The Hoax

by Paul Clayton

  She saw a reference number and then her own address in bold type on the left side. She read on.

  Dear Mrs Baxter,

  Thank you for your recent application for the post of childcare assistant in our day nursery.

  After careful consideration of your online questionnaire and telephone interview, we are pleased to be able to offer you the post of …

  She caught her breath and skimmed down the rest of the letter without taking any of it in. There it was in black and white, signed by Senior Assessment Officer, Cora Walsh.

  Tears formed in her eyes, blurring the words. She wiped them away with her sleeve. The job was hers. To convince herself, she told the coffee table, ‘I’ve got the job.’

  She, Frankie Baxter, had achieved this. After all her disappointments, after all her mistakes, she could put this on a win list.

  She read the letter once more. This was just a formal communication; details, training manuals and other information, including a starting date, would arrive by email in the next couple of days if she accepted. There was no mention of references. Was this Cora’s doing, knowing as she did what had happened at the Techno Factory with Mr Breen?

  Catching a glimpse of her reflection in the window, Frankie gave herself a beaming grin. Outside, a small queue of people stood at the bus stop. They were total strangers but she couldn’t resist an exuberant wave; an older woman waved back with a bemused smile. Frankie wanted to run outside, hug her and tell her the news. She wanted to scream it at the whole queue.

  Picking up the phone, she was about to dial Cora’s number when she realised that there would be no answer. She cancelled the call and sent a text: Thank you. You know what for. Thank you.

  ***

  Cora sat at the table in the window. She tapped away at her keyboard, entering figures into a spreadsheet, then she sat back, looked at what she had written and smiled.

  Her phone pinged with an incoming message. Picking it up from where it lay on a crisp pile of good-quality white envelopes with no windows, she read the text.

  How nice to be able to help a friend. Now the fun could begin.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Lottie stared out of the window across the road at a row of identical houses mirroring the one in which she was living. She couldn’t recall any stories that she’d read as a child where the prince and princess married and lived in one room with their baby in the prince’s mother-in-law’s house.

  There was a moan from the cot behind her. Lottie glanced over but the baby seemed to settle again. She breathed out, a whisper of relief. Everything had a baby odour. Dirty nappies and talcum powder.

  She loved their child. She swore she could see her heart glowing in her breast with that love, love for the one connection she had with her husband. But the baby didn’t keep its own space. It spread like a virus, infecting the lives of all the people connected with it. It bound the family together, whether they wanted it or not.

  A rust-red car, more rust than red, pulled into the street. Lottie imagined herself clambering out of it, as she’d climbed out of the Heatons’ car when she’d arrived here. Mrs Heaton, a woman seemingly composed of two isosceles triangles, had stood on the pavement watching her struggle with suitcase and boxes until Craig offered to carry the smallest box into the house. Lottie followed, dragging the suitcase which held her world.

  If only she’d known then to run. How she wished she could have got back in that car and driven away, had her baby somewhere else, anywhere but here. Yet she had never had that baby and now here she was with its replacement, loving it with all her being. Trapped in a prison of her own making.

  ***

  ‘I know you’re …’ Mrs Heaton had struggled for words when she’d brought Lottie into the house for the first time. ‘I realise you’re already friendly with Craig, but you won’t be sharing a room.’ She pushed open the door of a tiny bedroom and Lottie struggled in with her case. ‘Craig’s still at school and needs space for homework and study.’

  Lottie found it hard to imagine anyone in their year at school less likely to spend an evening studying, but she remained silent.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Mrs Heaton pursed her lips with the effort of asking the question.

  ‘That would be nice,’ said Lottie, more out of the need to respond than a desire for tea.

  ‘I’ll leave you to make yourself at home.’ Mrs Heaton pulled the door closed behind her. As Lottie remembered it, that was the last time she’d set foot in Lottie’s room.

