by Bev Thomas
A number of weeks into the trial, the faces of the jury had become as familiar as my own family. I knew the members of the public gallery who came in every day. The court reporters, the unruly quiff of hair on the usher’s forehead. I knew them all. It was amidst all this familiarity that a new face came into the public gallery one morning. It was a woman about my age. She walked with purpose and precision, looking straight ahead. She had short dark hair. The woman in the photograph. Her face was blank, cold, impassive. Dan sensed her presence as soon as he stepped into the dock. Like an animal, his eyes sought her out. There was a brief moment when they stared at each other. By lunchtime, she was gone.
During the course of the trial, the barristers picked over the details of the case. In their long black cloaks and white shirts, they were like magpies swooping down on the glittering prize of murder over manslaughter. There were reports from clinical professionals who had treated Dan in the past. Expert witnesses with a litany of diagnostic terms that were levelled at him: psychopath, sociopath and pathological narcissist. Different forensic psychiatrists, witnesses for the defence and prosecution batted back and forth on the terminology. Most frequently mentioned was ‘borderline personality disorder’, the blanket categorisation for those individuals who were undeniably disturbed, but seemed to evade any other specific diagnosis. One forensic psychiatrist referred to his ‘early attachment disorder’, and another’s theory was of an ‘acute psychotic episode’ triggered by the ‘delusional transference’ in therapy.
The experts were in unanimous agreement about childhood trauma, and his emotional deprivation. Loneliness. Neglect. Severe and long-standing attachment issues. Unresolved anger issues towards his mother, in a family that was broken by the death of a baby. It was accepted that the work at the Trauma Unit unearthed some of these very difficult feelings and failed to contain them. Instead, he was inadvertently given a platform to vent his anger.
Perhaps he was looking for someone like me. Perhaps I was looking to be found.
In her summing up, the judge highlighted many contributory factors for the jury to consider, but the ones I remembered were the ‘errors in clinical judgement’ and the ‘failure in due care and attention’ by the Mental Health Trust responsible. It was acknowledged these issues were beyond the jurisdiction of the courts, but were a matter for ongoing investigations by the Trust and external professional bodies.
In the end, the verdict from the jury was unequivocal. The photographs Dan took, the planned break-in at the flat, the seizing of the knife from the kitchen. All were clear signs of intent, and indicated the premeditated nature of the crime. It wasn’t clear whether Dan was coming to the flat for Nicholas, or whether because of my absence at the clinic, he somehow believed I, too, might be there, and he was coming for me. Or perhaps, in his deranged and distressed state, the three of us; his mother, me, Julie had somehow all become one. We’ll never know. There was insufficient evidence to charge him for the attempted murder of Nicholas. Given the defence of diminished responsibility, he was found guilty of the manslaughter of Julie, and was sentenced to life, with a minimum of twenty-two years. He was transferred to Rampton Hospital straight from the court.
Subsequent internal hearings for professional misconduct found me negligent in my duty of care. Incidents cited included the session with Hayley, the deviation from my normal therapeutic standards with Dan, and the decision to let him stay overnight in my house. The ‘complications in my own personal life’ were seen to have contributed to my failure to make clear and informed judgements about the care of this seriously unwell patient. The adjudicator concluded, ‘It wasn’t so much what you did, but what you failed to do. On realising the difficult feelings evoked by the similarities with your son, you should have stopped seeing this man. You should have referred him to one of your colleagues. You had the experience and knowledge to do so.’
All of the character witnesses were kind, almost reverential in their respect for my career, my status and experience. Robert was especially helpful in his careful assessment of my expertise, outlining my skills in the clinical field. But all had to conclude that given my unresolved grief, and the complications arising from the likeness to my son, it was impossible to perform a high standard of therapeutic work.
My licence to practise was suspended. My solicitor, with support from Robert, and Maggie from the unit, urged me to appeal. Almost before they had finished speaking, I was waving away the suggestion. I was aghast. They didn’t understand how wrong it felt. How utterly misjudged the idea was.
