May Contain Nuts (32 page)

‘Right … now I understand that Ms Osafo has already communicated the nature of her allegation to you …'

‘Yes,' said David.

‘Yes,' I confirmed.

There was an awkward silence. A police siren wailed in the distance. David cleared his throat. Nobody quite knew where to begin.

‘Why don't I make everyone a cup of tea?' suddenly chirped an upbeat Mr Worrall, getting to his feet. ‘Cup of tea, Mrs Chaplin?'

‘Er, not for me, thank you.'

‘Tea or coffee, Mr Chaplin?'

‘Nothing, thank you.'

‘Ms Osafo – how do you take your tea?'

‘Milk and two sugars …'

‘Milk and two sugars coming right up.'

‘But I don't want one right now, thank you.'

‘Oh …' he said as he sat down again. ‘Ruby, I don't suppose you drink tea yet, do you?'

‘Yes please,' she said, and I couldn't help feeling vaguely proud of her as the deputy headmaster found himself forced to get up again and go and switch on the kettle for this eleven-year-old girl. I noticed that Miss Reynolds now had her fingers pressed to her temples as she attempted to refocus above the noise of the clattering around by the sink in the corner.

‘So you are aware of the allegation made by Ms Osafo and her daughter here, and I presume from what you just said outside the office that you completely deny this.'

David was magnificent and appalling all at the same time. Instead of being cross and indignant, he played it like the understanding social worker: not angry so much as concerned. ‘Look, we are as aware as any family of the terrible stress that all these examinations and tests place on young children. We've got to know Ruby here over the past few months and it must have been very hard for her to see Molly, who already has so much, also get one of the coveted scholarships to Chelsea College. Now I don't think Ruby is deliberately lying. Rather that in her disappointment she has convinced herself that she was robbed of her place as her way of coping. It's a surprisingly common syndrome …'

Miss Reynolds seemed very reassured by this; she had given little positive nods of her head as he talked but her face perceptibly fell as Ruby's mother cut in.

‘I know my daughter and she doesn't tell lies.'

‘I think what Mr Chaplin is saying, Ms Osafo, is that
to Ruby
this isn't telling lies; that in her mind this really happened because it is less painful for her than to deal with what really did happen, that is to say—'

‘Sorry …' interrupted Mr Worrall from the other side of the room. ‘Ruby, there only seems to be Earl Grey tea, is that all right?'

Miss Reynolds pinched the top of her nose and gave the impression she had suddenly developed an overpowering migraine.

‘What's Earl Grey?' asked Ruby.

‘It's like ordinary tea except it's flavoured with bergamot.'

‘What's bergamot?'

‘It's like a flavouring that they use in, well, Earl Grey tea; it's quite nice …'

‘OK.'

‘THAT IS TO SAY …' continued Miss Reynolds emphatically, ‘that is to say, um, I'm sorry, I've completely lost my train of thought now …'

‘I know my daughter and she wouldn't make this up. Ruby, tell the lady what you told me …'

Ruby glanced nervously at me and then stared at the floor before speaking slowly and quietly.

‘In the exam I sat next to Mrs Chaplin, only she didn't look like that. She was wearing children's clothes and wore glasses and had spots on her face.'

‘But you said it was definitely her?' prompted her mother.

‘Hang on, you're putting words into her mouth there …' objected David.

‘It was definitely her,' confirmed Ruby without looking at me.

Ruby's certainty coupled with this extra detail seemed to add a worrying credibility to her story. David felt forced to take a dangerous line of attack that would never stand up if pursued any further.

‘Well, all I can say is that our own daughter has a very clear
memory of sitting the exam, and that I remember bringing her here and collecting her afterwards, and so it is a case of Ruby's word against everyone else's … I mean, I could go and get Molly out of school and you can ask her about the exam if you want …'

Miss Reynolds considered this for a terrifying second.

‘No, I don't think we need to go that far …'

‘Digestive biscuit, Ruby?'

‘No thank you.'

‘Ruby, do you know any other children who got scholarships?' quizzed David.

‘What do you mean?'