  Although she kept her distance, Mrs Heaton was keen to make plans. Craig was struggling through his last few weeks of school. Being older than Lottie, he could escape after his GCSEs or continue on to sixth-form college. Lottie knew he wasn’t the brightest of boys, and his mother took considerable pleasure in pointing out there were plenty of jobs he could get that would be satisfying and would bring a wage into the family.

  ‘If we’re to have a baby in the house, we’ll need money coming in. You can’t waste your time at college. Lottie will need to be here, so you’ll need a job.’

  There was an interview with someone from social services almost as soon as she moved into the house. Lottie remembered Craig’s eagerness to please during the interview, how his bullishness had disappeared and something akin to tenderness had taken its place for a few moments.

  Lottie had painted a picture of teenage lovers who wished to settle down and raise a family, of two young people who’d been a little too eager. It seemed to work; there was no talk of prosecution and, other than regular checks by social services, no talk of separating mother and baby.

  ‘And have you thought about the wedding?’ Mrs Heaton had dropped her own particular bombshell into conversation with Lottie one morning after Craig had left for school. ‘I just think it would be best. For everyone concerned. Even after my own particular calamity with Mr Heaton, I think everyone should try to have the best start as a family.’

  Lottie looked up from her breakfast. She was pretty sure Mrs Heaton meant that it would be best for herself, but she kept her thoughts to her Weetabix.

  ‘I’m not talking about a big do. The three of us. I could get Sylvia Cutts to be a witness. Have a little lunch afterwards on the top floor of Cole Brothers. They do a nice scampi.’

  Since finding out she was pregnant, Lottie’s thoughts roamed no further than the birth. The baby separated her from the world that she knew, from her best friend and only place of safety. Marriage had been her plan but doubts had grown. ‘I’m not sure.’ She saw immediately how disappointed Mrs Heaton was. ‘Perhaps it should be baby first and then we’ll see,’ she added.

  Her hesitancy was not going to deter Mrs Heaton. That morning, when Lottie had gone out to pick up some shopping for supper, Mrs Heaton rang the home.

  ‘We did try to contact her previous carers about a year ago,’ said Mr Dale, ‘but there was no response.’

  ‘Does that make me her legal guardian then?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. Given that her adoptive parents dumped her with us, and we’ve never seen them since, in effect we are her guardians. It shouldn’t be difficult for us to get a special notice for you. I know people in social services and, quite frankly, they’ll be glad to get her off their books. Leave it with me.’

  Three weeks later, Mrs Heaton, Sylvia Cutts and Mr and Mrs Craig Heaton sat at a window table in the fourth-floor restaurant of Cole Brothers ordering lunch.

  Sylvia, who’d already consumed most of one bottle of sparkling wine, raised her glass. ‘I suppose, being best man and bridesmaid all rolled into one, it’s up to me to make the toast.’

  Lottie smiled at her as best she could. There was enough of Sylvia to roll a whole congregation into.

  ‘To Craig and Charlotte.’

  Mrs Heaton raised her glass. Craig had a small glass of wine as a token gesture. Lottie had been tol
d that wine was bad for her and had a glass of sparkling water.

  The scampi and chips arrived in small cane baskets. Lottie smiled and wished they’d ordered soup. The chips were cold.

  The pain started about one in the morning. Lottie had gone to bed early. Mrs Heaton, several glasses over her personal limit, had been ill in the bathroom when she got home and fallen on her bed shortly afterwards.

  With his mother unconscious, Craig had made a sweet, if futile, gesture to Lottie and asked if they might spend some time together in his room. Lottie took his hand. ‘Let’s sit on the sofa and watch some TV together, shall we?’

  With no sign of Mrs Heaton, she’d made them cheese and ham sandwiches and a cup of tea, then given Craig a gentle peck on the cheek and gone to her room.

  It wasn’t Craig’s fault. She’d felt rather sorry for him during the wedding. They were partners in crime, co-conspirators who hadn’t even looked at one another as they mumbled their declaration in front of the registrar.