‘No,’ I said, ‘I won’t be working again.’ And until I said the words out loud, I hadn’t quite realised the extent and clarity of my decision. The relief was palpable. Like letting go of a heavy weight I’d been clutching to my chest.
Maggie was frantic. ‘But all your work,’ she said, ‘the unit?’ She was tearful.
I tried to speak. ‘I—’
I glanced up at Robert. He nodded.
‘—I can’t do it any more,’ I said, faltering.
Robert stepped forwards. A small movement. A hand pressed lightly on my shoulder.
‘I – it’s like other people’s pain,’ I said carefully, ‘is a shield against my own.’ I shook my head. ‘I have to let it go.’
‘How will we manage,’ Maggie wanted to know, ‘without you?’
‘Exactly as you have been,’ I said. ‘You will carry on.’
So, after more than twenty-five years of clinical service with hundreds of patients, I was stepping away. Like an addict going cold turkey. A life without the rush of helping. The itch to save and rescue and make myself feel worthwhile.
I was lucky enough to have an NHS pension that I could draw down in seven years. I had some savings. For the most part, I intended to scale back. Live a simpler life. The obvious solution was to sell the house. Neither David nor I needed a family house to rattle round in. But while I didn’t want to live in it, selling the house was inconceivable, at least for now. It was our only connection to Tom, and it was an anchor I wasn’t ready to pull up, if I ever would be. I told David that in a year or so, I’d look at getting tenants, maybe people we knew. Then I’d rent somewhere smaller. A flat perhaps, near the coast.
Carolyn did go to university but she left after the first term, deciding to apply for an art foundation course instead. She spent hours working on a portfolio for her application and got a part-time job in an art shop in Bloomsbury. It was a beautiful place; old and wood-panelled and stashed from floor to ceiling with specialist equipment and materials; leather-bound sketch books, paper, chalky crayons and glass jars of powdered paint pigment in bright blues, reds and oranges. We’d sometimes meet for lunch nearby, and then I’d go on to the British Museum, where I’d simply sit quietly in the courtyard, under the great white dome of a roof.
The weeks immediately after the trial, I slept a lot. In fact, I found it hard to stay awake. My body went into a sort of shutdown, almost like a self-induced coma. When I emerged, I spent my days in the garden, weeding and potting and turning over the flower beds. A friend of Maggie’s was taking a job abroad for eight months and asked me if I’d like to look after her allotment while she was away. I took it on readily. I grew vegetables: cabbages, leeks and broccoli. I liked the feel of the soil under my fingers. The physical exertion of digging. Standing out in the sun, the rain and the wind felt somehow therapeutic.
Then, I saw an advert for volunteers for a charitable gardening project in the back streets of Haringey. It was a beautiful walled garden that was owned by a charity, a small green jewel in the midst of an urban sprawl, called St Margaret’s Secret Garden. It ran sessions for people with mental health problems, recovering addicts, the lonely and the isolated, kids from the local residential home. I began to volunteer three mornings a week. I worked the vegetable patches and one of my daily tasks was to keep the vase in the office filled with fresh flowers. I did it first thing, before the others arrived. I didn’t like to see people. I didn’t want
their morning greetings, their nods of hello, or gestures of kindness. I wanted to keep all that away.
One day, Joyce, who organised the volunteers, asked me if I’d like to do more. ‘Perhaps be a group helper – help supervise one of the afternoon therapeutic groups?’
If she was surprised by my involuntary flinch she didn’t say anything. She must have been used to all sorts there.
‘No, thank you,’ I said. ‘Looking after the vegetables and plants is all I want to do. Besides,’ I added, ‘I visit my mother in the afternoons.’
In the evening, I wrote letters to Tom about Nicholas. I wrote to him about his son; what he liked to eat, how strawberries were his favourite fruit, how he liked apple juice from a grown-up glass. I wrote about his favourite song at bedtime. How he liked to sit on the small window seat in the sun, his small hand pressing the book into my lap. I wrote about how I’d made the spare room into his special place, kitted it out with a digger duvet cover and a string of car lights over his bed. I wrote about how Nicholas loved to help me in the garden, on the morning after a sleepover.
