Do No Harm

by L. V. Hay

  ‘Oh goodness, that would be rather dangerous,’ Fran replied, putting her full plate aside on the coffee table.

  ‘Nope.’ Denny said. ‘Sharks only kill five people a year. Did you know? Dogs kill thirty people a year. Hippos kill nearly three thousand people a year. Volcanoes kill over eight hundred. Aeroplanes … twelve hundred!’

  ‘Okay, okay thank you!’ I interrupted. Denny loved facts; we could be here all night. I wondered where his sudden interest in death had come from. I made a mental note to find out what he’d been looking at on YouTube.

  I distracted Denny with more noodles as Sebastian described our wonderful week away. The sunshine, the culture, the food, all the fabulous tours and activities we’d done.

  ‘I’m sure it was heavenly, darling.’ With a pang, I saw that Sebastian’s mother’s eyes were glassy with tears and the expression on her face was pained. But then a wan smile appeared on her lips.

  I guessed she was thinking about his father. Sebastian had told me what had happened to his dad. They’d had barely two years together. They’d married after a year, his father’s unexpected death coming when Sebastian was just three months old. It must have been horrific for her, I thought, having the love of her life ripped from her after so short a time together. Unable to help myself, I leaned forwards and placed a hand on hers. She patted it with the palm of her other hand and dabbed her eyes with a tissue. The moment quickly passed.

  She left soon afterwards, with us still thanking her profusely as we followed her to the door.

  ‘Really, Mum, thanks again for all your help.’

  I nodded. If it hadn’t been for Fran, especially with her cleaning tips and tricks, we’d still have been hard at it. I shuddered at the thought.

  ‘Really, that’s what I’m here for!’ Fran gave a little laugh. ‘I will always move heaven and earth, you know that.’

  Sebastian hugged his mother and Fran made her way down the alleyway, towards her car. We waved until she disappeared from sight.

  Eleven

  Sebastian’s first day back at work was a nightmare: a constant stream of paperwork, phone calls and various appointments. Two sets of parents from the PTA turned up out of the blue, demanding to be seen, both saying it was urgent. One was about the upcoming school fête; the other about getting new sponsors for the football kits. Both could have waited. He rebuked his secretary, Rosanna, who stared him out over the top of her smartphone. She really was useless. But Sebastian knew he wouldn’t fire her. He had too much to do and could not add interviewing new help to his burden.

  Shaking his head, Sebastian walked into the small closet-like en suite next to his office, flicking the light on as he went. He peed quickly, shook himself off and turned to wash his hands. As he did so, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. Under the white glare of the overhead strip-light his cheeks were as sunken as the dark circles under his eyes. He looked haggard, older than his twenty-nine years. Not for the first time he wondered if he really was too young for this job.

  As Sebastian returned to his desk, the bell went for lunch. He didn’t have time for anything other than a sandwich at his desk today. He rolled his head around his shoulders, feeling the tense crack of his neck. After a horrible afternoon the day before, he’d had a terrible night. The jet lag had bitten deep and he’d found himself awake at three-thirty in the morning, sweating, his heart racing. He’d sat up in bed, taking deep breaths to calm himself. An envious sigh had escaped him at the sight of Lily, asleep and unruffled, next to him. Denny had joined them too: clad in his Batman pyjamas, the little boy was lying across the foot of the bed, a toy car still in one hand, a bubble of saliva in the corner of his mouth.

  Sebastian had grabbed Denny up in his arms with difficulty. A small child, he still felt as heavy as a brick when he was sleeping. As he staggered through to the child’s bedroom, Denny’s weight felt symbolic to Sebastian: he hadn’t just married Lily, he had taken on the responsibility of stepfatherhood. Was it too soon? It didn’t matter now; it was done. Even so, Maxwell’s jealousy and possessiveness burned in his brain. Was he going to back off? He had to. Even Maxwell would realise that ship had sailed, surely. And perhaps Lily was right. Maybe it was just a coincidence; maybe Sebastian had left the door ajar and kids had got in and trashed the place.

  Yet something in Sebastian’s gut told him he was right and Lily was wrong.

