by Ros Carne
The conference made up for the appalling performance in court. Mel was careful, reassuring, measured, and Vicky – formerly Victor – Brightman spilled out everything her barrister needed to know. Private Children Act cases had almost dried up since the last round of Legal Aid cuts, but thanks to a whip round in the trans community Vicky had obtained funding to challenge arrangements for her three children, and the case looked as if it would run to a contested hearing.
Natasha was silent throughout, taking notes on her laptop. The notes were emailed to Mel immediately afterwards, together with a full transcript of the morning’s proceedings in court. Her self-assurance might grate, but her efficiency and attention to detail would be useful. Mel could see how she must have impressed her previous supervisor. There was a glowing report from him in her pigeonhole. She decided to wait before mentioning the report to Natasha.
‘So, Natasha, how did you find your first day?’ she asked after Vicky Brightman and her solicitor had left.
‘Brilliant. Like, totally brilliant.’
‘I’m afraid I didn’t put up much of a show at Uxbridge.’
‘What could you do? The case was a loser.’
Mel realised she had expected a compliment, flattery. Pupils didn’t usually have such firm opinions.
‘Well, I’m heading to the tube. Which way do you go?’
Mel was relieved to learn it was the other side of the city. They were about to depart when Andy put his head round the door.
‘Hi, Mel. Got a return from Paula. She’s stuck in a long care case. I know it’s late, but we didn’t want to interrupt you earlier. Can you do Barnet Family Court tomorrow at 2:30 p.m.?’
‘What is it?’
‘Domestic violence.’
‘You know I don’t do injunctions.’
‘Yeah but… Marcus doesn’t want it to go out of chambers. The solicitor’s new. We’re hoping for more work from them. If we return it, some other chambers will pick up their work. They’re a good firm. We can’t afford to ignore this kind of thing.’ Marcus was the senior clerk. In effect, the boss. Andy had a point. Solicitors were like GPs, barristers more like specialist consultants. At least that’s how they saw themselves. The trouble was solicitors were doing more and more of the work usually confined to barristers. Sometimes it felt as if barristers were a dying breed. But somehow they staggered on. Mel knew that Bridge Court couldn’t afford to let work go elsewhere. Even if she didn’t want the brief herself, she owed it to her chambers. ‘You’ve got nothing in the diary,’ Andy added. That was true, though she had a pile of paperwork to catch up with and a new care case to prepare for Monday. She was torn. She needed a day off court if she was to have any time for Jacob at the weekend. And she longed to see Paul.
‘Not much of a fee of course but the solicitor says it’s complex. Could lead to more work. Sorry, Mel, but it’s worth keeping them sweet.’
Natasha was packing her shoulder bag. ‘I could do it,’ she said.
Andy sized up the new pupil with veiled scorn. He caught Mel’s eye. In theory, Natasha could indeed do it.
‘Have you organised your Practising Certificate?’ asked Mel.
‘Of course.’
‘Insurance?’
‘Marcus told me chambers did that.’
‘That’s right, Mel,’ said Andy.
It was clear from the irritating note this morning that Natasha was smart. Her notes were meticulous, and she appeared to have boundless confidence. Chances were she would do a good job, possibly even an excellent job. And it would be so good to see Paul. He had said he would be free tomorrow. For a few brief, uncomfortable moments it was as if her pupil and her clerk were reading her mind. Andy tapped his foot lightly on the polished floor. It was six thirty. He was keen to get away.
‘OK, if you feel confident, Natasha. Why not? You’ve got to start somewhere.’
And when Andy looked doubtful, she added, ‘Don’t worry, Andy. Natasha will be fine.’ She looked at Natasha who flashed an unsettling smile.
‘OK if I stay on here to work? I may need to use the library.’
‘Sure,’ said Andy. ‘Make sure you shut the door properly when you leave.’
Mel remembered the excitement of her own first brief. There was every reason to encourage her. The more work Natasha landed the less she, Mel, would have to bother with her.
‘Good luck then. Let me know how you get on. Night, Andy.’ She turned down the corridor and swung through the heavy wooden door. Lifting her wheelie bag down the stone steps, she set off into the fading light towards Holborn station.
* * *
The tube was packed, as usual. She alighted at Finsbury Park, feeling like she had been wrung through a mangle, shaking out the creases as she strode up the long sloping tunnel to the barrier. Then into Seven Sisters Road, under the old railway bridge, and right into Fonthill Road lined with wholesale clothing shops.
The W3 bus was waiting. It was late enough to get a seat and she collapsed into a comfortable stupor as they weaved around the dusty brick houses. It was a short walk from the bus stop to the front door and she was looking forward to crashing on the sofa with the first glass of red wine and a mind-numbing dose of Coronation Street. But the car was not parked outside the house as usual. And then she remembered. That morning she’d driven Jacob to school and taken a different route to court. She’d left her little Hyundai in East Finchley station car park.