His favourite food? His soft toys? The song he liked to sing at night time? Of course, I had no idea about any of these things. None of these details were available to me. But at night, or when I was weeding the garden, I allowed myself to dream, to imagine, and to make a picture that he and I were in.
I also wrote letters to Nicholas to tell him all about his dad. How sensitive and thoughtful he was. How he cared deeply for other people. Sometimes too much. How he worked hard. I wrote how he could carve beautiful things out of wood. And that one day, he would carve him his very own fishing rod with his initials on the handle. I wrote to him how his dad loved trees, the woods, the sea and nature. How he loved to be free, out in the wild.
Twenty-six
That spring, Carolyn went on holiday to Australia to see Rob, and David was away in France with his new partner, Simone, whom he’d met at a conference. When he first told me about her, he was quick to say she was a divorcee, with a daughter at university. I told him I approved. It was such a relief to hear he’d found someone born in the same decade. Once they were all away, I booked a trip to Corfu.
Messonghi was the small village we stayed in when the kids were little. It has bled out in all directions. It’s now more like a small town. I chose to stay in a place outside the main hub, up in the mountains. It’s a simple whitewashed pension, with blue shutters that open out to views of the sea. The old woman who looks after the place is short and stocky. Walnut lined skin, and a simple black shift dress. She serves breakfast on the small terrace at the back. It’s a sheltered courtyard overhung with grape vines. I watch her from my room as she lays out my table with such care and patience; the cutlery, the folded napkin, the fresh yogurt and a plate of sliced melon. She nods and smiles as I take my seat. I smile back. I use the few Greek words I know to express my appreciation. Sometimes I catch her watching me with curiosity. Perhaps she senses my need for solitude. She leaves me well alone.
The weekend after I arrive is Greek Easter weekend. In the preceding days the village is busy with preparations. I have only ever come to Greece in the height of the tourist season, and it’s a different place in the spring. I like the bright crisp sunshine, and the sudden chill of the evening when the sun sets. I watch from the sidelines as the village cleans. Doors of the houses are flung wide open, carpets beaten outside in the street, pots and pans are polished until they gleam. Outside the two tavernas at the top of the village, the tables and chairs are stacked up to be repainted for the summer season.
On Easter Saturday at midnight, the street is full of people. There are families, small children, teenagers in groups, babies in arms, they hug and embrace. The priest comes to the door of the church with a lit candle. He lights the candle of the person next to him, who reaches across to the next, and so on. Lights pour out like fireflies and soon there’s a sea of flickering candles as the trail of lights snakes down the mountainside. I press my back into the wall as they pass.
Christos anesti.
Alithos anesti.
The lights glow in the distance, there are firecrackers, the sound of laughter and music. The tavernas are soon full. Families are together, holding hands, faces pressed together. There’s an air of expectation. I feel awash with the glow of the lights, and as I stand by, I feel anointed with a rush of hope and renewal that marks the season.
On Easter Sunday, after the service has finished, I walk up to the small mountainside church. It’s decked with garlands of herbs, olive branches and eucalyptus leaves. On a tree outside, there are little posies of flowers hanging in the branches, and in between there are glints of silver. I watch as a group of people come closer; they help a man forwards. He is young, but limping with a crutch. He reaches up to hang something on the tree. When they move away, I edge closer to look. They are small rectangles made of tin, hanging from the branches like Christmas decorations. They shine as they twist in the sunlight. I pick one out. It’s an indented picture of an eye that is closed tight. I select another. The knee joint of a leg. I trace the imprint under my fingers, examining the details, and I look up. A man is watching me. I tap it with my finger. ‘What are these?’ My face in a frown of confusion. He says something in Greek. Turns to his companion. They exchange some words. ‘For make better,’ he says, ‘for God. When you ill,’ and he clutches his head and pulls a face. ‘For make better health,’ he says, and then he presses his hand onto his forehead. Then his arms. His eyes. I look back at the tree. I see that all of the small tin shapes show parts of the body. An arm. A leg. A kidney. Another one of the lungs. I nod. ‘Efharisto,’ I say and we nod. They smile, happy with themselves.
