I head downstairs to the kitchen, to cook and serve breakfast. Pancakes and syrup, blueberries and strawberries.

‘Have you been fighting?’ I ask, as I watch them tuck in.

They look up at me, wide-eyed. ‘Of course not,’ Ben replies. ‘Mummy says we mustn’t fight.’

After the school run, stomach tight with concern, I step into the kitchen to clear the remains of breakfast. Caprice is sitting at the table doing the crossword. Suave and sophisticated in cream and toffee coordinates. Carefully applied make-up heavier than usual. Eyebrows a little too artificial. Concealer beneath her eyes like plaster.

I take a deep breath. ‘I found bruises on the boys this morning that weren’t there when I took them swimming yesterday. Saffron looked after them last night. Either she inflicted them, or the boys had a fight,’ I blurt.

Caprice purses her lips. She shakes her head slowly. ‘I’ve tried to warn you, Hayley. And now you need to report her to Social Care. Our boys never fight.’

‘But you’re part of the family,’ I splutter. ‘If you’re concerned, surely it’s your responsibility to discuss it with Miles, and do something about it – not mine?’

96

Caprice

‘You discovered the evidence, and are able to say the bruises weren’t there when you took the boys swimming.’ I pause. ‘Also, it’s awkward for me. Saffron hates me as it is.’ I pause again. ‘And what about my relationship with Miles?’

A frown ripples across her face. ‘I had noticed an atmosphere between you and Saffron.’

‘An atmosphere is a polite way of putting it,’ I reply.

‘Maybe. But then I’m a nanny, so it’s best to be polite.’

‘You’ll keep your place whatever happens. If Saffron can’t look after the children, Miles will need you more than ever.’

‘If you feel so strongly, you should contact Social Care, not me. You’re Miles’ mother.’ Her voice is begging. Plaintive. Hayley shakes her head and sits looking into the air in front of her. ‘I just don’t think it’s my place to interfere.’

‘It isn’t interfering. You are the children’s nanny. In a position of social responsibility. The authorities will listen to you. If I interfere they’ll just stereotype me as a difficult mother-in-law.’

‘But … but … how can I report such a thing when all I ever see of Saffron is kindness personified?’

‘But you now know that isn’t what’s happening behind the scenes. You have visual proof of her abuse. It’s really important you take photographs of their bruises right away.’

You sit staring at the floor. Silence descends. After a while you look up, face filled with anguish. ‘Maybe I could report it anonymously. Then Social Care could evaluate the situation independently, without asking me to give evidence. They must be expert at that. But I am not taking photographs. That would prove I was the snitch.’