  A deep sleeper, Denny hadn’t stirred. Sebastian placed the child into his half-sized bed, tucking him in with a selection of soft toys. He envied him. Life must seem so straightforward. Lily really was an exemplary mother, even if her methods were at times a little unorthodox. Denny was allowed to be a child, carefree and able to find his own limits – two things always denied Sebastian when he was growing up: first by the rigid structures and expectations of his mother, then by boarding school, university and the world of work.

  Now, as Sebastian consulted some spreadsheets, he heard the ting of the reception bell. He ignored it; that was Rosanna’s job. But when the sound came again, he looked up, exasperated. Through the internal window from his office, Sebastian could see that Rosanna’s chair was empty. Her bag was missing from the pegs near the main reception desk. Momentary rage engulfed him before he realised it was perfectly reasonable for even the worst secretary on earth to take a break for lunch.

  He sighed, kneading his forehead with one hand, then opened his door and appeared in the reception area. On the other side of the glass that surrounded the desk stood a small woman, only her head and shoulders visible, like one of the children.

  Sebastian opened the reception door and appeared outside. ‘How may I help?’ he asked, painting on a smile that might well have looked like a grimace.

  ‘I need to speak to Jim Masterson.’ The woman’s words were clipped. Barely five feet tall, she had an oddly cramped posture.

  Sebastian didn’t let his tense smile drop. ‘Regarding?’

  ‘I’m his wife.’ Her expression was grim: deep-set eyes, pursed lips.

  Sensing he wasn’t going to get much more from her, Sebastian nodded. He went back behind reception and rang down to the gym, then offered her a seat on one of the threadbare reception chairs, near the giant papier-mâché sculpture of two cupped hands around a globe. Returning to his desk to sort more paperwork, Sebastian watched through the reception window as she picked at her black sleeves, smoothed down her skirt, her drawn features impassive.

  About five minutes into her vigil, Jim arrived – almost at a run and with a strange expression on his face, which Sebastian couldn’t place for a moment. Then he realised what it was: anxiety. He’d never seen anything but laughter lines on the big man’s visage before. To him Jim was a big, jolly bald man with a thick white beard like Santa. The kids loved him, not to mention his imaginative games in gym, such as ‘lavaball’, a hybrid of dodgeball and the classic kids’ favourite, ‘The floor is lava’. Jim had proved himself able to get even the least enthusiastic child moving.

  Yet he did not appear to have any such effect on his wife. As soon as she saw her husband the tiny woman’s blank expression twisted with rage. Jim stooped towards her, his look earnest, and attempted to usher her towards a side room, but she jerked her arm away from his, as if she didn’t want him touching her. Sebastian couldn’t hear what they were saying through the glass, but from Jim’s body language, it was clear: he was trying, desperately it seemed, to placate her.

  But she wasn’t having it. She stood, one hand on her bony hip, wagging a finger at him like a parent. Even the bell going off again failed to stop her. A line of kids coming back in from the playground eyeballed the confrontation, parting around Jim and his wife as they made their way past reception, then reconvening like ants. The wife was so intent on telling off her husband she did not seem to notice this. Jim hung his head, mortified.

  You never can tell what goes on behind closed doors, Sebastian’s mother always said. Sebastian had always thought it rather a stupid saying; he’d be
en sure most people were poor liars, their troubles easy to see, if only people would look. But now … He’d never had an inkling Jim had any trouble at home.

  Mrs Masterson finally left, and as Jim slunk back towards the PE department, Sebastian found himself reconsidering Maxwell. Up until that point, Lily’s ex had seemed more pathetic than anything. But could he be worse than they feared? Sebastian made a mental note to be extra wary. He wasn’t going to give Maxwell any chance to come between him and Lily.

  When the bell rang for the end of the day, Sebastian found himself suddenly sick of all the paperwork and admin. He decided to take his laptop home with him and go through the remainder of his emails after dinner. Juggling box files, his laptop bag, empty lunchbox and coffee cup, he bid Rosanna goodnight, taking delight at her bulging eyes – he was leaving before her for once.

  Back to his family.

