Hell Hath No Fury

by Michelle Morgan

  ‘And yet you’ve just said that there was six hundred when you counted it on Friday.’

  ‘There was. But maybe I counted up wrong. Maybe I just thought there was six hundred, and there was only five hundred and fifty.’

  I’m so confused. I did count up the money correctly. I know I did. But if that’s the case, where has the fifty quid gone? It’s not a huge amount of money in the grand scheme of things, but that’s not the point. I can’t believe this is happening to me. How can this be happening to me? Margaret leans forward and places her hands on her knees. One of her rings catches on her blue tights, and leaves a hole. She rubs at it, as though it will cure itself.

  ‘Charlotte, I know how hard it is to be a single parent – my goodness, I’ve met enough to know – but if things were so bad, you should have come to me. Under no circumstances should you have taken money out of the school trip fund.’

  Rage bubbles up my throat, and I can hardly breathe. How dare she? How dare she accuse me of such a thing, when I didn’t do it, and there is zero evidence to say that I did. I stand up, my elbow hits off the bookcase, and pain sears up through my funny bone.

  ‘Margaret, I didn’t steal anything from the fund. I’ve never even stolen a paper clip before.’

  The principal rubs her forehead and writes a random comment in her notebook, which I cannot read. She lowers her voice, and her face softens.

  ‘I didn’t want to say this until the full investigation had taken place, but you were seen taking the money. Somebody saw you putting it into your handbag.’ I open my mouth to speak, but Margaret holds her hands in the air. ‘I’m so sorry, Charlotte, but I can’t say anything more. Now, as I said, I’ll have to investigate the matter, but don’t worry, I’m not going to suspend you. That’s the last thing I want to do, but I’ll have to ask Amy to take over all money issues until we’ve sorted it out.’

  Margaret smiles as though she’s done me a favour, and with no more words to say, I nod and head back to my desk, tears threatening to tumble down my cheeks. Janet sees me approach and throws a pen onto the desk. The queue has gone, and the phone is silent. Thank God.

  ‘Right, can I get back to my own job now?’

  I nod, and she plods off down the corridor; unaware of my pain, and unconcerned about anything that just happened in the office.

  I sit down, turn the school phone to silent mode, and scour my brain for a hint of something – anything – that will prove I’m innocent.

  But before that can happen, murky memories hit me like a brick.

  It was Friday night… Tom was complaining that his school shoes were letting in water, and I told my parents that I’d have to repair them with superglue until payday. My mum was incensed and offered to pay for a new pair, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t take money from my pensioner parents, especially when payday wasn’t that far away…

  But then later, after we had got home, I found some money in my bag and presumed that my dad had slipped some in when my back was turned. That’s what he does. It’s his thing. I was angry that he had gone against my wishes and put money into my bag, but at the same time, overwhelmed that I have such loving parents, who are always happy to help – even if it leaves themselves out of pocket. How could I not think it was Dad who put it in my bag? It made perfect sense.

  And how much money was there?

  Fifty quid.

  My knees bounce up and down under my desk, as I second-guess myself. I did count up the money correctly on Friday, and I even wrote the number in my notebook. I reach to retrieve the pink book, and sure enough, six hundred pounds is written in bright-blue ink. I hate blue ink, but as I was counting up the cash, it was all I could find. I’m overthinking, and in any case, me writing it down proves nothing. Nothing that Margaret will take as evidence of my innocence anyway.

  I rub my face and then my heart leaps as I remember the text conversation between me and my dad, on Friday night, just after I found the money. Of course! This will prove that he put the money into my bag. My mind whirrs, and thoughts twirl like spinning tops. I grab my phone, to convince myself that the conversation really happened, and I can just about make out the words, in spite of the water rising in my eyes.

  Message sent at 8.26pm: Thanks Dad. You’re one in a million.

  Message received at 8.29pm: You’re welcome. We’re always here for you.

  Shit.

  The conversation proves nothing.

