‘Such as Holland Park?’
‘I’d like to think so, eventually. But the crucial thing is not to delay.’
‘Can’t you see how it’ll look to outsiders, say social workers or the police? Having failed to keep Pagan by any other means, you resort to these wild allegations … the stench of sour grapes will be stifling. What’s more, you may end up with your own contact cut.’
‘Mine?’
‘Suppose the grandparents counter-allege … claim they’ve seen similar behaviour and blame it on you?’
‘That’s preposterous!’
‘Absolutely. Without a doubt. But you’re in a very vulnerable position.’
‘She’s a six-year-old girl; I’m a gay man. Isn’t there a slight conflict of perversions? Or am I so depraved that I’d even stuff the holes in a Gruyère cheese?’
‘I’m your legal adviser, Leo; it’s my duty to alert you to the consequences. Trust me, don’t mention it to anyone. You haven’t, have you?’
‘Only the parents of the other girl.’
‘And they said nothing to suggest they suspected you?’
‘No!’ I ransack my mind for a memory. ‘Not a word. Their first concern was for their daughter and, then, to make sure that it didn’t happen to anyone else. And suppose it does; won’t it look worse for me if I say nothing now?’
‘Leave it to me. I’ll have a quiet word with the Mulliners’ solicitors. We’ll see if we can’t get to the truth of it. Make sure that her grandparents are extra-vigilant, without making it seem they’re at fault.’
‘But what if they are … no, I can’t say it … but I must; however loud you cry paranoia. What if it’s one of them … that’s to say, him?’
‘Don’t say it. Don’t even think it. You’ll drive yourself mad. He’s seventy-four years old; he has a dicky hip; you saw him in court. For God’s sake, the man’s a Dunkirk veteran! Start accusing him and you know how it will look.’
‘I’m not accusing him; I’m not accusing anyone. I just want Pagan secure.’
‘And she will be. Trust me.’
I trust him, as the days turn into weeks. I occupy myself with two articles of faith for the Observer and the final batch of programmes before the summer break. I welcome the break more than the summer. My chronology has contracted; I measure time like a prisoner living for fortnightly visits. Then, as in the aftermath of a riot, all privileges are withdrawn; I am refused access to Pagan. Your mother rings to tell me that she has a heavy cold.
‘In June?’
‘Summer colds are so much more treacherous. The doctor says she must stay in bed.’
I am not allowed to speak to her (‘the doctor says she must stay in bed’) and, when I send her a parcel of books, it is returned with a ring round the name Pagan and the message ‘Not known at this address’ printed at the top. I am no match for such pettiness and send a second parcel addressed to Miss P. Mulliner, with the letter inside headed ‘darling’. The compromise is evidently acceptable; for, when I phone again, your mother confirms that she has received it. ‘I’ll make sure she writes to say thank-you.’
‘That really isn’t necessary.’
‘Manners maketh man … and lady.’
She informs me that the summer cold has settled on her chest and a second weekend has to be cancelled. I am incensed and suspicious. I feel sure that they are hiding something … Is she covered in scars? Do they want to keep me away until they heal? I determine to alert the Welfare Officer, but I defer to Max. ‘Children fall ill. I should know; I had to cancel holidays, parties, even a bar mitzvah. You must watch out; this is becoming an obsession. It used to be that heterosexual men thought all gay men were child molesters; now gay men appear to think all fathers are child abusers.’
I convince myself that he is right. I affirm my faith in fathers, but it is as routine as a recital of the Lord’s Prayer. I cannot clear my head of doubts, even on an early morning run. The park is full of Pagan. I jog past the pond where she refused to throw stale bread to the ducks, claiming that it was cruel to give them food that was too hard for us. I circle the playground where she had her first brush with machismo when an eight-year-old bruiser pushed her off the slide. At which moment … with which memory, she appears in front of me. I marvel at the power of thought while despairing of its mockery. Then I see that it really is her. She must have run away – hitched a lift or taken a train – and given her address as Holland Park. Incongruity is banished in joy. I race towards her and clasp her to my chest. She screams and squirms, in spite of all my avowals, whereupon a man bounds up and wrests her from my arms, yelling that she is his daughter. As Pagan melts into Linda, I see that my tears have blinded me. I explain to the man that I have mistaken his child for my own … my niece. He fixes me with a stare first of hostility and then of recognition. Whatever else, I retain the authority of the screen.
