All She Ever Wished For

by Claudia Carroll

  ‘Spotted it from the very minute you came through the door this morning,’ she insists.

  ‘What? What are you talking about?’ I whisper back, flushing a bit pink at that.

  ‘Well now, it’s hard to put my finger on, but you look different.’

  ‘Different how?’

  ‘You came in here this morning looking … lighter. Yes, that’s it. No other word for it. Like a big weight has been lifted from your shoulders.’

  In the background, everyone else is busy debating, arguing and point-scoring. Well everyone expect Will, that is. He’s at the far end of the table from me again this morning and so far we’ve barely exchanged two words to each other. Just came in, gave each other a quick, curt nod hello and took our seats, where Edith hasn’t stopped grilling me ever since.

  Meanwhile Barney, our jury foreman, has clearly been busy reading up on similar case studies all weekend and won’t stop droning on about it until he’s bored the whole room into a coma.

  ‘There’s an important legal precedent I read of, you know,’ he’s lecturing us all, to eye rolls and groans we’re barely even bothering to hide at this stage. ‘In Kinsella versus Shaw, in the year 2007. In that case, the painting was a Jack Yeats and it was awarded to the person who’d bought it in the first place, because he was the one who’d actually shelled out for it. Now correct me if I’m wrong, but Kate King didn’t actually buy that painting in the first place, did she? Her ex did. Fair is fair, you know.’

  ‘I don’t like agreeing with that aul’ eejit,’ whispers Jane from the other side of me. ‘But he does have a point. As long as it was bought by Damien and the King trust, how can it be taken away from them?’

  After debating a bit longer, we take another vote and this time it’s nine in favour of Kate King, with two against and one abstention. From Will, as it happens. All our eyes swivel towards him, where he’s sitting back in his seat, arms folded, shaking his head slowly. He looks up, aware that we’re all focused on him and for a flicker of a second our eyes lock.

  ‘I just don’t get it,’ he says to the room.

  ‘Don’t get what?’ Ruth says, or rather half-shouts, as she’s prone to doing.

  ‘Oh God, where do I start?’ he says, dropping his head and running his fingers through his hair. ‘But for what it’s worth, here’s the big sticking post for me. Like most of you, I’m fascinated by the whole notion that the painting did in fact go down with the Lusitania and that it was illegally salvaged in the years to come. And if that’s the case, then chances are it probably did wind its way from one private collection to another, until it eventually ended up on a wall in that palace the Kings live in. But I still can’t help wondering—’

  ‘What, son?’ says Barney imperiously from the head of the table.

  ‘OK, so here’s what’s on my mind,’ Will says, sitting forward now, arms folded and looking thoughtful. ‘It just seems odd to me that Kate King breached one court order after another, because she was so determined to hang on to that painting. Mark my words, she wanted it, and badly too. Probably figured it was her pension plan. And I’d like to state for the record that up until this morning, I was pretty much on Team Kate anyway.’

  ‘Why so?’ Barney asks him.

  ‘Mainly because I thought Damien King is one of the wealthiest men, not just in the country, but in the world,’ Will says, looking directly back at him. ‘He could easily afford ten Old Masters if he wanted them. And yet he was prepared to take his ex-wife all the way to court just to get this one back. Why?’

  I’m silent here though. Mainly because Will’s just articulated a niggle that I’ve had myself all along.

  ‘Well, I think it’s not a coincidence that Damien King’s new girlfriend is some kind of a world expert on seventeenth-century art,’ says Beth quietly as everyone else nods along.

  ‘Agreed, but let’s just get back to Kate,’ Will says. ‘Because prior to this new information coming to court, it looked to me like she wanted to hold on to the painting so she could possibly sell it in years to come, then use the cash as her own personal nest egg.’

  ‘Well that’s not illegal, you know,’ says Jess. ‘Is it?’

  ‘I’m not suggesting for a minute that it is,’ he goes on calmly, ‘but the fact is that since Jasper Adams’s testimony about the whole Hugh Lane link, everything has shifted, hasn’t it? Now we’ve got Kate King saying that if we award it to her, she’ll donate it to the Hugh Lane Gallery. The clear implication being that she doesn’t care about the money.’