  Despite me thinking that we were both talking about the fifty quid in my bag, there is no mention of money in his message or my own. At the time, I’d just assumed that he knew we were talking about the money, but now I’m not so sure. I think back to when we left their house on Friday, when my dad leaned over, kissed my cheek and told me that if I ever needed anything from them at all, they’d always give it to me. My message was in relation to the money, but Dad’s could have been in response to his supportive words.

  Oh God.

  I switch my phone off, and slide it into my bag. As I do so, Tom runs down the corridor with Charlie, bounding as though it were Christmas morning.

  ‘Look, Mum,’ he squeals. ‘Look at how bouncy my new shoes are! They help me run mega fast – faster than Charlie and faster than anyone. Even the teachers!’

  Margaret appears at her office door, and smiles at my son.

  ‘Good morning, Tom,’ she says. ‘Ooh, new shoes?’

  Tom slides one shoe off his foot and holds it up to the principal.

  ‘Yes, I got them on Saturday. They’re not trainers, but they make me run faster than anyone. Even Mo Farrah.’

  He turns the shoes over, to show off the sole, and the price sticker shines as though it’s made of neon lights.

  Forty-eight pounds.

  Margaret looks at the price, then my son, and then me.

  ‘You’re a lucky boy, Tom,’ she says, and then disappears back into her office.

  ‘You think I took the money?’

  I glare at Zach, as he throws his leftover tea into the sink. We’re hanging out in the kitchen so that Tom doesn’t overhear the conversation. It would be the worst thing ever if he knew what was going on.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I think you’d taken the money?’ Zach sighs, takes my cup from my hands, and rinses it. Water splatters up and leaves great puddles on the counter. Despite my worries, it still bothers me that Zach seems in no hurry to mop it up.

  ‘But you just asked if it was possible that the money had been put in my bag.’

  ‘Yes, by someone else, not by you.’

  I shrug.

  ‘Well, someone must have put it in there, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t me.’

  ‘Pretty sure?’

  ‘Yes. But you know what it’s like – I keep second-guessing myself. Could it have fallen in when I leaned over to pick up my pen? Could I have picked it up with a piece of random paper, and put in there by mistake? I just don’t know.’

  Zach puts the cups onto the drainer, and ignores the splatters all over the sink. I reach over and retrieve some kitchen roll. The idea of leaning in a puddle drives me insane.

  ‘And it wasn’t your parents?’

  ‘No. My dad messaged earlier to ask if I was sure I didn’t want to borrow some money before payday. I asked if he’d slipped some money into my bag on Friday, and he had no idea what I was talking about.’

  Tom plods into the kitchen; a Spiderman character in one hand, and a box in the other.

  ‘Hey, Tom. Want a drink?’ Zach holds up a glass, but Tom shakes his head.

  ‘No thanks. But, Mum, look at this! I was just checking my bird feeder in the front garden, and I found this package on the step.’

  A package? There was nothing there when we got in earlier. I look at the wall clock and it is 6.30pm. Too late for the postman, but not for a courier, I guess. Still, I didn’t hear anyone knock.

  ‘Let me have a look.’

  I dry my hands, and reach over to take the parcel from Tom, but he clutches it
to his chest.

  ‘Nope!’ he says. ‘Look at the name on the front. Tom Baker. That’s me if you don’t know! What do you think it is?’

  I lean over to look at the label. Sure enough, it’s addressed to my son, though how on earth he’s getting post, I’ll never know.

  ‘You haven’t been splurging on Amazon, have you, Tom?’ Zach winks at me, and Tom scowls.

  ‘Duh! I don’t have an Amazon account. Mum, where are the scissors? I want to open it and see what’s inside!’

  I reach for the scissors, and then motion to Tom to hand the parcel over. He does, and I look to see if there are any clues as to where it came from, before I skim the scissors over the top. The box pops open, and inside there are hundreds of bits of polystyrene.

  ‘Ooh! Squiggly bits!’ Tom grabs a handful and throws it in the air like confetti. ‘Mum, let me see what it is!’

  I hand the box over, and my son runs into the living room. Zach and I follow, just in time to see Tom jump onto the sofa, and turn the box upside down. Thousands of ‘squiggly bits’ come flying out, and then a shiny white box thuds onto the cushions. I’m standing four feet away, but even from this distance I can see that there is an apple on the front.

