‘This is nice, I’ve never been here,’ Jessica said, trying to keep the conversation away from the Paris trip.
‘So, is Rachel going to Paris then?’ Chelsea asked in response, watching Jessica sip her drink with an eagle eye.
Bitch!
Time for some honesty. ‘I don’t think so, we can’t afford it.’
‘But she must, every other child in the class is going. You live in the best part of Clawden, surely you can spring for a couple of hundred pounds?’
‘I thought it was one hundred and nineteen?’
‘Plus food and spending money. After all, you can’t go to Paris and not indulge a little, can you? I’m going to get Sienna one of those cute little cards you can load up with Euros. She’ll just adore spending with it. They do so love to be grown up at eight, don’t they?’
The free coffee was beginning to develop a foul taste. ‘I’ve told you, Ronald works for a charity.’
Two large muffins appeared and the waitress carefully laid them out with napkins and tiny forks. Chelsea was quiet for a moment, then began to slowly cut the muffin into pieces. ‘You know, there are ways to make ends meet.’
‘Like a part-time job, you mean? I had thought of that. Might go to the job centre later.’
‘And find something for a fiver per hour? Pretty pointless, don’t you think?’
‘The minimum wage is six pounds plus now, isn’t it?’
Chelsea shrugged. ‘If you want something with flexible hours that pays well, I could help.’
‘Really? Doing what?’
‘Oh, something lucrative and easy, but there’s one thing I should tell you though, you’ll need to suspend your Miss Goody-Two-Shoes attitude if you want to work with us.’
Us? Christ, she probably meant those evil clones of hers. That did it! Jessica wasn’t about to sell her soul to the BIBs for any money. It was probably a ploy to humiliate her in some way. ‘I might see what the job centre has to say first, but thanks so much for the offer.’ She stood. ‘And the muffin and coffee.’
Chelsea smiled her expensive white smile and chose to ignore the fact that Jessica’s muffin remained uneaten. ‘Well, I didn’t pay for them, but you’re welcome. Think about the job offer. And . . .’ she leaned over, showing off a pert, surgically-enhanced cleavage, ‘. . . if you need money for that Paris trip, I can help out. You can pay me back when you start earning . . .’ she smiled even more widely, ‘. . . either through our little business, or at Tesco, or wherever.’
The job centre woman was an enthusiastic but ultimately unhelpful woman named Mandy Loa. She cheerfully plied Jessica with Hobnobs and tea and then gave her the bad news. ‘Too many long-term unemployed out of work, love. Too few local jobs, especially part-time ones. Every mother in the area wants one of those. Like gold dust, they are.’
‘But surely there is something? Stacking shelves?’
‘You’re joking, right? Loads of mums and dads want those. You can fit stacking shelves in between school and the first job, you see.’
Who knew? Frowning, Jessica put her elbows on the desk so that she had the woman’s full attention. ‘So what exactly is available? You’ve got loads of little cards in the window, there’s got to be some sort of jobs on offer.’
‘Um, let’s see.’ Pressing a button on the keyboard in front of her, the woman scrolled through screen after screen. ‘Here’s one that’s been around for ages. Bouncer at a strip club?’ She looked questioningly at Jessica.
Did she actually expect an answer?
‘No thanks.’
More scrolling. ‘Door-person for lap dancing venue?’
‘No.’
‘Night watchman for legalized brothel.’
‘Is there such a thing?’
‘Lorry driver, European.’
‘I can’t drive a lorry.’
Mandy tapped ferociously on her keyboard. ‘A minicab firm is looking for the 02:00 a.m. to 06:00 a.m. shift.’
‘Really? That might not be so bad.’
‘They do advise you know how to defend yourself from knife attack,’ she cautioned. ‘How would you feel about taking a self-defence course?’
Knife attacks? What was going on in Surrey when the lights went down? By the sounds of things, it became a pornographic warzone.