He defers to the image and tells the girl that there has been no harm done; she has no need to make such a fuss. Then he reminds her that she saw me on Jackanory and asks me to autograph a paper bag.
‘Of course; should I sign it to Linda?’
‘No … Ron.’
The following Friday, I ignore your mother’s protests that Pagan is still not fit to travel and insist on my right to collect her, adding that I will apply to the court if I am refused. She gives way, grumbling that she will be the one who has to nurse her when she falls ill. I drive down in a deluge, am delayed by an hour and meet with an icy welcome.
‘We’d given you up. I was about to put Patience to bed.’
‘I’m sorry, but you see the weather …’
‘She was wretched. You should never do that to a child.’
‘If I’d known, I’d have rung. May I come in now?’
‘You expect me to welcome you to my home after what you’ve done?’
‘I’m an hour late. Is that a crime?’
‘You know what I mean … spreading wicked lies about my husband.’
‘I spread no lies; I simply told my solicitor that I suspect Pagan is being abused.’
‘Be quiet! Don’t repeat it! Think where you are.’ She pulls me into the house. I try to wipe my shoes on the mat but she prevents me. Pagan runs down the stairs.
‘Leo! Leo!’
‘One at a time, if you don’t mind. It’s not the Grand National.’
‘How are you, my darling?’ As I take her in my arms, I see no sign of illness. It is clear that I have been punished for my allegations.
‘She said you weren’t coming. She said you had something better to do. But I knew you would.’
‘How could I ever have anything better?’ I turn to your mother. ‘How could you say that?’
‘Poppycock! She doesn’t understand; she’s six years old. That’s what you forget.’
‘How are you, my darling? You look well.’ I turn relief into accusation: ‘You look very well.’
‘I was raped.’
‘What?’ My heart rams against my ribcage.
‘In the swimming pool, yesterday.’
‘You mean you were robbed. Grandpa left your bags in the café and they were stolen.’
‘I know. I had my towel in it. It was wet.’
‘You were robbed? Your bags were taken? Nothing else?’
‘Yes, yesterday. They were thiefs. He said they ought to be hung up.’
‘Patience dear, would you go into the kitchen for a minute? I need to say something to Uncle.’
‘No, please. If it’s about me, I should listen.’
‘Just for a moment, darling. I promise we won’t be long.’ I follow your mother into the living room.
‘You see?’ she tells me. ‘Words. She’s six years old. She doesn’t know the meaning of words.’
Your father stands stiffly by the fireplace. Manners clash with morals as I formulate a greeting. I opt for a noncommittal nod; he does not respond.
‘Why can’t you accept the Court’s decision?’ he asks. ‘Magnanimous in v
ictory; dignified in defeat … that’s the British way. No gentleman would resort to such lies.’
‘Look!’ your mother screeches, ‘you’ve brought filth into my house.’ I am about to challenge her metaphor when I realise that she is referring to my shoes.
‘Shall I go outside and wipe them?’
‘It’s too late; the damage is done.’
‘How can you bring yourself to say such things?’ your father asks. ‘A six-year-old girl exposing herself by your bedside … what kind of man are you?’
‘What kind of perverted imagination do you have?’
‘It wasn’t imagination. I woke up and saw.’
‘It was the middle of the night. You don’t know waking from sleeping.’
‘You don’t know truth from lies … an innocent child.’
‘What’s innocence?’ I ask … and answer: ‘Innocence is being free from fear. Innocence is being free from guilt. Innocence isn’t not knowing the meaning of words; it’s having no call to use them.’
‘Don’t throw Cambridge at us,’ your father says, ‘we had all that with Candida. We won’t stand for it again.’
‘Besides, it wasn’t just the masturbation –’
‘Please!’