Chapter Five
Natasha
She was alone in the book-lined conference room on the fifth floor. It was cool and quiet, conducive to concentration. She took out her kit and checked her blood sugar. 7.4 was fine but she was feeling faint and shaky. She was probably just tired. She’d been up at five to study the Patel case. Not that Mel appreciated her effort. Keeping track of glucose levels while running a demanding job was not easy. Her eyes shifted from the digital display to the fingers on her left hand, rough and calloused from numerous pricks with her lancet. What she really needed was a flash glucose monitor. She’d still have to do a finger-prick test for driving, but mostly she’d be able to rely on a portable reader. She could even use an app on her phone. No one would notice the sensor on her upper arm because she could pick up the reading through clothes. It would be a huge relief. She’d get one when the money started rolling in.
Taking a deep breath, she untied the red ribbon, unfolded the stiff back sheet in front of her and glanced through the instructions. Her first brief. She felt a tremor of excitement. She could do it well; she knew she could. At Bar School, she’d come near top in advocacy exams. Now for the real thing.
Her client was the defendant, excluded from the family home. He hadn’t been informed about the previous hearing and had simply received an order, delivered by hand, telling him to get out. He was accused of non-violent abusive behaviour, undermining his wife’s confidence, refusing to let her go out, cutting her off from family and friends. There was a GP report recording the wife’s depression. The husband denied most of the allegations and had offered an undertaking if his wife let him return. Natasha hoped she would refuse so she could try out her cross-examination. There were further complications. The couple had a one-year-old baby. According to the health visitor there were signs of serious neglect and the local authority was contemplating care proceedings. A copy of their letter was included in the brief. Natasha took in its cold official language and shuddered. This was the world she had left behind at ten years old. But even at ten she had been conscious of the language, ‘Unable to cope’, ‘inadequate’, ‘safeguarding’, ‘the welfare of the child’. And her knowledge of that world had landed her the pupillage. There was money in it for lawyers. The shudder subsided. It was a physical reaction and she had learnt how to control her physical reactions. She took a deep breath. The threat of care proceedings must be the reason why Andy said the case was complex. If she impressed the client tomorrow it could lead to further better paid work. She refolded the pages and stuck them in her shoulder
bag.
* * *
The flat was filled with the aroma of onions, tomatoes and garlic. Luke was cooking lasagne.
‘Hiya, how was your day?’ he shouted. She closed the door behind her and walked down the corridor to the kitchen.
‘Great. Got my first brief.’
‘Fantastic. What’s it about?’
‘Some bloke kicked out of the house for being controlling. You want to watch your step.’
‘Me? I couldn’t control anyone. Certainly not you.’
She threw off her jacket. ‘So, what about you? Sorted out your no hopers?’
‘I wish.’ He turned his head towards her, nudging the vegetables in the frying pan, adding, ‘Don’t I get a kiss?’ She pecked the side of his neck and he turned a little, saying, ‘Mustn’t let it burn.’
‘I need a shower.’
‘Don’t you want to hear? You asked about my day.’
‘Give me ten minutes.’
She could tell from the locked-in voice, the concentration on the frying pan, that Luke’s day had not been good. His days rarely were. He was a social worker, after all.
‘They’re not bad people,’ he would say. ‘Just never had a chance.’
She would disagree.
‘They fucked up.’
‘It’s not as simple as that.’
‘They have choices, don’t they? They don’t have to hit their kids.’
‘Sometimes they… there are forces we can’t always control. Christ, Tash, you of all people should understand.’
She did understand. That was the reason she wasn’t going to have any kids herself, the reason why she wasn’t going to have that conversation tonight.
In the bathroom she removed her clothes and folded them neatly on a chair. She ran the shower, unhooked the old tubing from the set on her abdomen and stepped under the warm water. The knots in her head unravelled. There had been a moment this afternoon, alone in the conference room, when she’d felt the terrors of the past return. It was that letter from the local authority. The welfare of the child. She remembered the time when that’s all she was. The child. Not Natasha, not Tash, not anybody’s special person. Just ‘the child’. She buried the thought. She was good at burying thoughts. And now she was home and safe. Luke was here for her. He was sometimes glum. He might get irritated with her. But he accepted her, believed in her, thought her better than she was, and she knew he would stay with her. He might be upset; he might disapprove. But still he would love her.
She washed and rinsed her hair and stepped out onto the wooden mat, wrapping herself in the fluffy towel that had been warming on the rail. As she filled the reservoir on her pump, she could hear the voice of Leonard Cohen on the sound system. She attached the tubing, peeling off the old set and inserting the new one just above her left hip.
‘You ready?’ he called.
‘Five minutes.’
She dressed and waved the dryer around for a couple of minutes so that her hair was bouncy and thick, the way he liked it. Back in the kitchen, Luke was laying the table, dressing a salad.
‘Your phone’s been ringing,’ he said.
‘It’s not important.’
‘Sounds persistent.’
She checked the name on the phone. Eleanor. ‘It’s my sister. My adoptive sister.’
‘Aren’t you going to call back? It could be important.’
‘She left a text. Ed’s ill.’
‘Your father? Are you going to visit?’
‘No.’
‘You should go.’
When the anger came, it came like lightning. Despite all she had been thinking in the shower, at that moment she wanted to destroy him. ‘Don’t fucking tell me what I should do.’
‘I’m sorry… I…’
‘Don’t, OK?’