‘Apart from Molly – do you know any other children who have got into Chelsea College – kids from your school, for example, any neighbours or friends?'

‘Er, no?'

‘Isn't it something of a coincidence that the one person you made this claim about happens to be the only person you know who's got into the school?'

There was a moment's silence. Miss Reynolds looked suitably impressed with this point.

‘What difference does that make?' interjected Ms Osafo. ‘She'd have to know you to recognize you, innit? You stole her place by cheating and we just want it back.'

The head interjected quickly to prevent the temperature rising. ‘Now, Ms Osafo, I have to remind you that this is a very serious allegation and many schools wouldn't have invited you here to hear your side of the story at all …'

‘You didn't invite me, I just come.'

‘Er, no, but my point is that we have to proceed with—'

‘Sorry, Ruby, do you take milk and sugar?' shouted Mr Worrall from the other side of the office.

‘Yes please.'

‘That's milk
and
sugar?'

‘Yes please …'

‘We have to proceed with—'

‘How many sugars?'

‘Two please.'

‘What was I saying?' frowned Miss Reynolds.

‘You don't even need a scholarship. You've already got a big house and flash car – like what's the point of giving a scholarship to rich people?'

‘Oh dear, this is degenerating into exactly the sort of horribleness that I was hoping we might be able to avoid. That is an entirely separate issue, Ms Osafo; suffice to say it is not the school's business to go prying into parents' financial status.' The brusqueness of Miss Reynolds's tone made it clear that she felt inclined to take our side in this dispute. We were almost there.

Mr Worrall placed the tea down in front of Ruby, who thanked him quietly. It looked like this would be all she would be getting from Chelsea College.

‘Is there any sort of
partial
scholarship that might be open to Ruby, since she came so close?' asked David constructively, knowing full well that there wasn't.

‘She don't want a partial scholarship, she wants a full scholarship,' barked Ruby's mum.

‘I'm sure everyone would like to have their school fees paid in full, Ms Osafo … but the bottom line is that Ruby got 91 per cent whereas Molly got an unprecedented 100 per cent.'

‘100 per cent! No kid gets 100 per cent – didn't that make you suspicious?'

This was a direct hit for the prosecution. David seemed momentarily flummoxed, so I jumped in.

‘Well, Molly is very clever actually …' I proudly pointed out. ‘I mean, her whole class had to write a poem called “My Mother” and Molly got an A plus! I keep the poem in my handbag. I can prove it to you if you want.' I took the tatty scrap of paper out of my bag and pointed to the big red letter at the bottom of the page. ‘“A plus” you see, so I mean it's no surprise she did so well in the exam, is it?'

‘Well, that's all the evidence we need, isn't it?' said Miss Reynolds. I'd won it. We were home and dry.

‘Quite. I mean, A plus. That's the best you can get … It was read out in assembly.'

‘No, I meant Molly's handwriting,' said the headmistress calmly. She buzzed through to her secretary. ‘Meg, can you dig out an entrance exam paper from the files for me. Molly Chaplin: one of next term's scholarship girls,
thank you
.'

‘Molly Chaplin, OK, I'll bring it in,' buzzed the robot voice from the speakerphone.

I was momentarily confused by this development, but sensing that it may not be to our advantage, I glanced nervously at David. All the blood had drained from his face. I hadn't seen him look that appalled since I put all his LPs up in the loft.

‘All we have to do is compare the handwriting on the examination paper with the writing on the poem …' said the headmistress brightly, ‘… and that will put an end to this unfortunate episode once and for all, won't it?'

I think I may have tried to say something but my throat had seized up. A strangulated noise came out that was an attempt at an upbeat, affirmative ‘Mmm!', but sounded more like an old dog whining before it was put to sleep.

‘May I see the poem?' said the headmistress.

David kept trying to think of something to say but no words
would come. His mouth opened and closed silently like a fish gasping for oxygen on the deck of a boat. I stammered and prevaricated, with Molly's girlish loopy handwriting clutched tightly in my hand. ‘Well, I … but … I mean, she wrote this some time ago, and their handwriting changes so much, doesn't it?'