Later that evening, I make my way down into the town, to the place we stayed as a family all those years ago. I can’t remember our exact apartment, but it doesn’t take long to find the stones. The small pile that was once knee-high is now taller than me, and stretches over an area of more than fifteen feet. Many of the stones and pebbles have writing scribbled on them with felt tip, paint or biro. Some have initials, some have names, some have longer messages. My eyes linger over the ones I can see. We miss you. Stay safe. We love you. Pete RIP. And on the back of a large flat pebble, CT – sorry I couldn’t save you, the way you once saved me. There are letters and notes fluttering in the breeze. Paper letters, where the ink has run in the rain, and photographs that have been carefully laminated against the elements. Missing children. Missing people. Missing daughters. Missing wives, husbands and sons. It is a shrine to lost people. People who may be alive and may return. Some who are already gone.
To the left, in the shade of a lemon tree, is a wooden bench with a small plaque.
In memory of Denis Watson. There’s a picture of him, the one from the website, fixed onto the back of the bench. Denis. At peace. Forever in our hearts, is carved at the side. The place where his remains were found is less than ten minutes away.
The place is deserted. It’s too early in the season for tourists and the whole village is quiet after the celebrations of the night before. I sit down on Denis Watson’s bench to retrieve the envelope from my bag. All my letters to Tom about Nicholas. The ones to Nicholas about Tom. I fold them in half and tuck them carefully in between a pile of stones. I place photos of Nicholas and Tom, side by side, in an envelope together. I select three stones from the olive groves and place them gently on the top. Julie, Tom and Nicholas.
I walk further up along a mountain track to the tiny chapel on the hill that the children found when we’d visited. It looks unchanged since we stepped inside all those years ago. White walls, small simple makeshift wooden benches, and then amidst such rustic simplicity, an ornate golden altar at the front. Behind is a large fresco of Jesus on the cross. A clutch of angels in the corner. I sit down, instinctively clasping my hands together. The air is cool. Quiet. The time drifts. I light candles. For Julie. For Tom. For Nicholas – and one for Denis. As I stand up to go, there are footsteps b
ehind me. A woman comes in. Her face is covered with a dark headscarf. She looks at me, a nod of recognition. It’s the woman who looks after the pension I’m staying in. ‘Yassas.’ As I pass, she reaches for my arm, presses something hard and metallic into my palm, and says something in Greek that I don’t understand. Outside, I blink in the bright sunshine and open my hand. It’s one of the small tin decorations that I’d seen hanging outside the church. I turn it over in my fingers. It’s an indented shape of a heart.
That moment is like a cool drink after a long and self-imposed drought. A simple act of kindness that makes me want to weep. After months of punishing myself, instilling a self-imposed exile from all that was colourful, good or joyful. I’d seen myself as undeserving, as if on hunger strike, starving myself of the good in life. I sit down, my eyes closed, face tilted up to the sun, my fingers clasped tightly round the small tin heart.
When I stand up, the light dazzles my eyes. I feel the warmth of the sun on my face as if for the very first time. I take a different path back, one that meanders through the olive groves and as I turn back towards the village, I breathe in the smell of wild thyme as it rolls down the mountain. The sun is shining and the sea spreads out before me in a deep cobalt blue.
I spend the rest of the week walking the rocky paths by the coast. I take a day trip to follow a trail through a gorge inland. It’s a steep climb for seven miles, through blankets of spring flowers, rolling hills of blue and purple and white. The oleander bushes are just beginning to flower in bursts of pink and red. I cross stone bridges where streams gush underfoot, pass cascading waterfalls where the spray cools my face. The walk takes me six hours. By the end my ankles are swollen, and when the path comes out into a small cove of white pebbles I take off my shoes and socks and feel the cold salty waves on my toes. Along the way, people say hello. They make moves to chat. I am polite, friendly, but I keep to myself. That evening, at the little taverna on the beach, something has shifted. While still I keep my distance and eat alone, I find myself lifting my head up, enjoying the roar of laughter and camaraderie as it drifts from the surrounding tables.