  Tom whoops and punches the air.

  ‘It’s an iPad, Mum!! A new iPad!!’

  ‘Oh my God.’

  Zach stares at me, and rubs his chin.

  ‘You bought him a new iPad?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. But I bet I know who did.’

  While we were out with Simon yesterday, Tom mentioned that his current iPad was – in his words – ‘Embarrassing by its oldness’. He complained that some of his games no longer worked because the device was too old to run the updates, and his music kept cutting out because there wasn’t enough memory. I told my son that no matter how much he complained, I couldn’t afford to buy him one right now, and he’d just have to put it on his Christmas list, or save up for a couple of years. Either of those options was no guarantee of actually getting a new iPad, but at least he had a chance, and maybe I could sell something to help him on his way.

  While we were talking, Simon didn’t say a word, and in fact, I even cursed him in my head for spending most of those five minutes on his phone. Now I know what he was doing – buying my son a new device, without any thought about how it would affect our everyday life.

  ‘It’s from my dad, isn’t it? He bought me an iPad!’

  I grab the delivery note, and sure enough, Simon’s name and address are emboldened at the top.

  ‘Yes, it would seem that way,’ I say, and Tom leaps up from the sofa, and runs for the door.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I’m going to set this up,’ he says. ‘And then I’m going to Skype Charlie from my old iPad, so that I can show him my new one. He’s going to be well jealous!’

  Zach moves forward and picks up a handful of polystyrene bits.

  ‘Aren’t you going to help us clean these up?’

  Tom shakes his head.

  ‘I’ll do it later,’ he says, and then disappears into the hall.

  ‘Did you know Simon was doing this?’ he whispers.

  I kneel down, retrieve the delivery box and scoop the packaging into it.

  ‘No, I didn’t. If I did, I’d have killed him!’

  ‘You need to speak with him,’ Zach says. ‘This is bullshit.’

  I look down at the mess on the sofa and the floor, and nod my head. My friend is right, this is utter bullshit, and in so many different ways.

  After Zach has left, and Tom goes to bed, I phone Simon. On the third ring, it’s picked up.

  ‘Hello?’

  Monica’s voice trills through my handset, and I squirm. What’s she doing picking up Simon’s phone? I guess she has so many trust issues, that she doesn’t think twice about looking through his calls.

  ‘Hey, it’s Charlotte…’

  ‘Charlotte! It’s lovely to hear from you! Did Tom like his iPad? We’ve been thinking about it all day.’

  So even Monica knew that Simon had ordered the device. Well, thanks both for warning me.

  ‘Yes, he received it. He’s been playing on it all night. Look, is Simon there? I’d like to speak with him about it?’

  ‘No, he’s in the shower. There was some kind of work crisis this afternoon, so he was late getting home. I will tell him you called though. Thanks so much for letting us know it arrived.’

  I rub my eyes. The moral compass on this woman is totally off. She thinks it’s perfectly okay for Simon to pay over three hundred pounds for a gift that isn’t even for a birthday or Christmas? My gran would have said that’s an example of how the other half live, and she would be right.

  ‘Listen,’ she says, ‘I’m so sorry to do this to you, but I’m cooking pasta, and it’s about to boil all over the hob. But I will tell Simon you phoned. He’ll be thrilled to know the gift arrived and that Tom is happy with it. Thanks for phoning! Bye!’

  She hangs up before I can even reply.

  16

  Tuesday, and I’m back at my desk, gazing into space and wondering what I’m going to do about Simon buying the iPad. It was all Tom could talk about this morning, and he’s given me strict instructions to charge it up when I go home this afternoon. In truth, I’d rather throw the damn thing out of the window, but I imagine that would be classed as inappropriate. I pick up my mobile to send Simon a text, but before I can do anything, Margaret appears.

  ‘Charlotte, do you have the register for Mrs Wallace’s class? I need to check something.’

  Shit. I’ve been working hard all morning, and the first time I pick up my mobile, the bloody principal has to appear. Why does this always happen to me?

