Pagan and her parents

by Michael Arditti

  ‘I’m sure that that is a well-grounded fear.’

  ‘Your Honour, I object. My learned friend should reserve his comments for his speech.’

  ‘I think that’s right, Mr Digby-Lewis.’

  I am disconcerted by his cross-examination technique. Whenever I say something that threatens him, he snaps ‘I hear what you say’ as if to dismiss it; and, whenever he wants to make sure that the Judge registers my reply, he repeats it with a roll of his eyes and a pained ‘oh well’. How I hate those ‘oh well’s, as insidious as a cabdriver’s ‘know what I mean?’s. His manner towards me is far more hostile than Rebecca’s was to your parents. I begin to fear that she may have been right and my case has not been pursued. One of the reasons which Max gave for instructing her was to identify my cause with a woman. But what use is that when the whole thrust – the cut and thrust – of the Court favours the bully-boy tactics of men?

  ‘What will you do if – I should say, when – Pagan asks about your homosexuality?’

  ‘I shall explain that it’s a different kind of love.’

  ‘And would you say that it’s equally valid?’

  ‘Yes.’ I answer him and, for the first time, I answer myself. ‘Yes, I believe that it is.’

  ‘I doubt that there are many in this Court who would agree with you,’ he comments, and I wonder why Rebecca does not intervene.

  ‘As you and I both know, majorities aren’t always right.’

  ‘I hear what you say. What will you do if she is ostracised or bullied by other children on account of your sexuality? Children can be very cruel.’

  ‘Only when they learn it from adults.’

  ‘Some adults may disapprove of their children associating with her … or with you.’

  ‘I would doubt that. So far, everyone has been most supportive.’

  ‘Hampstead intellectuals?’

  ‘We live in Holland Park.’

  ‘I put it to you that, whatever your intention, you are abusing her ignorance.’

  ‘And I put it to you that you’re wrong. I distrust current notions of childhood sexuality; I believe that children should be protected from sexuality, both their own and other people’s. I’m determined that she should remain innocent, but that doesn’t mean keeping her in ignorance. The only innocence that lasts is based on knowledge –’

  ‘I hear what you say.’

  ‘Which, to prevent misunderstanding, I should stress is not the same as experience. Knowledge is experience without pain.’

  ‘I hear what you say! So you would have no objections if she became a lesbian?’

  ‘She’s six years old!’

  ‘You haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘There’s not a shred of evidence to suggest that children of gay people or, indeed, those adopted by gay people are more likely to grow up gay than any others.’

  ‘You still haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘I shall be proud of her whatever her sexuality, whether she choose to marry or to stay single, have children or be celibate, a prostitute or a nun.’

  ‘A prostitute?’

  ‘That’s a figure of speech.’

  ‘A very telling one.’

  ‘What I mean is I’ll love her whatever.’

  ‘Oh well. And, after all, you have considerable experience of loving prostitutes.’

  ‘Your Honour, once again, my learned friend is making personal observations,’ Rebecca objects.

  ‘Yes. Mr Digby-Lewis, would you restrict yourself to asking questions of the witness.’

  He takes that as a mandate to grill me on the rent-boy allegations.

  ‘I can only say that I bitterly regret the incidents, not because of the adverse publicity, but because they diminish me as a person.’

  ‘That’s all very well. But you show remarkably little concern for your victims.’

  ‘Your Honour,’ Rebecca rises; ‘I consider that to be a most inappropriate remark.’

  ‘I agree. There is no reason to suppose that Mr Young was the first – or indeed the last – man to avail himself of these unfortunate boys’ services.’

  ‘Your Honour, may I ask you not to be misled by terminology?’ I can no longer keep silent. ‘“Rent-boy” is a popular phrase, which bears no relation either to the men’s age or experience. I resent the suggestion that they were immature, inadequate youths and my activities somehow akin to child abuse. Indeed, a friend of mine, Duncan Mossop, is currently engaged in research for a television documentary on prostitutes –’

  ‘Not another one?’

  ‘I fear so, Your Honour. And the oldest he interviewed was seventy-three.’