  The ring was something Mrs Heaton had found in a jewellery box. ‘Belonged to my Auntie Lorraine,’ she said. Lottie thought it looked as if they’d prised it off Auntie Lorraine’s hand in the grave but said nothing.

  ***

  Lottie wished Craig were here now. The stabbing, ripping pain in stomach wasn’t good. She pushed her head into a pillow to muffle a cry. Something was wrong. She felt she would collapse if she tried to stand, but the searing spasms continued. Telling herself she should get to the bathroom and call for help, she slid off the bed. She pushed herself upwards and grabbed for the door handle. With the sheets peeled back, a red smear covered the bed where she had been lying.

  ‘Please, no.’ Her voice stuck in her throat, the pain in her stomach pulling it back inside her. She stumbled across the hall, reeling from wall to wall. As she pulled the cord in the bathroom, the noise of the extractor fan filled the room and the light made her shield her eyes. She fell forward towards the toilet, pushing up the seat, trying to find a way to turn and sit.

  A shard of glass ripped through her innards and she fell backwards against the wall, calling out Craig’s name. She slid down onto the side of the bath, holding onto the taps to keep herself upright.

  It wasn’t Craig who answered the call. Mrs Heaton appeared in the doorway looking much the worse for wear, still in the remnants of her wedding outfit. She stood transfixed by the bloody mess that lay on the floor between them. And she knew that it was Lottie’s fault.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Good luck speeds up life. Happiness makes the days fly by. It seemed like only yesterday that Frankie had opened the letter telling her that she’d got the job, yet so much had happened since. Having left a message for Cora, who hadn’t rung back to speak to her, Frankie couldn’t wait to tell the kids on their return from school. She waited until they were all sitting down, plates of ham, egg and chips in front of them, before she revealed anything.

  ‘You remember that job I applied for? The childcare one?’

  Three heads looked up. Being of the X Factor generation they were all too familiar with the protracted pause Frankie made before she told them. When she simply couldn’t hang on to the announcement for a second longer, she yelled at the three of them, ‘I got it! I got it!’

  The three of them replied with a terrific cheer – and tight hugs from the boys –before returning to their supper. Shannon gripped her mum’s hand. ‘That’s brilliant, Mum. You’ve done real well.’

  Frankie was more touched than words allowed her to say. It was good to see Shannon pleased and proud after she’d helped out so much. ‘I couldn’t have done it without you sorting out that CV and questionnaire and everything like you did.’

  Shannon blushed and returned to her chips.

  ‘Girl power,’ whispered Frankie in her ear as she stood up to make some drinks.

  ***

  Cora did send an email. It was surprisingly formal; reading it Frankie couldn’t determine whether Cora had picked up her message or not.

  To: frankiebaxter@gmail.com

  From: cwalsh@infomail.langley.com

  Subject: Childcare assistant appointment.

  Dear Mrs Baxter,

  I’m pleased that you are able to accept the post of childcare assistant as offered. It’s a pleasure to welcome you on board. We attach a registration form to this email to gain further details from you and to advise that your initial assignment will be an online training course which you should complete before Christmas. We will include this in your salary payment in January.

  I will send details of your position prior to your commencing on site work on January 4th.

  Yours,

  Mrs Cora Walsh

  Senior Assessment Officer

  Frankie replied as formally as she could, sending the details they had requested: date of birth, bank account, address, etc. She gave her name as Baxter. She’d never changed it back to her maiden name after leaving Jonny and Shannon’s father. She was registered at the Techno Factory as Frances Baxter and had paid tax in that name for a long time. This might not be the moment to point out that technically it wasn’t her name

  Frankie took Shannon on a trip to a large office supply store in the local retail park. Shannon was anxious that her mum looked the part in every way when she turned up for her first day at the office. They filled a trolley with packs of A4 paper, folders, marker pens and a smart leather attaché case in which Frankie could keep her paper work. Frankie thought her employer might supply all this when she started, but Shannon said it would be better if she had it when she turned up.

