Five Bad Deeds by Caz Frear

Author:Caz Frear
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2023-09-24T00:00:00+00:00

28

Ellen

On Monday, I relay the saga of Max’s hand to Faye, his room leader. She repeats “oh dear” on a loop, then asks if “Mrs. O-L” has been in touch. Max kicked someone on Friday—it was mentioned to Nush, but it’s the first I’ve heard of it—and Mrs. O’Leary would like “an urgent sit-down,” which sounds like a Mafioso request. Luckily, though, the Godmother is at an Early Years conference in Bristol today, so I’m granted a short reprieve before I’m officially anointed World’s Worst Mum. After drop-off, I head home to meet Bert about the wiring (he doesn’t turn up), then I pay a visit to Buds & Blooms on the high street to see if yesterday’s flowers came from there. The answer is a resounding no. One look at the loose, drooping petals, and the owner, Lynn, declares that they were probably cut several weeks ago and placed in cold storage, which means a supermarket or a petrol station. Needles and haystacks spring to mind.

Tuesday rolls in. I get a frosty voicemail informing me that Pelham High have gone with another candidate, and I think about Zane as I go through the motions, teaching Othello and cleaning the house.

In a nutshell, a couple of days pass comparatively quietly and uneventfully, and the only thing that “gets worse” is Orla’s attitude. I can accept her being secretive, I’m well used to her being surly. But I’m getting sick of the stealing. My Tiffany circle necklace is nowhere to be seen.

“Look, what’s mine is yours,” I tell her, attempting a pacifist approach instead of shouting. “Jewellery, dresses, kidneys, you name it. But you ask first, OK? You do not just take.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says. “No one my age cares about Tiffany.” Then, “Have you tried under the sofa cushions? It’s mad what ends up there.”

And now it’s Wednesday morning. The bin men have come and gone and they’ve taken the stinking flowers with them, and I’m dithering in the vegetable section of the supermarket when suddenly my phone rings. Unknown number.

“Good morning, am I speaking to Mrs. Walsh? Ellen Walsh?”

“You are,” I say, readying myself to tell a salesperson to bugger off. Politely, of course. We’ve all gotta make rent.

“Ah, good. Well, my name is Cathy Grantham. I’m calling from Oxfordshire County Council Children’s Services.”

The words are as sharp and disorientating as a blow to the back of the knee.

“Okaaay . . .”

She gets straight to the point, although her tone is cordial, almost sympathetic. “I’m following up on an anonymous call referred to us recently. Several safety concerns were raised, and while I assure you we keep a very open mind at these early stages, you’ll understand that we have to take any allegations regarding the welfare of a child seriously.”

“What allegations?” I say, quietly hysterical. “What child, for that matter?”

“Specifically your son, Max.” She pauses as an announcement comes over the loudspeaker. A Halloween promotion. Savings to make you scream! “Listen, it sounds like you’re out somewhere at the moment, Mrs.

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