‘Not that much actually, you'd be surprised …' The head-mistress's hand was outstretched but I was clutching the poem so tightly that I was in danger of tearing it in two.

‘The thing is …' said David, ‘that it's actually quite a personal poem about a daughter's love for her mother and I think we should respect Molly's privacy.'

‘Yes!' I concurred, looking gratefully at David.

‘I thought you said it was read out in assembly?' she said, her hand reaching out to take the scrap of paper once again. There was a second's pause while the head teacher continued to smile at me and the paper remained locked in my fist. At that moment the door opened and the school secretary scurried in. ‘I've got the files with all the entrance exams, but I can't find Molly Chaplin's paper.'

Oh
thank you
God! I thought. Just when we needed an unlikely piece of luck, here it was delivered straight from the heavens. I promised myself never to question the existence of our Lord God ever again.

‘Oh sorry, Meg …' said the head teacher. ‘Of course. I've got all the scholarship papers in my desk here' – and she opened a drawer and pulled out a file. There on the top of the pile was the paper with Molly's name on the top. Yeah, right, thanks a lot, God, I thought, as if you even existed, which you so obviously don't …

She placed the sheet of my handwriting directly in front of her.

‘I'm sorry we have to do this, but it's important that these sorts of complaints are seen to be dealt with properly when they come in. We aren't just talking about a place at the school, after all – there are thousands of pounds of scholarship money involved here …'

I looked hopelessly at David, and with neither of us able to think of a way out of this suicidal situation, with a forced smile I slowly handed the piece of paper across.

Miss Reynolds placed the poem down on her desk beside the examination sheet. I knew that no two samples of handwriting could have been more different. Well, perhaps if Molly had written in Egyptian hieroglyphics, although with a big smiley face in the middle of the letter ‘o' in the title she was already well on the way. But there could be no similarity at all. My sloping tiny spindly writing beside Molly's curly round letters. My thin stooping consonants beside the youthful puppy fat of my daughter's boisterous vowels. They were also in different coloured inks, but I thought it might be a little too obviously desperate to point this out.

‘Well …' said Miss Reynolds, studying the two exhibits before her as Ms Osafo craned her neck, straining but failing to see for herself. I braced myself for Miss Reynolds's reaction, hoping in that split second that she would at least opt for disappointment rather than anger.

‘Yes, well, I think there's not too much difference between these …' She was blinking rather rapidly. ‘Yes, given the different pens and the time difference and everything …' She twitched manically. ‘Er, excellent match, yes.'

‘Let me see …' said Ms Osafo.

‘No, I don't want to get into a protracted debate about this and, as Mr Chaplin said, it is a private poem by a child about her mother and I think we should respect that … so that's
that cleared up, yes, jolly good, I have to say that I am satisfied with this evidence. I'm so sorry that we've had to have all this horribleness and nastiness …'

‘So that's it then?' said Ms Osafo. ‘You're just going to believe her? That poem doesn't prove a thing – she could have written it out herself.'

‘That's not the point, Ms Osafo. I pride myself on being a very good judge of character. That is one of the things that helps Chelsea College set the excellent standards of which we are all so proud.'

At this moment Ruby suddenly and noisily spat her first gulp of Earl Grey tea back into the delicate little teacup.

‘Urgh. It's still got washing-up liquid in it!' she announced.

‘No, it's supposed to taste like that,' said Mr Worrall helpfully.

‘I don't like it.'

‘Oh well, not to worry, just leave it on the desk.'

Miss Reynolds looked skywards in exasperated disbelief at this complete waste of time. She was irritated now. Mr Worrall thought this might be the moment for him to offer the Osafos some sort of way out.

‘Ruby, I put it to you that perhaps you were so disappointed not to get the scholarship that it might have affected your memory of the examination? That you might have imagined you saw Mrs Chaplin sitting in that exam?'

Ruby said nothing. The deputy leaned across his desk and folded his fingers together slightly too meaningfully. ‘Ruby, your mark of 91 per cent puts you next on the waiting list for a scholarship to this school. But unless you now withdraw this very serious accusation, Miss Reynolds will never be able to offer you a place were one to come up. Do you understand?'