A pause. His eyes retreated into his face.
‘Tash?’
She could sense her heart pounding and feared she would hurt him. ‘What now?’
‘Do you think you should go and see someone?’
‘What someone?’ she snapped.
‘You know… a therapist.’
‘Fucking get off my back, Luke. Fucking leave me alone.’
She walked out of the kitchen into the sitting room and onto the little balcony that faced out across the car park to the trains. The city was ablaze with lights. Planes descended, their wing tips twinkling; overground trains flashed by towards Peckham and Canada Water. Their movement soothed her. Briefly she wished he was elsewhere. His concern was a burden she needed to shed. She couldn’t let him squash her.
She wasn’t about to visit Ed. She’d broken off from her adoptive family years ago. She’d been an outsider when she was with them so why go back now? All those early teenage years when she’d struggled to deal with her diabetes, tried to fit in with the people who’d taken her in. She’d been a good girl. No drink. No booze. Still they had picked on her. For her long silences, her refusal to join their stupid games. Her brothers Olly and Jamie called her ‘Sticko’ because she was skinny, until she was fourteen when they started making rude comments about her tits and bum. Her sister Eleanor called her ‘Little Swot’ because she was clever. They all laughed at her accent. Her parents hadn’t a clue what she had to put up with. She’d tried telling them, but it was always Natasha’s fault.
‘You’ve lied to us so many times, how can we believe you?’
At sixteen, after getting her nine GCSEs, she’d left home, moved to London, found a room in a shared house, worked in shops, pubs and clubs, eventually for an escort agency. The escort work saw her through college and university and the first year of part time Bar School. It came to an abrupt stop when a client had tried to yank off her pump as soon as she removed her clothes. She’d sunk her teeth into his arm and run off.
Soon after that, she’d found Luke, and everything changed. She never asked herself what was happening or why. It wasn’t about love. Though the sex was good. It worked for her and it was what she needed now. He had offered her a place to stay rent-free and she’d given up the escort work to concentrate on her studies. She tried to be nice to him. But she needed freedom.
Breathing steadily, she looked out towards the tracks. No, visiting Ed was not on. There was too much happening at work. She was making her mark and couldn’t afford to relax.
‘Supper’s ready, Tash,’ called Luke, as if nothing had happened.
‘Thanks. Coming.’
Chapter Six
Mel
Apart from the occasional soft tread from the floor above and the low buzz from the light bulb in the hall, the flat was quiet. Mel put her head round Jacob’s door. He was seated with his back to her, draped in a towel, hunched over a computer, headset locked around his ears. Coloured lights flashed across the screen. The curtains were closed. He was six feet from her, but he seemed very far away.
‘Hello, darling.’ No answer. She tried again, louder. ‘Jacob?’ Still no answer. She walked forward and wedged her body between his and the screen.
‘Mum!’ There were a hundred ways of saying ‘Mum’. This was the two-syllabled reproach.
‘How long you been wasting your time with this?’
‘Hand-eye co-ordination.’ he said, watching a running figure as a hawk eyes a mouse in the grass.
‘Homework?’
‘Waiting for you.’
‘That’s rich. Why aren’t you dressed?’
‘What is this? Fucking cross-examination?’
‘Please don’t swear. Sorry, I’m a bit late. Conference went on.’
‘S’all right.’
‘Plus, I’ve got to go out again.’
‘What’s for supper?’
‘I’ll make some pasta.’
She retreated to her room. She had managed to straighten the old flowered duvet before rushing off that morning, but the space that should be comforting looked sad and unloved. She should get a cleaner. It would give her someone to tidy up for. She kicked off her too-pointed sh
oes, tore off the dark jacket and shirt and stepped out of her pencil skirt. Everything felt tight. Her body had swelled in her uniform. It protected her like armour, but she was never quite herself inside. She yanked off her tights and threw on jeans and an old shirt, feeling sweaty but too lazy to shower.
The interior of the fridge was not promising: a few scraps of cheese, a Tesco pizza, numerous half-full jars of sauce and a third of a bottle of Chilean Sauvignon. She scouted further in the salad drawer and discovered an onion, a tad slimy on the outside but perfectly edible within, a fingernail clove of garlic. At least there’d be some good olive oil. She would chop and slice in silence, mend her frazzled brain.
Once, on Alisha’s recommendation, she’d tried a Mindfulness Meditation course. The course leader had been a tired-looking middle-aged woman, with delicate features, wispy blonde hair and big earrings. Something in her small grey eyes spoke of suffering. She’d advised Mel to imagine each thought as a leaf, floating down a river. Mel’s river soon became blocked. At least this way you had something to eat.
‘What time are you starting tomorrow?’ she asked. Jacob had stirred himself and was now dressed in artfully torn jeans and a T-shirt bearing the logo, I TRIED TO BE NORMAL ONCE.
‘Dunno. Late. There’s Art.’
‘So, you’ll be back around five?’
‘I guess. You’re doing it again.’
‘Just checking. I like to know where you are. I’m your mum.’
‘Thanks. I’d forgotten.’
‘Saturday I’m going to see Granny. Want to come?’
‘Gotta work.’