The Visit
Chapter 1
Walking cautiously down the path, Claire Hill, a social worker from Boston, took one look at the house and had already made up her mind.
She wore champagne tights and 'Prada' shoes. She had on a brown skirt and matching jacket; she was very smartly dressed as she stood impatiently at the door and waited. Her strong perfume brought life to the garden.
She was a serious woman with blonde hair that was starting to turn grey, and wore thick, square glasses on her nose. She acted like an eagle, waiting to pounce on her pray.
Her long wrinkled face made anyone's knees buckle with terror, she was the best social worker in town, and got a lot of money for it too.
Ms Hill, had no one to share it with but herself, she had vowed to stay single after the end of her fifth marriage.
The door finally opened, revealing a middle-aged woman, who held a cigarette firmly in her shaking hand.
"Yeah?" she said in a rough tone. Her teeth were stained yellow and she had bags sitting under her eyes. She wore a purple T-shirt that was baggy and stained. She also wore blue tracksuit bottoms and white, well almost white, fluffy slippers. In all, she looked like she was fifty.
"Can I help you?" She snapped again in her rough voice.
"Yes, I'm Ms Hill; I'm with the social services." The women nursing the door held out her hand and smiled.
"Come in, please." She said, Ms Hill denied her a hand shake and stepped in the house.
The room was in an appalling condition; cans and newspapers covered the floor, making it impossible to see the carpet. The curtains, which were held by a broken curtain track, hung limply and almost black like coal. Claire Hill was not impressed. She had to wrestle with the rubbish to find a seat, which she almost regretted when she sat in the most uncomfortable chair.
"I'd like to see the rest of the house." Claire Hill said with a sour expression on her face through out the whole visit.
"Okay, but you still haven't told me what you're doing here." The woman, who was called Mary Davis, asked.
"We have had reports that your youngest son, Andrew, has been, shall we say, not looked after properly."
"That's nonsense." Mrs Davis barked in her rough English accent.
"Yes, well, I will be the judge of that. now, the rest of the house?"