddy’ll sort a new one.” He pushed Emily’s hair out of her eyes as he tucked her into bed. Somehow he would have to raise the money. His brother would be devastated if he was to learn what had become of his gift to them. He hoped he could keep this one quiet.

  Emily turned away from him. This was horrendous. It was going too far. He felt ashamed, spineless and sick in equal measure.

  Chapter Thirty Seven

  Miss Sanders had called him at work. “Mr Jackson. I need you to come into school for a word about Emily.”

  “Is she OK? Do I need to come now?” The familiar anxiety jerked at his insides. Emily had barely spoken to him since the TV incident. It was obvious the situation was affecting her deeply and Paul was clueless how to handle it.

  A nagging voice inside him was saying go! Leave. Take Emily and fight for her! Yet in other moments he felt compelled to stay, magnetised by the house he loved, the family he had yearned for, and the wife he felt was his responsibility. Yet he hated her too and he was scared one day he would retaliate. From being a strong and decisive person with self-belief, his energy and strength had drained to a level where he no longer recognised himself.

  “Lunchtime will be fine.” Miss Sander’s voice jolted him back to his latest predicament. “I’d like you to come on your own if you don’t mind. I’ll explain when I see you. Try not to worry.” To his relief, he heard kindness in her voice. “Emily’s OK. We just need to talk to you.”

  As he replaced the receiver, his head dropped into his hands. An explanation was not necessary. He knew what was coming.

  It was a surreal experience, waiting outside the school office. The scent of rubbery plimsoll combined with custard, transported him back to his own school days. The scraping of chairs and far-away chattering laughter brought Emily’s anguished face into his mind. They should be ensuring she enjoyed a carefree childhood, like he had until he had lost his parents. Why were they doing this to her?

  “Thanks for coming at such short notice. We know you must be busy.” Miss Sanders stretched out her hand. Paul followed her towards a door which she held ajar for him. “This is the Deputy Head, Mrs Stratton.” Signalling to a chair, she gestured for him to sit down opposite them.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr Jackson.” The second woman rose to her feet to shake his hand. “I’m one of the child protection officers. I’ve been taking a bit of an interest in Emily lately. We’ve been noticing a few changes.”

  “Child protection officer?” Paul’s words caught in his throat.

  “Yes. Don’t look so worried. We’re here to help, not to accuse. Clearly you’re having a tough time of things.”

  Paul hardly dared meet their gaze. “What’s Emily been saying?”

  They both sat back. “Perhaps you could tell us what you think she might have been saying. That might be the best starting point.”

  Paul gulped. What might she have said? Well, it could be anything. They had been through so much lately. This was the stuff nightmares were made of; being sat in front of her teachers like this.

  “My wife and I.” He cleared his throat. “We’ve been having a few problems. We’re trying to sort things out though.”

  “Emily told us about the episode over the weekend.” Miss Sanders spoke slowly as she tapped her pen against her notebook. “About what happened to the TV.”

  “She told you … everything?” Paul slowly brought his eyes up to meet Mrs Stratton’s.

  “Yes. She knows she can talk to us. And children often do. Disclose things, I mean. We’re glad she thinks it’s a safe environment in which she can speak to us.”

  “You mean unlike at home?” His defensiveness was probably not doing him any favours, but he was out of his depth. He clasped his hands in his lap.

  “No. That’s not what we’re saying. Not at all. But she’s clearly troubled.” Miss Sanders paused as though she was searching for the right words. “Her schoolwork’s suffering and she’s become withdrawn. She keeps talking about mummy and daddy always shouting.”

  “We’re not shouting at her.” Paul sat forward in his chair.

  “We know.” Miss Sanders reached out and touched his arm.

  He studied the pattern on the carpet. “We’re going through a bad patch.” Shame was burning into his heart like a hot skewer.

  “There’s help out there you know. You don’t have to deal with this on your own. We could put you in touch with…”

  “We’re fine,” he shuffled in his seat. “We don’t need help.” His eyes remained fixed on the floor.

  Mrs Stratton put her hand on his arm this time. “You can access support, for yourself. If you need to.” The gentle way in which she looked at him made Paul believe she knew more than she was letting on. His eyes were hot with shame and misery.

  “We’re not telling you what to do, of course. Only you can make that decision.”

  “Thanks. But I’ll sort it. And I’m glad Emily can talk to you,” he added faintly. Was he? “I’ll talk to my wife. Now I know how we are affecting our daughter. I promise. We’ll sort it out.”

