Freeing Grace

by Charity Norman

  Perhaps they were already telling the authorities she was here. Perhaps she would be confronted on her way out of the building, taken into a little bare room and forced to confess. They would never let her have another chance. Well, so be it.

  Half an hour passed, and she’d long run out of tears. With a tremendous effort, she pushed herself up from the table and wandered towards the lift. She’d failed, and she was tired. She was almost too tired to put one foot in front of the other. She wanted to be home with David. The lift murmured softly to her and deposited her in the lobby. The older guard was still there, packing up his newspaper. No nuclear catastrophe, then. He glanced up at Leila as she passed.

  ‘Did you make it, love?’

  Leila stopped, and half turned towards him. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Thank you. But it didn’t help.’

  She pushed through the revolving doors. Starlings were gathering above the roof of the Station Hotel across the road. She stood for a short while, her head turned longingly towards the neon sign that glittered cheerfully above the hotel’s broad sweep of steps. She imagined taking a cheap, anonymous room and staring at mindless gameshows on the television. She wished she could run away, disappear, escape from the rest of her life.

  Instead she forced her steps towards the bus stop where the Renault crouched, abandoned at a time—so long ago, it seemed—when she’d still had hope. At first she moved like a sleepwalker, barely conscious of the world around her. But as she drew closer she looked up, and her gaze sharpened.

  Then, with a cry of indignation, she began to run.

  Walking into the court was like being beamed into a spaceship made of polished wood and blue tip-up chairs. Spiv steered me into the cheap seats at one side and led Deborah and Matt into the dress circle. Their seats were arranged in rows, each with a desk running along in front of it. Forsyth and two other suits set up shop at the front, and their teams were parked behind. There seemed to be an awful lot of people in there. I found myself wondering whether it was all strictly necessary, just for one minuscule blob in a fluffy pink babygro.

  I heard other footsteps and shufflings, and Imogen Christie slid past, carrying her blue file and giving me a cool nod. There was no sign of Lenora Blunt, but on the far side I spotted a well-groomed woman in flowing silk, who I guessed was the Children’s Guardian. She looked just as Deborah had described her.

  I wondered whether Cherie was there too. Watching us.

  Mandy bustled up to the front. ‘Everyone here?’ she clucked, and the lawyers in the front row all nodded and coughed and pushed bits of paper around, as though the future of Grace King was remotely important to them, which I’m quite sure it wasn’t.

  We heard the judge coming long before we saw her. I swear I felt the beat of a military marching band; then in she thundered, shaking the ground, and everybody leaped to their feet. I was a bit slow off the mark, mind you, but luckily she didn’t notice.

  Jeez, you wouldn’t want to meet this monster on a dark night. She was a one-woman artillery battery in a power jacket and pink lipstick. Deborah began to giggle, silently, unnaturally. I could see her shoulders shaking.

  When the rest of us sat down, Marcus Thingummy—the weary, threadbare one with the bad-hair day—remained reluctantly upright, and the Big Gun smiled lovingly down at him. She looked almost maternal. I had the impression they went back a long way.

  ‘Yes, Mr Watson?’ She had a northern accent, quite strong. Lancashire, maybe. It only added to her presence.

  ‘Your Honour, I appear on behalf of the applicant local authority in this application for a placement order in respect of the child, Grace Serenity King. The father is Matthew Harrison, and he is represented by Mr—’

  ‘—Yes. Thank you. I know who’s here.’ Cannonball held up a hand to stop him. ‘I’ve seen your helpful summary, Mr Watson, in this rather tragic case. And I understand that the local authority will be withdrawing its application? Having read their assessment, it seems to me that Mr and Mrs Harrison are both very capable people.’ She shot Deborah a kind, encouraging smile.

  The barrister’s hair was standing straight up, as though he’d seen a ghost. He rocked back on his heels and then forward again, and cleared his throat. Then he slid his hands into his pockets and jingled some loose change. ‘Er . . . no.’

  I just about shot out of my seat. What the hell did he mean, no?

  The Cannonball raised her eyebrows about a millimetre, and the temperature dropped by at least twenty degrees. The kind, encouraging smile was a thing of the past.