  ‘Well maybe she did want to sell it at some stage,’ says Mai, ‘but now this new evidence has made her change her mind. What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Nothing at all. Except that for better or for worse, it’s swung a lot of us in her favour. And I think that’s what’s really bothering me. Up until that evidence was admitted, my concern is that Kate’s legal representatives were worried that this case might go against her. Because till then, it didn’t look too good for her, now did it?’

  ‘No, definitely not,’ a voice says from my left.

  ‘Well up until that evidence, I was definitely voting for Damien. But now I’m pretty much forty-five fifty-five, leaning towards Kate,’ Ian chimes in.

  ‘You see?” says Will. ‘So was that information a tactic that Kate’s barristers used to manipulate things her way? Were they afraid they’d lose, unless Kate took the stand and stated her clear intention that the painting would end up in the Hugh Lane Gallery?’

  ‘But does it matter?’ I blurt out. ‘The fact is, we’re here to decide who we think has the greater claim on the painting. And for one, I’m on Kate’s side. All the way. And if she did originally intend to keep it and sell it, then isn’t it all the more noble of her now to say she’ll donate it to the Hugh Lane Gallery?’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ says Daphne.

  ‘Now, son, if you’ve a problem with this,’ says Barney from the top of the table, ‘then we can always go back to court and request more information to clarify. It happened in Hamilton versus Smith only four years ago, you know. Legal precedent is on our side.’

  ‘There really is no need, thanks,’ says Will. ‘My vote is for Kate King …’ Then he glances around the room, aware the eleven other pairs of eyes are zoned in on him and him alone.

  ‘It’s just bugging me, that’s all,’ he says with a shrug, sitting back in his seat and looking away.

  KATE

  Monday, 2.30 p.m.

  ‘Why are they taking so long?’ Kate said to Hilda, as the two women sat side-by-side on the court benches, while barristers and junior counsels bustled around them.

  ‘Juries have a habit of taking as long as they take,’ said Hilda calmly. ‘The critical thing is not to try and read anything into it. It’s neither a good thing nor a bad thing; it’s just a matter of playing the waiting game now. So don’t worry.’

  Kate said nothing. Just fidgeted nervously on the uncomfortable bench and still worried anyway.

  She honestly felt like this whole court case had cost her life’s blood. The question now was this: how would it all play out?

  TESS

  Monday, 4.55 p.m.

  Still no verdict by the end of the day. We take another vote and we’re now divided ten to two, with the majority in favour of Kate, and just Barney and Jane against. But because we’ve been instructed to come to a unanimous verdict, that means we’re still classed as a hung jury. So we’re all dismissed and sent home, to come back tomorrow morning and try again.

  We’re all just gathering up bags and jackets and making our way to the private jury staircase when Will falls into step beside me.

  ‘So,’ he says, looking right at me, ‘looks like we’re almost there.’

  ‘This time tomorrow, it should all be over,’ I stop to say.

  An awkward pause as he holds the door open for a troop of the old biddies, led by Edith, all deep in chat about what they’re planning to watch on telly later on. I let them all pass and le
ave last.

  ‘Good weekend then?’ Will asks, as we troop down the stairwell.

  ‘Better than good,’ I smile brightly back at him. ‘Fantastic, in fact.’

  ‘Ahh, I see,’ he nods.

  We arrive at the downstairs doors and I’m first out into the warm sunshine.

  ‘Well. Till tomorrow then,’ he says, not looking me in the eye this time.

  ‘Yeah. That’s right. Tomorrow. Bright and early.’

  There’s an awkward pause, and things have been weird enough between us all day, so I wave a quick goodbye and head off in the direction of my bus stop. Next thing from the bottom of the court steps, I turn over my shoulder to see Edith tottering over to Will and getting into what looks like a fairly involved conversation with him.

  And more than once, both of them very definitely glance in my direction.