  Twelve

  The first week of school zipped by. I sleepwalked my way through it and suddenly it was Friday morning. I kissed Sebastian goodbye before he left, bleary-eyed, his travel mug of black coffee in hand. Being the boss, he always went in to school before me.

  Denny sat at the table, hunched over his cereal, his bad mood etched into his little face. One by one, he took Cheerios out of the bowl and crushed them under his spoon.

  ‘Stop that,’ I chided gently.

  Denny pouted. ‘Don’t wanna go to school.’

  I took a bite of toast, thinking, You and me both, kiddo.

  Sebastian had taken the car, but the school was only a ten-minute walk away. With Denny in a mood, it took twenty-five and I practically had to drag him to the door of his year-one classroom.

  ‘Oh dear, Denny, like that, is it?’ Kelly, the before- and after-school club leader, was waiting at the door. She attempted to ruffle Denny’s hair, but he jerked his head away as he stalked into the classroom, hands in his pockets. Kelly shrugged, the amusement of someone used to kids written all over her face.

  I raced to the staffroom for the daily morning meeting, arriving ten minutes late. I heard a couple of the other teachers mutter as I searched for a seat. They all thought Sebastian gave me special treatment, but in reality I was like this before I was even seeing him. The plight of the working mother – never enough time.

  I cast a look around my colleagues, and realised with surprise that Triss hadn’t arrived yet. Even though she was the flighty type, she was always at work super-early. I knew it was the legacy of growing up in a household where her parents prized booze over punctuality. She’d always hated arriving late to school, having to skulk in after the bell as everyone looked at her from their desks.

  At the front, perched on a desk, one foot behind him, Sebastian looked drawn and tired. Behind him, a digital clock read 08:23. Jim, the PE teacher, sat on a chair at the front, arms folded, legs spread wide.

  ‘Marriage obviously suits you, boss.’ He laughed at his own good-natured heckle. The others joined in as Sebastian tipped an imaginary hat to me. Polite applause followed, which I acknowledged with a smile. Fortunately, everyone was then distracted: Triss had finally arrived. She faltered on the threshold for a moment, then covered up her embarrassment by giving Sebastian a salute.

  ‘Sir!’ She always called him this, like she was still a pupil herself.

  Sebastian nodded as Triss scuttled through and took the seat next to me, then it was down to business. He took us through the various points: this year’s end-of-year tests; the upcoming school inspection; the child-protection hoo-ha. Avonwood was not a rough school, but we did have some challenges the more privileged Epsom schools didn’t face. Most of our pupils were from low socio-economic backgrounds, and there was some tension between those who had deigned themselves more middle class and the poorer parents. English was also not a first language for a larger-than-average percentage of our students. Resources were stretched and finances limited, but our pastoral care was excellent and as far as most of us were concerned, we were a big family, ready to take the knocks.

  I wouldn’t have taught anywhere else.

  The bell went and we all stood up, rushing off in various directions for registration. I found myself in my classroom about one minute before the first children filed in. It smelled of paint and PVA glue. The children’s artwork lined the back wall, and on the side there were a number of half-finished clay pots. My kids ambled in with lunchboxes and sports kits, their faces expectant and open. My class were between eight and nine, my favourite age: not yet old enough for the kind of guarded cynicism that hit tweens and early teens. This year the boys in my class outnumbered the girls three to one. It sometimes happened with one gender, especially in baby-boom years.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Stevens!’ They chorused in unison, even though I’d written Mrs Adair surrounded by arrows in big blue letters on the whiteboard. I shrugged. Not to worry. They’d get it by the end of the term.

  And then it was as if I’d blinked and the school day was over. I usually picked Denny up from after-school club just before five, after I’ve done my marking. But there was none to do today, because it was Friday. I took the opportunity to catch my breath and tidy up, placing escaped pencils and pens into their tubs, returning glue sticks and scissors to the trays of the brightly coloured drawers.

  My thoughts returned to the scene of destruction we’d come back to. Could Sebastian have been right? Could Maxwell have been responsible? No, Maxwell was a neat freak. He liked everything just so, lining books and CDs up in alphabetical order. He let one of his poor cleaners go when he discovered she hadn’t been vacuuming underneath the sofa. Anyway, he’d have had to swipe a key from our rack when he’d picked up Denny, and then replaced it. That was too creepy for him. Maxwell was a prick who loved himself, but he wasn’t someone who’d do something like that.