  Poor old Watson held up one hand, as though waving a little white flag. ‘Until fifteen minutes ago, that was the intention. The local authority was to withdraw its application and consent to a residence order in Mrs Harrison’s favour. We’d even drawn up an agreed order for Your Honour to approve.’

  The Judge pressed her pink lips together. ‘Yes, Mr Watson. I know you had. I’ve seen it.’

  ‘Mm. But at the eleventh hour Mr Forsyth has received instructions— clear instructions, from both his clients—that they do not oppose the adoption plan. Indeed, they welcome it! It seems therefore that we are all agreed, including Mrs Midya, the Children’s Guardian. You will find a copy of the original care plan at page fifty of your bundle.’

  Cannonball leafed through the pages of a file in front of her, read for a moment, and flared her nostrils. ‘I see. And is the proposed adoptive family still available?’

  ‘They are, indeed. Very much so. A twin-track approach has been adopted in the planning of this case.’

  ‘Don’t give me jargon, Mr Watson. Give me facts.’

  ‘Sorry. Er . . . we’ve just spoken to their team. If you agree, the plan is to inform the couple immediately. Today. We propose to commence introductions as soon as can be arranged, and have Grace placed with them by Christmas.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Cannonball blinked dangerously and then took aim at Spiv, who shot up and stood to attention, stroking his luxuriant locks with one nervous hand.

  ‘Well, Mr Forsyth? What’s it about? This is all very extraordinary.’

  Spiv scratched an ear and looked perplexed and I couldn’t blame him. I was bloody perplexed myself.

  ‘It is, Your Honour. Very. I’ve spent a good deal of time just now ensuring that both the father and grandmother understand that they are burning their bridges. They’re quite adamant.’

  ‘What about the grandfather?’

  ‘He has never been a party.’

  ‘Some people, Mr Forsyth, might think it a disgraceful waste of public resources to carry out a detailed assessment of grandparents who then throw in the towel.’ She flapped a dismissive hand, and he ducked gratefully down behind the parapet. Took a surreptitious glance at his watch. Shot his cuffs.

  Slowly, menacingly, the great sights swung to rest upon Deborah, and I shrank lower in my seat in an effort to be invisible.

  ‘This is right, is it, Mrs Harrison? You want to withdraw your application?’

  Deborah gazed down the barrel without flinching. ‘Yes, that’s right,’ she replied, bold as brass. ‘I do. We feel it’s better for Grace.’

  ‘And is that view shared by the father?’

  Matt nodded miserably.

  ‘And what about the grandfather?’

  Deborah didn’t hesitate. ‘He’s right behind me.’ To my horror, she motioned in my general direction. Jeez, Debs! I mouthed furiously, trying to hide behind a concrete pillar. I was spared, though. Cannonball barely bothered to waste her contempt on me. She merely flicked a nasty glance in my direction, sighed, and picked up a pen.

  ‘Anyone else want to say anything? What about the Children’s Guardian— Mrs Midya? She’s entirely satisfied, is she? Does she need more time?’

  ‘No thank you,’ said the silver-nailed woman, rising briefly to her feet. ‘In the circumstances, Mrs Midya supports the local authority’s application.’

  Once she’d sat down there was a long, uneasy pause. I could hear the lawyers shuffling
their feet, tying up their papers, getting ready to make a dash for the fast train. I could hear the hum of a vacuum cleaner. I could hear the ticking of a clock above the door.

  I almost thought I could hear Cherie, weeping; but perhaps it was only the squeaking of a chair.

  Judge Cartwright began to speak fast and very clearly, as though dictating a business letter. ‘The local authority has made an application for a placement order in respect of Grace Serenity King,’ she said.

  I’m afraid I lost track after this. It all became a blur of legalese; the history of the thing, assessments and adoption panels, checklists and timetables, something called Parental Responsibility, and what the Children’s Guardian thought. I was watching Matt. He’d turned completely white, poor kid. Almost blue, actually. Sitting bravely to attention, straight as a soldier; losing the most precious thing in his world.