  ‘Seventy-three?’ His incredulity emboldens me.

  ‘Yes, Your Honour. In fact, he lives here in Brighton. He took it up eight years ago when he retired.’ A smile flickers through the Court and remains fixed on the clerk’s face. ‘He claimed that his busiest periods are during party conferences.’ The clerk’s grin fades in the Judge’s grimace. I fear that I have gone too far.

  ‘Your witness, Mr Digby-Lewis.’

  ‘No further questions, Your Honour.’

  Rebecca’s re-examination is brief. I step down. She then explains that neither Edward nor Melissa has been able to leave London. ‘There is life outside the law courts, Ms Colestone,’ the Judge replies, although his supercilious smile denies it. ‘Their statements appear to be uncontroversial and I have noted what they say.’ My only character witness is Vicky Ireland, who pays tribute to my personal integrity and my devotion to Pagan. Even the Judge seems impressed by my missing the Paul Newman lunch in order to catch her in Toad of Toad Hall and refusing the Wisdom of the East series to avoid six months filming abroad. Your parents’ Counsel is surprised – and I am cheered – by her ringing endorsement of my future with the BBC; although I suspect that she speaks from the heart and not from the Board.

  As soon as her evidence is over, Vicky has to rush back to London to revise tomorrow’s programme. Although she insists that the revelations will be a nine days’ wonder, it is unfortunate, to say the least, that we have scheduled one of our more hard-hitting Tuesday discussions: with survivors of sex scandals, including an actor, a politician and a priest. To proceed would be provocative. So we are obliged to fall back on two subjects that I have hitherto vetoed … Zsa Zsa Gabor and talented pets.

  The sole professional witness is the Welfare Officer who declares roundly for me and, moreover, does so, courtesy of Pagan. She reports that she remains a happy, lively little girl and that her only signs of disturbance are caused by her visits to your parents. ‘It’s clear that any bond between them has yet to emerge and that Pagan feels hurt and bewildered by the continuing contact. She insists that she wants to stay with Mr Young.’

  ‘I hear what you say,’ your parent’s Counsel interjects. ‘May I ask how long you have been in your present post, Miss Dixon?’

  ‘Eighteen months.’

  ‘Just over a year. Oh well. And do you have any children of your own?’

  ‘I’m not married.’

  ‘You’re not married. Oh well. Nevertheless, and in spite of such limited experience, you will admit that Mr Young’s sexuality puts Pagan’s at risk?’

  ‘I most certainly will not.’

  ‘Miss Dixon, I grant that I may be out of touch with current social work thinking, but do you no longer believe that children need role models?’

  ‘Of course they do.’

  ‘Then wouldn’t you agree that the best model for a well-balanced child is a healthy, heterosexual couple?’

  ‘The best perhaps.’ She looks uncomfortable. ‘But there are alternatives.’

  ‘Alternatives? Oh well. Alternatives. I think we’ve all had occasion to see where those have led.’ He leaves the place ominously unspecified. ‘No further questions, Your Honour.’

  With all the witnesses heard, the Judge declares that it is an appropriate time to break for lunch. He inquires as to Pagan’s whereabouts and, o
n being told that she is in Brighton, requests that she be brought to court in preparation for his judgment. I am delighted. It appears that, against expectations, she will be given the chance to express her views. Max is less sanguine and warns that it may simply be an attempt to forestall any problems. His words plunge me into despair. I long to be alone. I am too full of foreboding to eat, and Rebecca’s insistence seems insensitive. Nevertheless, I allow myself to be lured to a local pub, which is packed with Nation readers. I stare at the window and feel the hostility beating on my back. After an hour of condemned-cell conversation, we return to court and a brief reunion with Pagan, who has confused the corridors with Television Centre and expects to be entertained. The best that we can offer is a box of crayons.

  ‘I’m going to draw you a picture of the sea.’

  ‘Be sure to make it calm.’

  Nausea overwhelms me as we are summoned into court. The walls dissolve and reform as a crematorium. In our serried ranks, we are no longer litigants but mourners, rising for the Judge as though for a coffin. I grip the pew … I seize the seat and propel myself into the present. The Judge puts on his spectacles like a black cap and injects a note of gravity into his voice.