‘Sorry, I don’t think I could do a job that puts me in danger. I have two children who need me.’
The advisor rocked in her chair, and pushed the Hobnobs towards Jessica, encouraging her to eat. ‘Look, hon, perhaps you need to somehow work for yourself? Tutoring? Cleaning? That sort of thing?’
Cleaning? For people such as Chelsea Jordon and the other BIBs? Jessica felt nauseated at the thought.
‘I don’t have a recent degree or any teaching qualifications to be a tutor.’
‘Then make some flyers on your home computer and try cleaning. Amazing what you can earn by snaring a few good clients. Just be sure to fill in your tax return and declare the earnings. Don’t want to end up doing time, do you?’
Thanking Mandy for the attempt at help, Jessica picked herself up and headed for the door. A cleaner or working in a brothel – they were some neat options. She wasn’t too proud to do the former if it she could somehow manage to keep the ugly truth from the other mothers and her own children. Poor Rachel would flip if Jessica and Ronald shamed her even more. Sure, it was a good life lesson for children – showing them what it took to keep afloat – but try telling that to an eight year old who was bawling her eyes out.
Trying to stay positive, Jessica convinced herself that a job would turn up. Unfortunately, not in time to allow Rachel to go to Paris, but she’d just have to understand. She was far luckier than many other kids – the ones who didn’t live in Surrey – so it was time to focus on the good and push the bad to one side.
They were healthy, and they had each other.
That should be enough.
But as she pulled into a petrol station to put a measly two quid into the tank of the Fiat, Jessica knew that she didn’t believe the ‘we’ve got our health’ argument herself.
So how could she expect two young kids to buy into it?
CHAPTER FOUR
JESSICA PUT THE IDEA of working out of her mind, but the universe, once again, decided to bite her in the bum. It was just after lunch and the dishwasher had broken down yet again, leaving her to drain the goopy water into a pot and wash all the pots and dishes from last night’s curry by hand. The phone rang and she raced for it, grabbing it just before it switched to answer mode.
‘Hello, yes?’
‘Jessica Maroni?’
‘Yes.’
‘This is Clawden District Hospital. Are you Rachel Maroni’s mother?’
Jessica clutched the phone. No. A mother’s worst nightmare.
‘What’s happened?’ She managed to ask.
‘There’s been an accident at your daughter’s school. Now, please don’t panic, Rachel is stable, just some broken bones and a few nasty gashes.’
Oh God. Jessica felt her breakfast moving north. ‘What kind of accident was it?’
‘She fell off a roof, apparently. Or, well, might have jumped, we aren’t sure.’
Jumped? Come on! ‘Why?’
‘Something about school, that’s all Rachel’s said. I am sure she’ll explain it all to you.’
‘I’m on my way, but she’s by herself, is she?’ Jessica couldn’t bear the thought of her small child in a huge hospital bed, in pain and alone.’
‘No, no. The school principal is with her now. She gave us your number, and a work contact for your husband. Would you like us to call him?’
‘Yes, please,’ Jessica whispered, standing there mute until the kind woman on the other end of the phone suggested she come to the hospital immediately, as Rachel was asking for her.
Snapping out of it, Jessica slammed the phone down, grabbed the car keys and raced out to the car, leaping in and starting the engine in less than two seconds.
My baby. My darling ba
by.
What on earth was going on at that school?
Roaring through two sets of lights, Jessica sped along, assuming the worst and praying for the best - no long term damage and no lasting effects.
Ronald arrived just as she did and for some reason, Jessica was boiling mad at the foppish, greying man who she’d once described as the love of her life. Was he any longer? Probably not. Not since he had selfishly insisted on making them suffer for his dream.
‘What’s happened?’
‘I just got here,’ Jessica snapped. ‘I know as much as you.’ It was a lie. She assumed Ronald hadn’t asked the questions of the nurse that she had. Children were beyond him. There was love, but little understanding.