  When I next tuned in, Cannonball seemed to be winding down. ‘Most unexpectedly, and very late in the day, the grandmother wishes to withdraw.’ She took several fiery breaths in order to glower at Deborah. ‘I imagine she has her reasons, but I deprecate her timing. In any event, I give her leave to do so.’

  She glanced regretfully down at Matt. ‘The father is not by himself in a position to give the child a home, nor will he be within an acceptable timeframe. Greatly to his credit, he accepts this. He does not actively oppose this application although he feels unable to consent. I am able to dispense with his consent because the welfare of this child demands it. Her welfare also requires that her future be settled without further delay. In the circumstances, I find that adoption is in the best interests of this child.’

  She halted, as though gathering momentum for the final swing of her axe. The death blow. They should have brought her a black cap to wear.

  For too long, we were all suspended in a horrible echoing emptiness, waiting for the blade to fall. Deborah took Matt’s hand. There were tears on his face. I swear I could actually taste his loss. The dry, recycled air seemed to vibrate with it.

  Then down came the axe. ‘I therefore make a placement order in favour of Woodbury Borough Council, authorising them to place the child, Grace Serenity King, with prospective adopters. There will be no order for costs.’

  The judge stood, nodded curtly at the assembled company, and marched out.

  So. It was over, just like that. One baby, signed, sealed and delivered.

  Good luck to you, I thought. Good luck, Grace Serenity King.

  The building seemed to be shutting down for the night. The lights had dimmed, the corridors were silent.

  Imogen Christie collared Matt and Deborah in the lobby. She wanted to talk about their final visit. The social worker seemed quite subdued, which surprised me. She certainly wasn’t celebrating. I reckoned old Imogen was human after all.

  ‘I don’t want a final visit.’ Matt looked ready to punch someone. ‘It might upset Grace.’ I didn’t believe for one moment that it was Grace he was afraid of upsetting.

  ‘It’s your only chance, Matt,’ urged Imogen. ‘There’s no more contact after this.’

  ‘Come on, Matt. I’ll go with you.’ Deborah rubbed his shoulder. ‘We must say goodbye.’

  ‘Um, Imogen.’ Matt forced a hand into his jacket pocket—which had been bulging a bit, come to think of it—and pulled out something lumpy and yellow and ragged. He held it against his chest. ‘This was mine. Give it to her, will you?’

  Imogen stared dumbly at the young father and then down at the object he was clutching. It was that goofy lion.

  ‘Name’s Frederick,’ said Matt. ‘I brought it along, just in case.’

  Deborah pressed a hand to her mouth and shut her eyes. Imogen still didn’t move.

  ‘Take it, for God’s sake,’ Matt snarled, forcing the moth-eaten thing into her hands.

  Words seemed to fail Imogen for a second or two, and I don’t imagine that’s happened very often.

  ‘I probably shouldn’t tell you this. But I was there,’ she whispered finally. ‘At Grace’s birth.’

  Matt stared. ‘You were there?’

  Imogen nodded, sucking her lower lip and cradling Frederick. Matt watched her dumbly, processing the information.

  ‘Cherie was so brave,’ said Imogen. ‘I wish I had half her courage.’

  ‘Did she hold Grace?’ asked Deborah, and there was a wobble in her voice.

  ‘Oh, yes, she held her. Wept over her. Loved her,’ declared Imogen, shaking her head for emphasis. ‘But she was overwhelmed, and she knew it.’

  ‘I wonder what she’d think of me now,’ said Matt quietly. He shifted his feet. ‘Giving up. Breaking my promise.’

  ‘She’d understand, Matt.’ Imogen took a step closer to him. ‘Cherie wanted the best future for her child, better than her own, and so do you. Right now, she’ll be cheering you on.’ She grabbed poor Matt and started hugging him like a grisly bear. I don’t imagine that’s happened very often, either.

  I felt like an intruder. I told Matt and Deborah I’d collect the car and meet them at the main doors.

  Out on the darkening street, another little commotion was bubbling up with much revving of engines and tooting of horns. Someone had parked a car slap in the middle of a bus stop on the main road. It was a green Renault, bit of a rust bucket really, and the poor thing was stuck at a crazy angle with one wheel up the kerb. Rush-hour traffic was heaving around it, like sheep in a race.