  ‘I have reached my decision, which has by no means been an easy one.’ … I urge him to reconsider; I demand the deliberations of a jury … ‘In my view, the most disturbing element in this entire case is the mystery surrounding Pagan’s father. He may be unaware of her existence; he may be prevented from playing his natural role in her life. I would go so far as to say that, were he here today, my task would be a great deal simpler. But he is not, and I consider Candida Mulliner’s silence in this matter to be grossly irresponsible’ … your mother nods … ‘Miss Mulliner did not enjoy a close relationship with her own father, or, indeed, her mother …’ whose head is suddenly still … ‘It may be that, in my previous judgment, I was unduly influenced by their estrangement; it is, after all, the way of the world for children to consider parents ungenerous and parents children ungrateful. I have found it hard to assess Pagan’s relationship with the applicants’ … which is scarcely surprising since it does not exist … ‘but their concern for her well-being and devotion to her interests have been exemplary, not to mention their acceptance of the changes that a young child will bring to their lives. Furthermore, I believe that their home background is more stable and conducive to normal development than that of the respondent’ … so much for psychological parenting; so much for his own Welfare Officer’s report … ‘who, it must be said, has cared for Pagan conscientiously – to the best of his ability – over a long and difficult period, and to whom she has formed a close attachment. Nevertheless, I am obliged to look to the future, not to the past. I therefore order that Pagan reside with the applicants, while the respondent be granted regular visiting and staying contact.’

  I feel flayed. I watch your parents embracing like footballers. Visiting and staying contact: is that all that we have left? He will make strangers of us. He will replace intimacy by outings. I will join the legion of Sunday fathers leading protests against the closure of the zoo.

  Justice is not blind but blinkered. He does not see me but a newspaper headline. Your father is seventy-four; your mother seventy-one; and yet they are still considered fit to bring up a six-year-old. ‘Age is, of course, a factor, but not, I am convinced, a decisive one.’ … No, and there are no prizes for guessing what is; let’s hear it for our old friends, John Thomas and Lady Jane. Your parents’ childlessness was a tragedy; mine is a judgment. Why? It takes two people to produce a child – although Lucy Paynton managed well enough with a syringe – but does it take two to raise one? Isn’t there an Indian tribe where gay men are put in charge of the children? Or is homosexuality solely a disease of the decadent West?

  I force myself to focus on the aftermath of the judgment. I long for a Hollywood ending: a quick cut to Death Row or a close-up of a grieving mother. Instead, Digby-Lewis makes an obsequious speech thanking the Judge for his discernment and asking that his clients be awarded costs. To my surprise, the Judge refuses, declaring that, since both sides were acting in Pagan’s best interests, it would be unfair to penalise either … I speculate on your parents’ savings. Might they be forced to sell their house? Will Pagan be returned to me by default? I shall be laughed out of court … Meanwhile, Rebecca implements our contingency plan.

  ‘As it is my client’s intention to appeal against the Court’s decision, I would ask Your Honour to stay the Order pending that hearing.’

  ‘The request is refused. I might add that I consider any further action to be both foolish and futile.’

  ‘Your Honour will appreciate that I am acting under instructions. May I at least ask Your Honour to indicate that it is an appropriate case for an early hearing?’

  ‘You may ask, Ms Colestone, but, as I have already stated that I consider any appeal to be groundless, I shall be making no such recommendation.’

  Max whispers to me that, in view of Pagan’s youth, the Registrar of Civil Appeals is bound to agree to an expedited hearing. I am no longer reassured by words.

  There is a flurry of movement as the Court rises. The Judge bows and everyone else bows back. I stand stock still, although more from paralysis than protest. The clerk fades into insignificance, as he gathers his papers and leaves. Is it my imagination, or will no one look me in the eye? Your parents huddle with their advisers, wallowing in congratulations as they wait to collect their prize. Rebecca takes my arm and leads me towards the door. She asks if I have considered what to say to Pagan. I shake my head. I am as tongue-tied as on the day of your death. Moreover, I fear that my approach will be barred by a tipstaff. Rebecca reassures me with a squeeze of the hand. Her warmth in the wake of such legalised cruelty threatens to unnerve me. I have barely had time to compose myself when Pagan appears.