  “I want you to take this.” Mrs Sanders took a card from the inside of her notebook and pressed it into his hand. There are numbers on it you can ring. It’s all confidential. Many of them are geared up towards helping women but there’s no reason why men shouldn’t be able to access them as well…”

  “There’s no need, honestly.” His face was blazing as he tucked the card into his jacket pocket. “I can handle it. I’ll make sure Emily doesn’t hear anything in future.”

  Michelle had sat quietly as he spoke to her later. Emily was sound asleep when h
e had checked.

  “If we’re not careful they’ll bring social workers in.” Paul sat beside his wife. “I’m worried Michelle. I can’t cope with all that. We’re her parents. It’s up to us to make sure she’s happy.”

  “So you’re saying I’m a crap mother?” She folded her arms.

  “No. I’m saying we need to stop arguing in front of her. It’s worrying her and affecting her schoolwork. And it was bloody embarrassing being dragged in there.”

  “And you’re blaming me.” She took a swig of her odorous red wine. Its vinegary undertones were penetrating the entire room.

  “Bloody hell!” Paul was aware he was rolling his eyes. “Why do you have to be so defensive? I’m only trying to talk to you about it.”

  “What I can’t understand,” her face clouded over some more, “is why you were called into school. On your own as well. They could have spoken to me at home time.”

  He cleared his throat. “It’s, it’s because of the TV.”

  “What do you mean?” She banged her glass onto the table beside her.

  “They know about the TV?” They both glanced towards the gaping space it had inhabited.

  “You told them!” she spat the words out. “You’re joking right! I’m sick of you talking about me.”

  “I didn’t tell them!” He tried to keep his voice steady. “I didn’t need to.” Oh God, he had set her off again!

  “It was you who made me do it!” She drove her finger into his arm. It’s your fault.” She stopped. “You mean Emily told them.” Fury seemed to be seeping from her every pore.

  “Yes. That’s how much we’re upsetting her.” Amidst her anger, he searched her face for a glimmer of remorse.

  “You mean you’re upsetting her.” She dug her fists into the sofa.

  “I didn’t smash the TV Michelle.” He sprang up and walked towards the window. “It’s not my behaviour that’s having such an awful effect on Emily.”

  “She’s all you bloody care about.”

  “Course I do. She’s my daughter. I want her to be happy.”

  “That’s what you think.” Michelle spoke in a low voice.

  “What did you say?” Paul swung around, praying he had misheard.

  “Nothing.” A smirk danced upon her wine-stained lips.

  “You said that’s what you think? What did you mean by that?” His voice raised slightly and his breathing shallowed.

  “She’s not yours.” Her gaze held his as she became strengthened by the power she was yielding. She had literally winded him.

  “Don’t talk rubbish.” But something in his heart flipped.

  She took another glug of wine. “You’re not her father. It was easier to let you think you were at the time.”

  “You’re talking crap again. I know you are.” He drew a footstool towards himself and straddled it, as he continued to face his wife. “Admit it. You’re trying to hurt me. I was there every step of the way. I was the first person to hold her when she was born.” He was keeping his voice steady but inside he was bubbling like an unspent volcano.

  “But you weren’t there at her conception.”

  “You’re one nasty piece of work Michelle.” His whole body shook as he spoke and his head was throbbing with anxiety.

  “We’ll request a DNA test.” Michelle finished the remainder of the wine left in her glass. “I’ll prove it.”

  “Then whose is she?” Paul decided to play along for a moment. “If she’s not mine, that is?”

  Michelle leaned over the arm of the sofa and grabbed the wine bottle by the neck. “Do you think I’m going to tell you that?”

  “Michelle, she’s my little girl. For God’s sake, don’t do this to me!” Paul was staring at her school photograph as he spoke. Desperately, he searched for a characteristic in her image that matched his. The hair colour could not be relied upon because all three of them had the same glossy, dark hair.

  Everyone had always said she had his eyes though. Paul studied them now. They were shaped similarly, slightly slanted, the same shade of blue. Michelle had often remarked it was unfair for a man to be blessed with such long eyelashes.

  “She is mine.” His tone contained an air of defiance as he rose back to his feet. “Your evil little plan has failed. I don’t believe a word you come out with.” The voice of his father emerged in his ears. Stay strong lad. Stick up for yer sen!

  “She keeps going on about it.” Paul dropped his head into his hands as he spoke to Alana the next day. They were eating lunch in a café opposite the office. John had been with them but had been called away.