  A yellow tow truck had arrived. Its driver had already attached a winch to the car’s back end. And hopping about in front of him, arguing vehemently, was the woman in the kilt. Leila. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

  ‘For pity’s sake,’ she was yelling, waving her hands around. ‘I’m begging you. Just give me a parking ticket. I don’t have time for this.’

  ‘Sorry.’ The tow-truck driver seemed cheerful, happy in his work.

  ‘More than my job’s worth, love. You can follow me, if you like, and collect your vehicle from the pound.’

  ‘How the bloody hell can I follow you when you’ve taken my car?’

  He began to whistle a merry tune. For a moment I thought she was going to slap him, but then she started wrestling with the zip on her handbag. ‘I’ve got a credit card,’ she said. ‘I can pay now. Or a cheque. How much?’

  He shook his head, still whistling. ‘You’ll have to do it down at the pound. That was a shocking piece of parking, love. Shocking.’

  I found myself standing beside her. ‘Cash?’ I asked, fishing out my wallet. ‘You wouldn’t refuse cash, would you?’

  Leila’s head came round, and she stared at my wallet. She looked disorientated. The tow-truck man broke off his whistling and examined me suspiciously.

  ‘Well now,’ he said slowly, ‘I can take cash. Not a bribe, mind you, it’s all accounted for.’

  ‘Of course it’s not a bribe!’ I tried to look scandalised. ‘How much?’

  Everyone has their price. His was pretty steep, actually.

  When he’d gone, Leila reached into her rust bucket and then turned to me, clutching a chequebook.

  ‘Thanks.’ She produced a biro. ‘You shouldn’t have done that, but thanks. I’ll write you a . . .’ She leaned against the bonnet and began to scribble. ‘I’ve left your name blank. It might bounce first time,’ she warned, handing it over, ‘but keep trying.’

  I thanked her and crumpled the rubber cheque into my pocket, knowing I’d never bank it. In fact, I planned on destroying it as soon as possible. It gave away far too much information about where Grace was going, and that wasn’t good for anyone.

  Glancing up, I saw Matt and Deborah outside the revolving doors of the court building. I waved, and they spotted me and started down the steps. Leila saw them too. She muttered something about being in a rush.

  ‘Don’t go.’ I put a hand on her arm. ‘Please. Wait.’

  Deborah’s pace quickened as she approached. ‘Ah, you’re still here,’ she said, looking at Leila. She sounded fraught but determined. ‘
That’s wonderful.’

  Leila made a disgusted face. ‘It’s not wonderful at all, actually. This isn’t a social event.’

  ‘I agree.’ Deborah looked searchingly at her and then her lips twitched. ‘You got a phone on you?’

  ‘Er, I think so . . . yes, I have.’ Leila began peering into that useless handbag.

  ‘Well, I’d keep it switched on if I were you,’ advised Deborah. ‘I suspect you’ll be getting a rather interesting call, any minute now.’

  Leila finally found her phone and tugged it out, looking puzzled. She switched it on, and it came to life with a small flurry of notes.

  Deborah watched her and then rested a hand on her arm. ‘Drive carefully, Leila,’ she said soberly. ‘Please. We need you. And I think you should tell your husband what you did today. He’ll forgive you. You are a truly remarkable person.’

  Leila didn’t pull away; she just stood there, gazing at Deborah in bewilderment.

  Matt had been pacing round and round in little circles, muttering to himself and scrunching up his hair. Now he stepped right up to Leila, very close. He was about twice her weight, I’d say, but she stood her ground.

  ‘You take good care of her,’ he growled, looking her square in the eye. She must have thought we were all completely off our heads. Then he suddenly grabbed her arm and tugged it wildly up and down, like the handle of an old water pump. ‘Bloody good care! She’s priceless.’

  ‘Come on, Matt,’ said Deborah. ‘Let her go. She’s got a long drive ahead of her.’

  So we left Leila Edmunds standing there in the deepening twilight, gaping after us as though we had just spoken to her in Martian.

  As we crossed the road, dodging between two murderous juggernauts, we heard the unmistakeable electronic tinkle of a mobile telephone, playing ‘Jingle Bells’.

  Chapter Thirty-six