  Frankie’s savings had run dry and Christmas was coming, so the next port of call was an interview at the building society. Here she proudly produced the email about the job and the raised salary from January. She had an excellent record on her account despite always trying to keep her head above water regarding money, so an overdraft of £2000 until the end of January, when she received her first salary payment, was no problem.

  The overdraft was going to give the four of them a wonderful Christmas. She might even buy a present for Dimwit. When the children were small, the dog had always received an annoying jangling toy or a packet of doggy chews. As they had grown older, they had thought less about presents for their pet and more about what they were getting themselves. This year, Frankie hoped she could buy the things they wanted.

  Her online training would consist of five modules which Frankie had to read through and then fill out a multiple-choice questionnaire at the end of each section. Somebody would mark this; as long as she received a pass grade of sixty percent for each module, she could start in January. Much of the training was common sense, things she’d picked up as a mother. But as she progressed, the material became more specific and involved the basic procedures that any childcare provider had to address.

  She targeted herself to finish the course in the week before Christmas and get it marked. It would be no problem starting on the fifth of January. First day back at school for the kids, first day in a new job for mum.

  Even the simplest of tasks, such as going down to the launderette to do her lunchtime shift of service washes, had Frankie walking on air. ‘I won’t be available to do any of the shifts after Christmas, I’m afraid, Mrs Demetrio. By that stage, I will be a fully-qualified childcare assistant.’

  Mrs Demetrio, the manageress of the laundrette whose face was equal parts beaming smiles and hairy moles, gave her an enormous hug. ‘Is good for you yes? Proper job. Pay taxi.’

  ‘Taxes. That’s what I’ll be paying.’

  Frankie knew the launderette ran on a cash-in-hand basis. The Iranian owner, Mr Lankarani, whom she had met once, came in every evening to empty the machines. He gave a tiny portion to Mrs Demetrio for the staff. The rest of Mrs Demetrio’s income came from running the service washes and tips.

  Frankie grinned as she loaded ano
ther machine, knowing she was leaving all this behind. She tipped another basket of sports gear into the tumble dryer. Proper daily employment, proper hours, a proper wage, a proper job, would all be hers.

  Chapter Forty

  Lottie could never forget the look of horror and disgust on her mother-in-law’s face as she stared at the mess on the floor. Her cries had disturbed Craig, who stood next to his mother not knowing what was going on. Mrs Heaton did nothing. She told Craig to call for an ambulance, but she refused go to the hospital with them.

  When they discharged Lottie the following afternoon, it was Craig who was waiting for her. ‘We don’t have a baby then, do we?’

  Lottie glanced at his pitiful face. She didn’t want to talk about what had happened so she nodded. He placed his arm around her and they started walking towards the hospital doors. ‘Got married for nothing, then, did we?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Lottie, tears crowding her eyes. ‘I suppose that’s up to us.’

  Mrs Heaton wanted nothing to do with them. Craig put on his pinny to make some tea. The following morning, his mother announced she was off to stay with her sister for a week or so. ‘Violet’s invited me, and I do like to go. It’s nothing personal. I think it’s better if I’m out of the way for you to sort yourself out. Goodbye, Lottie.’ Her words sounded final. Lottie knew Mrs Heaton didn’t expect to find her in the house on her return.

  Lottie hated herself for failing. Whenever she did anything, she needed to see it through to the end. She’d been trying to work out how best the surgeons could operate on Joan. That was all.

  From the moment she’d discovered she was pregnant, she’d wanted to be the best mother possible. Suddenly all that seemed out of reach. To begin with, Craig had never been part of her plans. Yes, he was the father, but Lottie didn’t see a role for him. Yet pushed into living with the Heaton’s and marrying Craig, she had started to understand why the best upbringing for a child was with a father and a mother. Separated from his braying pack of acne-covered mates, he was a different person.