She frowns. ‘As I mentioned when I arrived, we’ve had a complaint about the care of your children. It was anonymous, from someone outside the household. We have to take all complaints seriously to protect the nation’s children.’

‘But who has complained? Why would anyone? No one in this household would harm them. They are surrounded by love and kindness.’ I pause. ‘I love my children more than life itself. I’d do anything for them. I’d give my own life to protect them.’

‘You would do anything, would you?’ she asks, eyebrows raised, expression as sour as vinegar. ‘Well, it’s quite simple then. As I said, we just need a medical examination, as soon as possible, to make sure they’re all right.’

98

Hayley

I return in the early evening from a day out with Jono, to find Saffron sitting in the kitchen with her head in her hands.

‘What’s the matter? What’s happened?’ I ask.

She shakes her head. Tears stream down her face. ‘It’s the Social Care Department from the local authority. They’ve been here to talk to the children about abuse.’

‘About abuse?’ I repeat, frowning as I ask, hoping I look sufficiently shocked.

‘Yes. A complaint from someone outside the family, apparently. I just feel so upset. So sick. How could anyone think we would harm our children?’

‘I just can’t imagine,’ I reply, voice stretched with pain as I remember my walk into Esher.

To the phone box on the corner by the pub. The one Jono had told me was still in use. I stepped inside. The acidic stench of urine attacked my nostrils, compounded by the stale malignancy of regurgitated stomach contents. My shoes stuck to the floor every time I tried to lift my foot. It was obvious they don’t clean phone boxes in the UK anymore.

I fumbled in my purse to find a pound coin, pushed it into the slot and dialled. Much to my surprise the phone actually worked. I heard it ringing out. A cheery male voice answered. ‘Social Care. Can I help?’

I took a deep breath and swallowed. ‘I want to report a possible case of child abuse.’

‘Please can I have your name and address?’

‘No. I want to remain anonymous. I’m a neighbour, advising you to look into the health of Ben and Harry Jackson, Wellbeck House, Lexington Drive, Esher.’

Oh guilt, you burrowing worm.

99

Saffron

I wait in the doctor’s surgery, watching the receptionists answering the phone and listening to the kindly tone of their voices. Harry and Ben, one on either side of me, are reading. Harry is engrossed in Redwall by Brian Jacques. Ben’s head is stuck in Fantastic Mr Fox by Roald Dahl. I’m sweating. Stomach churning. How has my life come to this?

‘Ben and Harry Jackson,’ the tannoy screeches like a crusty-voiced Dalek. ‘Doctor Pennington, room 3.’

I stand up. ‘Come along, boys.’