  *

  It seems Will was right. There’s an indescribable shift in public opinion now that’s hard not to notice. And the astonishing thing is that the barometer seems to have swung in Kate King’s favour. The whole way home on the bus, fragments of overheard conversation keep filtering over to me.

  ‘I never used to like her, you know … such a cold fish with that snooty glare … but somehow I just believe her now.’

  ‘Kate King? Oh yeah, me too. After all, at least she wants the painting to be kept here in the country …’

  ‘… where it should have been all along …’

  ‘And she’s got so thin too, hasn’t she?’

  ‘Must be all that worry. You know what they say, stress is a great diet.’

  ‘If you ask me, Damien King is a complete bastard for putting his ex-wife through all that in the first place.’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t agree with you more. Poor old Kate. She’s well rid of him, if you ask me.’

  Even Mum and Gracie are at it right the way through dinner when I get home.

  ‘Now I never had any time for that one, as you know,’ says Mum.

  ‘But at least she’s prepared to do the right thing and give the painting back to the Hugh Lane,’ Gracie chips in, ‘unlike her ex.’

  ‘Oh yeah. I’d say he only wanted to keep it so he could impress his new girlfriend. Isn’t she all into art too?’

  ‘So how are you voting, Tess?’

  ‘You know I’m not supposed to talk about it,’ I say, with my mouth stuffed full with a veggie burger.

  ‘Not supposed to talk about what?’ says Dad, only getting home now from helping a pal decorate his house. He still has his white overalls on and has splodges of fuchsia pink paint all over his hair, a bit like psychedelic dandruff.

  ‘The King case,’ says Gracie. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Ah Jaysus,’ Dad groans, taking a can of cider from the fridge and ripping the lid off the tin, ‘can I not have one minute’s peace in my own home from talking about that bleeding case? It’s been on the radio non-stop and all day long in work, the lads kept harping on about it. I’ve a pain in my arse just hearing about that shagging painting. They can donate it to a local pub and use it as a dartboard for all I care.’

  KATE

  Monday night, 8.30 p.m.

  ‘Eat,’ said Mo.

  ‘Can’t,’ Kate replied, shaking her head.

  ‘The choice is yours,’ Mo said calmly. ‘Either you can eat or you can be force-fed. So choose. You’re skin and bone these days, you need fattening up.’

  Kate couldn’t though. Even the smell from the plate of beef casserole that Mo had put together for all the family was enough to make her stomach churn.

  Will I ever have a normal appetite again, she wondered. Whatever the verdict, would life ever go back to normal?

  ‘If you don’t like yours, you can always have some of mine, Aunt Kate,’ said little Josh loyally, shoving his own plateful of casserole in front of her.

  ‘And don’t worry,’ Ella whispered, ‘I have a bag of mini Mars Bars up in my room. Call up when Mum and Dad are asleep and we’ll have a midnight feast. For only you and me, just us girls. And then maybe you can teach me how to do proper make-up? The kind Mum won’t let me near? With smoky eyes and everything?’

  ‘Oh, you guys are so good to me,’ Kate smiled, leaning down to kiss the top of each of their heads. ‘Do you realise you’re keeping me sane?’

  ‘What does sane mean, Auntie Kate?’

  Kate thought for a moment before answering.

  ‘It means being at peace with yourself, pet. For the first time in as long as I can remember, totally at peace.’

  TESS

  Tuesday, 9.30 a.m.

  The following morning in the jury room, and by some miracle, I actually got here early. So now I’m being subjected to yet another grilling by Edith over by the window. Meanwhile everyone else is arriving and helping themselves to mugs of tea and coffee, to kick start the morning.

  ‘There’s something up with you, Tess,’ she says to me, the cornflower blue eyes looking beadily at me. ‘You can try and hide it all you like, but I’m onto you, missy.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I just know by you. By the way you look, by your whole manner, everything. Oh you may laugh us aul’ ones off as a pack of interfering gossips, but I’ve only got your best interests at heart, you know, love.’

  Realising that she just isn’t prepared to drop this any time soon, and also the chance that we’ll reach a verdict today and we’ll probably never see each other again anyway, I decide what the hell. Why not just tell her the truth and have done with it. After all, Edith and the rest of the Granny Gestapo aren’t going to have it any other way.