  Was he?

  Denny seemed to have recovered from his morning grumpiness. He chatted all the way back to the maisonette. I struggled to call it home just yet; secretly, I still hoped we would move to one of the new estates – preferably on the opposite side of town to Maxwell, and nowhere near Fran, either. I liked my mother-in-law – especially after her help cleaning the maisonette – but I wanted somewhere just for us. I would have to be careful about suggesting this to Sebastian, though; he was attached to his characterful pad in the town centre.

  As ever, as soon as I opened the door, Denny bounded up the stairs two at a time.

  ‘No Xbox till after tea,’ I called. ‘You know the rules!’

  There was pause, then he yelled, ‘Muuuuuuuum!’

  I sighed at the angst in Denny’s voice and shut the front door, plunging myself momentarily into the darkness of the windowless hallway.

  ‘What?’ I called back as I walked up the stairs through the dim light from the kitchen-diner. I had long ago ceased bothering to tell Denny to stop hollering at me from afar. Kids never learned that lesson.

  ‘The light’s not working!’ Denny bellowed, unaware I had appeared behind him. I winced.

  ‘All right, foghorn.’ I made a show of putting my hands over my ears, making Denny cackle.

  I pressed the light switch in the gloomy living area. Nothing happened. Denny was right. I picked up the remote control and tried to turn the telly on. No sign of life. I pressed various buttons, but nothing at all.

  Brilliant, a power cut.

  ‘Can Seb fix it?’ Denny said, eyes wide, a tremor in his voice. ‘What about my Xbox time later?’

  Panic was not far away: he loved his Xbox that much. I made a mental note for myself: I should probably have a think about machine detoxes, or limiting screen time.

  ‘I’ll fix it.’ I took a deep breath. For a child who’d been raised practically single-handedly by me – even when I was married to his dad – Denny was surprisingly reliant on male intervention for mending things.

  I traipsed down the long corridor to the bathroom, where the fuse box was located. It was high, out of reach, so I had to clamber onto the closed toilet seat to pull th
e cover off. I had already bet myself it was our bedroom that was the problem; I’d detected a slight burning smell that morning when I was blowing out my curls. I’d thought I’d caught the end of one of them, but perhaps it was the hairdryer itself. I hoped not, because that meant we’d have a freezer full of defrosted food.

  But the bedroom fuse was not blown. None of them was. All the switches were aligned perfectly. I furrowed my brow in confusion. Weird.

  ‘Mum?’ Denny called down the corridor. ‘You still there?’

  ‘Yes. Hang on, mate…’

  I wandered into the kitchen. With a stab of guilt, I realised I had no clue which electricity company Sebastian was with. This still wasn’t my home, really. I sighed and pulled my mobile from my cardigan pocket, intent on calling him, but as I did, my gaze alighted on the fridge door, on which was emblazoned a red electricity bill.

  I grabbed it from under the Dennis the Menace fridge magnet and quickly scanned the top sheet, taking note of the recent date and realising what must have happened. With the wedding and everything else that had been going on, Sebastian had simply forgotten to pay it. Well, that was soon rectified. Bill in hand, I pressed my phone to my ear again as I went in search of my purse.

  Denny appeared in the kitchen, clearly wanting to find out what was going on.

  ‘Okay. Just hang on…’ I said, indicating the phone, the tone ringing in my ear, debit card at the ready. Denny pulled a comical face, full of six-year-old angst, and mimed Hurry up. I ignored him, keying in all the account numbers from the bill, so I could pay via the automated system.

  ‘One moment, please,’ said a robotic female voice.

  I waited.

  Then, that tell-tale click as the computer caught up with itself.

  ‘Sorry, we have no record of that account,’ said the robotic voice at last.

  ‘What the hell?’ The words burst out of me. At my feet, Denny regarded me, open-mouthed with both joy and mischief. I never said rude words – around him, anyway. I sighed. The automated system must have a fault. At least now I’d speak to a real person.