  ‘It’s boring. Susan won’t let me dance. Can we go home?’ She holds up her drawing: a sea of blue swims before my eyes. I take her in my arms.

  ‘I have to talk to you, my darling.’

  ‘Don’t you like my painting?’

  ‘It’s lovely.’

  ‘It’s for you.’

  ‘Do we have to stay here?’ I plead with Rebecca. ‘Can’t we have just half an hour to ourselves?’

  ‘I’ll try to find an empty room.’

  ‘Why are you sad?’ Pagan asks.

  ‘You have to be brave, my darling …’ I am taking her to the dentist. ‘You have to be strong …’ I am leaving her on her first day at school. ‘You have to show everyone how grown-up you are …’ I am driving her to the crematorium. ‘We will always have each other …’ I am a liar. ‘The Judge wants you to live with Granny and Grandpa for a little.’

  ‘No!’ I press her to my chest, half to comfort, half to silence her. Rebecca returns to show us to a room. From the corner of my eye, I see your parents standing by the stairs and their Counsel, now all affability, sharing a joke with Max; I feel betrayed. Pagan throws herself onto my legs, doubly threatening my balance. We enter the consulting room. The air is as stale as before, with an added stench of deodorised vomit. I gag; Pagan wails.

  ‘It won’t be for long, my darling. We’re going straight to another court.’

  ‘I want to stay with you.’

  ‘I wish it were up to me, but it’s not.’

  ‘I hate them. I’ll die. I’ll do suicide …’ which she pronounces like a Chinese meal.

  ‘Somebody help me.’ Rebecca is looking away and Susan is wiping her tears. ‘You mustn’t say those things. You’re six years old; you have so many people who love you. Susan loves you. Rebecca loves you.’ I draw them into the circle of deceit.

  ‘You don’t love me.’

  ‘Of course I do, my darling. I love you most of all.’

  ‘You promised I won’t go there. You promised.’

  ‘I have no choice.’

  ‘You’re a liar.’ She hits me. ‘A nasty, nasty liar. And I hate you.’


  ‘Don’t say that. You know you don’t mean it.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Soon you won’t. And it’s not as though we won’t see each other. I’ll come and collect you every fortnight.’

  ‘When’s a fortnight?’

  ‘Every two weekends. I’ll bring you home and you’ll sleep in your own room, where everything will be the same as always. And we’ll go out and have such fun that every time we meet will be a party.’

  ‘I don’t like parties; there’s always lots of people.’

  ‘This time, there’ll only be us.’

  She slides onto the floor in a heap of sobs. Your parents enter the room. ‘Have you said your goodbyes?’ your mother asks. ‘If we don’t go now, we’ll be too late for tea.’

  ‘I won’t go. I’m not going.’

  ‘Now don’t be a show-off.’

  ‘What about her clothes? She hasn’t even got a bag here. Everything’s at the hotel.’

  ‘We’ll manage tonight, thank you. She can wear one of my nighties. Would you like that? It’ll be an adventure … The solicitors will be in touch about the rest … Now, come along dear, don’t be tiresome. Say goodbye to Nanny and –’ she looks at me – ‘Uncle.’

  Pagan starts to scream and clings to my ankles. Your mother loses patience and tries to pull her off. ‘This is not the sort of behaviour I expect from a big girl of six.’ The big girl of six looks so small at my feet, wriggling out of your mother’s clutches. ‘Will you kindly let go of her?’ she shouts at me.

  ‘I can’t shake her off.’ I raise my arms in proof. ‘If you’ll just give us five more minutes.’

  ‘You’ve had far too long already. Father!’ She summons your father, who responds with reluctance. Rebecca tries to intervene, but your mother thrusts her aside. Your parents divide Pagan’s legs as though they were pulling a wishbone. As they tug, I topple, and she lands on my chest. My hurt and humiliation are complete.