He looked hurt, but didn’t respond. Rather he shook his head in that way that indicated he was dealing with irrationality and therefore should ignore it.
Jessica raced to the reception desk, calling out Rachel’s name as she did so.
‘Paediatric ward, third floor.’
Running for the lift, she assumed Ronald was beside her, but couldn’t sense him, and couldn’t much care. When she got in, she saw he’d turned to answer his phone, and was being shooed from the foyer by the security guard. Work, she assumed. It was always work.
The first nurse she encountered was the one who had called. ‘Mrs Maroni, if you’ll just wait while we . . .’
‘I need to see my daughter first.’
‘Yes, of course, but I really think I should . . .’
‘Mummy?’ A weak little voice from a nearby room.
‘Rachel!’ Following the sound, Jessica walked into a room with two beds. Only one was occupied. Ms Scott, the headmistress of Berry Street, stood in the corner, nervously biting on a nail.
‘Mummy it hurts,’ Rachel said, holding out the one hand that wasn’t constricted by plaster.
As Jessica ran to her, she forced herself not to cry, for Rachel’s sake. Even though the sight of the huge gash which covered half her face, and was taped together with tiny white plasters, made her want to fall to her knees and weep. Rachel had one arm and one leg in plaster, the later was raised and there was blood oozing through bandages on the limbs that weren’t in plaster. But it was her daughter’s face that was the most distressing. How would that scar – through which the layers of skin were clearly visible – ever heal?
Minutes later, Ronald appeared and taking in the dreadful appearance of their daughter, immediately began demanding answers. ‘What happened?’ he asked Ms Scott, the headmistress. The woman, only fifty and extremely youthful in appearance, recoiled. The elephant in the room was the fact that Ronald was a lawyer – and lawyers could cause horrible expense to those who injured their children.
‘She seems to have decided to jump off the roof.’ The words were carefully chosen.
‘Decided? How does an eight year old have access to the roof, Ms Scott? Were you conducting a class up there, in violation of health and safety?’
The woman went white, with, Jessica suspected, concealed rage. Her voice, however, remained even. ‘No, of course not. It was lunchtime, and apparently something happened to cause Rachel to run into the art building, climb the stairs, and discover the hatch that led to the roof.’
‘That hatch shouldn’t have been discoverable.’ The vitriol in Ronald’s tone made the headmistress recoil. It irritated Jessica that he had failed to ask the important question.
Why? What had caused her to do it?
Jessica asked Rachel but the little girl turned away and motioned for the television to be turned up.
Ms Scott had some insight. ‘From what I can gather she’d had a discussion with some of girls and there was an altercation about the Paris trip for French class. Rachel was insisting she was going, but some of the others were equally insistent that she wasn’t.’
Jessica could imagine who the ‘others’ were. Sienna Jordan, for one.
‘What’s all this about?’ Ronald asked Jessica, pulling her away from the teacher and the nurse.
‘Rachel asked you about it.’
He looked blank.
Exasperated, she continued. ‘There was a trip to Paris. We can’t afford it, but everyone else in the class is going, so Rachel was clearly upset about it.’
The enormity of the situation suddenly hit Jessica. What if Rachel had purposely jumped off that roof? What if she’d attempted suicide? Surely that couldn’t be the case.
‘You don’t think she actually meant to jump, do you?’ The words were whispered, so only Ronald could hear.
‘Nonsense, she must have tripped or something.’ Ronald was a typical public school boy. Chin up and keep going, no matter what the cost.
The nurse came forward and told them the paediatric consultant had requested a psychiatric consult, as well as asking for a plastic surgeon.
‘My daughter doesn’t need a psychiatrist,’ Jessica said firmly. ‘Falling off a school roof is bad enough without being interrogated by a shrink.’
‘Mrs Maroni, I really think . . .’
Ronald stepped in. ‘Nurse, I do appreciate all your help, but we can manage from here. Just the plastic surgeon, please. We’ll talk about counselling later.’