  ‘Erm, I’m not sure. I’ll check.’

  ‘Are you busy?’

  She gawps at my phone, and I throw it back into my bag.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I’ve just finished going through the numbers for the teachers’ first aid course.’ Not that Margaret is in the least bit bothered about that, but I feel obliged to add it into our conversation. I’m still aware that she thinks I’m a common thief, but I don’t want her to think I’m a lazy bitch as well.

  I don’t make eye contact with her – just rummage through the pile of folders, and hand over the one she’s looking for.

  ‘Thank you, that’s great.’ She goes to walk away and then stops. ‘Oh, and Charlotte?’

  ‘Yes?’

  She leans in and lowers her voice.

  ‘I won’t be taking any further action on the money situation. You’re a good employee, and I’m prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt. We’ll make up the difference with the money we made from the cake sale the other week, and then draw a line under the whole silly business.’

  My heart leaps, and tears spring to my eyes, though I try to hide them from Margaret.

  ‘Thank you. And I didn’t take that money, just so you know.’

  The words almost stick in my throat, since I know that the missing money was in my bag, but I’m determined I didn’t put it there. Margaret nods, and disappears into the office. She doesn’t believe me, but what can I do?

  ‘I’m really sorry. I had no idea that sending a gift would piss you off. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have done it.’

  Simon and I walk along the riverbank, where we have met in an effort to clear up the iPad nonsense. It’s cold and wet, and a thin layer of fog hovers over the river, threatening to swallow us up. Still, I can’t complain. At least Simon agreed to meet me here, otherwise I might have been stuck in my house with him, and I wouldn’t want that again. The wind swirls down the path, and a ripped page from an old newspaper whips around our legs. I go to pick it up, but Simon kicks at it with his foot, and it ends up in the river. So much for looking after the environment.

  ‘It’s not that it pissed me off for no reason,’ I say. ‘It pissed me off because it was inappropriate to give a three hundred pound gift to a child, when it’s not a special oc
casion.’

  ‘I get it. I’m sorry.’

  Simon looks forlorn, and I feel a pang of guilt that I brought the subject up. But then again, it had to be said, otherwise where will it end? A Ferrari on Tom’s seventeenth birthday? I shudder at the thought.

  ‘I know you’re new to this, and you want to make up for lost time, but to give you some perspective, I spent about one hundred and fifty pounds on Tom last Christmas, and it will be the same amount this year. If you carry on spending hundreds more on random treats, it will destroy all the joy he feels at Christmas. You see?’

  ‘One hundred and fifty pounds?’ Simon clenches his mouth. ‘That’s not a lot, is it?’

  My chest contracts, and I regret telling him how much money I have to spend on Christmas gifts. I don’t trust him to stay in the same budget, and it fills me with horror that I could give Tom a computer game and some books, while Simon and Monica waltz in with a new laptop and designer trainers.

  ‘No, it isn’t a lot, but it is reality.’

  ‘What if I give you some? I can transfer whatever you need, and you don’t have to tell Tom that it came from me.’

  We sit down on an ancient bench, and the slats creak underneath us. I wonder how many conversations have taken place on this bench? A thousand? No, much more…

  ‘Charlotte? Did you hear what I said? I can give you some money for Tom.’

  ‘Yes, I heard you. It’s just – and I don’t mean this in a horrible way – but I’ve raised my son for the past ten years on my own, and I’m happy to continue that way. Thank you though.’

  I attempt a smile, but it comes off as more of a grimace. A young mother ambles past with a baby in a buggy, and a toddler skips beside her. The tot is dressed as though visiting the North Pole, and she waves at us as she trundles past. The mother looks exhausted, and I empathise with her. I remember those days with Tom. He would have me out of bed at 5am, and would be glued to a CBeebies DVD ten minutes later. I’d try to catch a nap on the sofa, while he watched television, but having a toddler jumping on me every five minutes made it impossible. Thank goodness my son now likes a long lie-in at the weekend. We’re both catching up on all the sleep we missed out on all those years ago.