‘I’ll ask you not to use language in front of my wife.’
‘It was the crocodile. Didn’t your solicitor mention that?’
‘Oh yes. Along with what she said or, rather, is said to have said.’
‘“Come, come, come!”’ he enunciates with disgust.
‘My husband has never used words like that in his life … I should know.’
‘But I never accused Mr Mulliner; I never accused anyone. I just want to protect Pagan.’
‘You’re sick,’ your father says. ‘If I had both my hips, I’d thrash you.’
‘What about you?’ your mother asks. ‘If she was doing … those things you say she was doing … why was she doing them in London rather than here? She’s even stopped wetting the bed except when she returns from you. Last time, her pants were so soiled that I had to rub her nose in them.’
‘What?’
‘To cure her … like a dog.’
‘She’s not an animal!’
‘Don’t tell me how to bring up children!’
‘If she is soiling herself, it’s because she’s frightened of coming back here.’
‘I told you he’d brazen it out.’
‘The thing is, old man,’ your father changes tack and tone abruptly, ‘I’m of the old school. I believe in discipline. A good smack on the b-t-m is worth a thousand talking-tos … not too often, mind, or it loses its value, but as a last resort. Patience may not like that; she’s always been used to having her own way.’
‘And look where it’s led,’ your mother interjects.
‘That’s right … She sees you as a soft touch. She’s a cunning little thing; manipulative. All children are. People talk about feminine wiles, but they’re nothing compared to children’s.’ I find his man-to-man mode shaming. ‘We had cases at school: boys accusing other boys and even masters. I’m not saying there was never any truth in it; but, nine times out of ten, there was a motive. I remember one boy – that friend of Candida’s – went so far as to accuse the chaplain.’
‘Robin Standish?’
‘That’s him. Turned out that it was in retaliation for being caught presiding at some sort of black mass.’
I am strangely cheered by this mention of Robin, although I fail to see the connection with Pagan. Your father explains it by adding that ‘it just goes to show you can’t believe a single word any of them say. All children are born liars.’ With that, he pats me on the back and escorts me to the door. I try to keep to the trail of footprints to avoid further soiling of the carpet (might she rub my face in it?). There is no need to call Pagan who is poised at the door. To prevent further chiding, I grab her coat, her case, and leave.
Our reunion is soured by recriminations. She doubts my explanation for our two lost weekends and dismisses her heavy cold as a runny snuffle. She is tired and tetchy all through dinner and spills a jug of apple juice to provoke me … now that she is paid in a currency of slaps, she is anxious to know the exchange rate; if ‘a good smack on the b-t-m is worth a thousand talking-tos’ in Hove, what is the value in Holland Park? One hundred, two hundred, five? She remains suspicious of my tolerance and tests it again at bedtime by insisting on changing from her room to Susan’s to yours. Before settling down, she demands that we both kneel to pray. She recites a number of simple petitions, although, when she reaches ‘God bless Granny and Grandpa’, she confides that she always inserts ‘don’t’ under her breath so that it won’t count. She adds that she wants to say ‘God bless Leo’ but they won’t let her, so she says it herself later … ‘Will it still work?’
‘Don’t worry.’
‘She says you’re already part of “God bless all the world” and anyway there’s no point cos you don’t go to church. I go to Sunday school.’
‘I know.’
‘I don’t think we should have school on Sundays; God said it’s a day to rest. Why don’t I have a daddy?’
‘What?’
‘Everyone has a daddy except me. A girl in my class said I came out of a tube.’
‘You came out of a tube in Mummy’s tummy.’
‘No, a tube like in science where they make smells.’
‘That’s nonsense. You had a daddy like everyone else. I know that Mummy would have told you about him when you grew up.’
‘If I had a daddy, I’d have another granny and grandpa, wouldn’t I? I wouldn’t have to stay with them.’
‘It might still depend on the Courts.’
‘Will Jesus love me if I don’t have a daddy?’
‘Jesus loves all children. Haven’t they at least told you that?’
‘He wouldn’t love me if my name was Pagan.’