Rachel would go spare at having to talk to a counsellor. Jessica had to believe there was a logical, childish explanation as to why Rachel fell off that roof. And she was confident that once Rachel was feeling better, they would discover it was all a misunderstanding.
Wouldn’t they?
Mr Hugo Smyth frowned at Ronald and Jessica. ‘This type of gaping scar is not easily dealt with. See here, the tear is at an unfortunate angle. It requires a delicate and time-consuming procedure that, at the moment, the NHS doesn’t offer.’
‘You can’t be serious.’ Jessica felt faint. ‘She’s only eight. You can’t just leave her face like that.’ They all turned to survey the scar from the photo the doctor held up. It ran the length of Rachel’s face, from the bottom of her left eye to just above her lip.
‘No, you misunderstand. We can fix it, and we will, but in order to complete eradicate the scarring, the other procedure would be recommended – but it is new and therefore not offered by the State.’
‘Where are we, in bloody America?’ Jessica cried. The doctor looked at his feet – and she sensed he might have thought as much himself.
‘Well, how much does it cost?’ Ronald asked.
‘Around ten thousand pounds.’
The Maronis stared at each other.
‘What!’ Ronald exclaimed. ‘That’s madness.’
‘Unfortunately, I get charged for theatre time and so on as a private doctor. The operation itself requires two surgeons, as well as the anaesthetist. It all adds up.’
‘To a large wad in his pocket,’ Ronald grumbled under his breath to Jessica.
She nudged him to be quiet. The doctor was only trying to help.
Sensing the dissent, the doctor tactfully withdrew. ‘I’ll let you discuss it, shall I? If you want to go ahead with the NHS procedure, the sister can book you in.’
‘How long do we have to make up our minds?’
‘A couple of days, at most. The skin is young and we have to make use of the fast healing properties.’
Then a nervous young doctor who looked no more than fifteen called the consultant away, and he was gone.
Ronald didn’t waste time dashing her hopes. ‘We can’t afford it, Jessica. You know that. Let’s get her some counselling – that’s on the NHS. It should do the trick.’
He was kidding, right? ‘This is our daughter, Ronald. She needs to live a full and normal life. How can she do that with a huge scar across her face?’
‘Women wear makeup. It will fade, scars always do.’
‘Ronald!’ She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘She’s eight.’
Ronald stared at her, trying to comprehend how to lessen the hurt. ‘We can’t afford it. It’s that simple.’
She grabbed his hand and he jumped at the physi
cal contact. Had it been that long since they’d touched? ‘We’ve got to try. You heard the doctor. She’ll be scarred for life if they don’t do something now.’
Ronald ran a hand through his untidy hair. ‘That can’t be right, can it? Surely we need another opinion?’
‘We need the NHS to pay for it. Can’t you make them, find a legal loophole? How can they allow a kid to just live with a scar across her face?’
‘I doubt the law will support us, and not within 48 hours. The doctor just said the State won’t pay for new and possibly experimental plastic surgery, I doubt he’s lying. Besides, a scar is not life threatening – getting a quick decision on this will be impossible. And costly, too.’
‘And what if it damages her psychologically? What if she jumped off that roof for some reason? What on earth might she do if she has to live with a horrible scar across her face? Are you suggesting that I’m supposed to just sit back and wait to see how my daughter feels about being the freak show of her form? If she was an adult they’d do it, wouldn’t they? But eight-year-olds aren’t supposed to have feelings, is that it?’
Ronald gently withdrew his hand. ‘That’s why she’d benefit from seeing a shrink. If there were some way around it, I would say yes to the surgery, but short of selling the house, I can’t see a way.’
‘Use the Visa. We’ll pay it off.’
‘How? We deliberately don’t use credit because we have no income to allot to repaying it.’
‘This is different. At least we can get it done. They send those cheques, don’t they, with the statements. We can write the surgeon one of those.’
The Shoplifting Mothers' Club Page 2