  “She reckons she told ‘the real father’ at the time but he didn’t want to know.” Paul glanced at her. “She says she decided to let me believe I was Emily’s Dad. She’d been scared apparently that she would be left on her own if she’d come clean at the time.”

  “Paul, I want you to hear me out.” Alana spoke slowly, reaching across the table and placing her hand on his arm. He probably should have pulled it away but he didn’t. The hum of normality and clattering crockery echoed all around them. “Emily is one hundred per cent your daughter. She is the double of you.”

  “Do you think so?” He pushed his omelette around his plate with his fork. The aroma of oily eggs was making him feel sick. No longer able to take pleasure in anything, he didn’t even enjoy eating.

  “I know so.” She drew her hand back. “You can’t let Michelle poison your mind like this. I’m shocked she’s sunk this low to be honest.”

  “She’s a bloody convincing liar, I’ll give her that.” He put his cutlery on top of his omelette. “When she was telling me all this, her face didn’t flicker.”

  “Right, listen to me.” Alana pushed her plate away. “The way Emily throws her head back when she laughs, that’s you. Her puzzled expression when she’s deep in thought, that’s you. Her height. Her lovely, dark hair. Her smile. The way she waves her hands around when she’s speaking. And her eyes …”

  Paul felt his face burn as he watched Alana. “OK, you’re embarrassing me!”

  Her gaze locked into his, and she held it for a little longer than was comfortable. “You should take Emily and start over. With me.”

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  Two of the younger jurors are whispering. The usher frowns at them.

  “Mrs Stratton,” Simon adjusts the cuff on his gown. “As well as being the deputy head at Osbaldwick Primary School in York, you are also employed as the child protection officer. Is that correct?”

  “Yes. The head teacher and I jointly share the responsibility.” Her voice is gentle, it reminds Paul of the sympathy extended to him during their meeting.

  “What does that role entail exactly?”

  “Well,” she hesitates. “A child might make a disclosure to their class teacher or one of the teaching assistants. Or occasionally to a member of the lunchtime staff. Whoever receives the information has a contractual obligation to write down, word-for-word, exactly what has been divulged, and in what context, before passing it to me or the head, as an urgent priority.”

  “Then, based on the information, we decide on the best course of action. That could be to ask the parents in for a discussion, or it could be to notify all staff a child has contact with, that they are to be monitored. In some cases, however, a referral to Social Care is necessary.”

  “Can you tell the court what happened in the case of Emily Jackson?”

  “Emily is in year two of our school. Which means we’ve had three years with her. She is a chatty, well-behaved little girl with good attendance and not-so-good punctuality!” She smiles at this recollection.

  “Did you have many dealings with her parents?” Simon asks.

  “Not especially. I’m aware they both worked, therefore am not surprised they didn’t volunteer for such things as PTA events. Like many parents, one or both were there when it mattered; parents evenings, sports days and Christmas productions.”

  “When was there an indicati
on of any sort of problem?”

  “Not until Emily reached year two in September of last year. She returned after the long holidays quieter and withdrawn. As time went on, Miss Sanders, that’s her class teacher, overheard her saying to her friend that she couldn’t invite her for tea because Mummy and Daddy were always shouting.” Mrs Stratton glanced towards Paul. “She said her house wasn’t a happy place. That’s when we were first alerted. We monitored her after that.”

  “Did she speak to her teacher directly?”

  “She came in upset one day, saying Daddy had been taken away by the police but they had brought him back. She worried they might come back for him but keep him next time.”

  Paul‘s shoulders sag. He should have left with Emily. None of this would have happened and Michelle would still be alive.

  “Did Miss Sanders press her on this?”

  Paul notices many members of the jury are scribbling onto their pads.

  “As teachers, we’re trained not to ask leading questions. She did, however, ask her what she meant. She said Mummy was always cross with Daddy, and she never smiled anymore.”

  “Was that the only time she talked to her teacher?”

  “No. Miss Sanders made it clear to Emily, if she ever wanted to talk to a listening ear, then she would make a quiet bubble, for the two of them, where she could tell her anything troubling her. She called it bubble time. She makes a circle with her hands as if making a bubble herself.

  “Within days, Emily appeared at school one morning asking for some bubble time.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Her parents had been angry after a shopping trip. She said they’d been shouting in the car.” Mrs Stratton looks troubled at the memory.

  “She described how her daddy had nearly crashed and she had been scared. But what had upset her most was that her mother had smashed the family’s TV. Emily had been tearful as she explained it would probably cost too many pennies to buy a new one.”