‘Your name is Pagan. And I’m quite sure that Jesus doesn’t care about names.’
‘Pagan means someone who doesn’t believe in God.’
‘Pagan means someone who doesn’t believe in Granny and Grandpa’s God. That’s rather different.’
‘Why didn’t you marry Mummy? Then you could be my daddy.’
‘That’s enough. It’s late … time to sleep.’
‘Is it cos you want to stick your bottom in little girls?’
‘What? Pagan, who said … who did … has someone done that to you?’ She turns not only mute but rigid.
‘Darling, it’s very important that you tell me the truth.’
She presses both hands across her mouth. ‘Believe me, I won’t be cross. Not at all. If someone’s hurting you, I can stop it. You want me to stop it, don’t you?’ She relaxes a little and nods. ‘Has someone put his bottom in you?’
‘Patience is naughty; Patience is bad. Patience does naughty, naughty things.’
‘No, it’s not Patience … it’s not you. It’s the nasty, nasty man who did it to you. Tell me, was it Grandpa?’ She shakes her head. ‘You’re sure?’ She nods. I am amazed at the extent of my relief. ‘Was it someone who came to your house?’
‘He said that, if I told, I’d be put in a prison like the Princes in the Tower. I wouldn’t ever see you; it’d be like you were dead, like Mummy.’
‘Who said? Who?’
‘Patience is naughty; Patience is bad; Patience is sore.’
‘Who said it? Who did it?’
‘Him.’
‘Grandpa?’ She nods.
‘He stuck his bottom in Patience’s bottom.’
I dig my nails into my palm. I force myself to demand details. ‘In your front bottom or your back bottom?’
‘Yes. He hurt me. Sore. He said “Come, come, come”. And it was all white, like school pudding, on my tummy. You won’t put me in a prison?’
‘No, my darling. No one’s going to put you in prison; I’m going to set you free. But I am going to put Grandpa in prison and then I’m going to throw aw
ay the key. He’ll never hurt you … no one will ever hurt you again.’
She nestles in my arms. We are united by touch and tears. Later, I let her sleep in my bed; I know that I have nothing to fear.
At eleven the next morning, we drive to Wimpole Street for an appointment with Patrick Dudley, a paediatrician friend of Stephen Tickell. I first spoke to him a month ago, after the incident with the crocodile. He was reluctant to see her, insisting that he always required a referral from social services; but, when I explained the dangers of publicity and assured him that I remained her legal guardian, he agreed to examine her informally. To secure Pagan’s cooperation, I have made no mention of his being a doctor. She distrusts the entire profession after their treatment of you.
We inhale the airy confidence of the consulting room. Dudley’s candied condescension recalls the radio ‘aunties’ of my youth. With glazed indifference, he asks her about her school, her friends, her hobbies.
‘Who’s your best friend?’
‘Leo.’
‘Not counting Leo.’
He plants her in a corner with a pile of superannuated toys, while he questions me. I describe the disruption at school and the flirtation at home. I mention the wet beds, the soiled knickers and the signs of vaginal discharge. I spell the word protectively and am taken aback when she puts the letters together, albeit endowing vaginal with a hard ‘g’.
Having registered her presence, he proceeds with the examination, performing a perfunctory sight test before leading her behind a screen. She asks me to accompany them; but he explains that it is not allowed, adding that he normally has a nurse ‘but she looks after her own little girl on Saturdays; though that won’t matter, since you and I are already such good friends’. His demeanour, designed to put her at her ease, has the reverse effect on me. I catch a glimpse of her thinly screened modesty and the drift of his pill-sugaring speech. ‘Can you climb up on this? Do you enjoy PE …? Lie down and pretend to sleep. Do you think you’d make a good drum …? Take big breaths. Open wide. Pant like a dog. This is just going to tickle … Let your legs go floppy. Lift up your knees. Good. This is just going to tickle … Now turn over and we’ll take a little look at your bot. Good. Another tickle.’ Why should it tickle? What is he doing to her? Did your father use the same phrase? She yelps. I have to clench my fists to stop myself toppling the screen.
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