  ‘Right then,’ I sigh, steering her even further away from everyone else in the room, so there’s no chance of being overheard. ‘If you must know, it’s my wedding. And fiancé. And engagement. The whole thing.’

  ‘I knew it was something like that,’ says Edith, eyes busily scrutinising my face. ‘I knew it without being told. Women’s intuition. Very powerful thing, you know. Never underestimate it.’

  ‘Well the thing is … it’s all off.’

  She looks at me, instantly softening.

  ‘Ahh, come here to me, love, and give me a big hug,’ she says, arms outstretched and pulling me towards her. She smells of lavender and fresh soap and it’s actually lovely. ‘You poor old thing. Did he get cold feet on you?’

  ‘No! Not at all …’

  ‘What a bastard! I’ll give him a right wallop with my umbrella if I ever get to meet him.’

  ‘No … it’s not like that at all’

  ‘I know it must be heartbreaking for you right now, Tess, and you probably feel like you can’t ever hold your head up in public again, but it’ll get easier, you know. And isn’t it miles better to find out now that your fiancé is a messer, rather than after the wedding, when it’s too late to do anything about it?’

  ‘No!’ I say, sounding a bit panicky now. ‘Edith, you don’t understand! This is totally by mutual agreement. Bernard and I both decided at the weekend that really, neither of us were in it for the long haul and that we’re miles better off as friends.’

  ‘Oh,’ she says after a pause, her face falling a bit disappointedly. ‘Never heard of anything like that happening before.’

  ‘Honestly, that’s the truth,’ I insist. ‘And I’m really happy about it. Please believe me.’

  ‘Although,’ she goes on, almost like she’s thinking aloud. ‘I did used to worry about you, you know.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Well, ever since the case started,’ she says thoughtfully, ‘you’d chat away about getting married, but you never had that glow about you. Daphne was only just saying it to me the other day. Something didn’t seem quite right, you know.’

  I sigh, realising that this is probably going to spread around the jury room like wildfire.

  ‘Edith, one last favour to ask you, if you don’t mind,’ I say.

  ‘What’s that, love?’

  ‘Can we
just keep this to ourselves?’

  She swivels her head around to where the others are all congregated around the catering trolley, helping themselves to mugs of tea and coffee, and surprisingly fresh croissants. Most of us are already here, from Mai, Ruth, Daphne, Minnie and Barney, to the younger brigade, Jess, Ian, Beth and Will, who’s just come in and is taking off his jacket and flinging it on the back of a chair.

  Edith spots him instantly and turns back to me.

  ‘Ahh right,’ she says knowingly. ‘Well, if you want me to keep quiet, then of course I will, love.’

  ‘Much appreciated,’ I smile back at her.

  ‘Pity though. We all thought you and Will would have made such a lovely couple.’

  *

  Heated debate around the conference table once Moany Mona barks at us all to get started. The shock news is that Jane, who up till now has been voting in favour of Damien King, is now wavering.

  ‘Just think of it,’ Will is saying to her, leaning forward on the table, fully focused on her and her alone. ‘We’ve got concrete evidence in front of us that the painting was personally gifted to Kate King. Whereas if we give this back to the King family trust, then there’s a chance A Lady of Letters will probably tour some remote gallery in Minneapolis and then end up hanging on a Globtech boardroom wall somewhere.’

  ‘But it’s not our job to speculate as to what either Damien or Kate choose to do with it when this case is over,’ Jane retorts, but Will comes straight back to her.

  ‘Agreed, but we do have to think long-term too. Kate has said under oath that she intends to gift it to the Hugh Lane Gallery. Now whether you buy into the whole Lusitania connection or not, wouldn’t it be wonderful to see a Dutch Master on permanent display here in Ireland? And now we’ve got the power right here in our hands to achieve just that. Don’t do it to yourself, Jane,’ he adds for good measure. ‘Don’t wake up in a few weeks’ time and live to regret this. You’ve got the chance now to do the right thing. So come on then, what’s it to be?’