‘Do you recognise the accused?’ The lawyer pointed to Joanna, who was sitting at the front of the courtroom beside her own lawyer. Joanna had been pointed to a lot these last hours. Each one stabbed harder at her chest.
‘Yes.’
‘Can you tell me how you met her?’ The female lawyer spoke slowly, loudly.
‘I may be old but my hearing and my comprehension are fine. No need to talk to me like I’m a brainless gnat heading for the hospice.’ Ms Amery’s comeback obliterated the supercilious look on the lawyer’s face. ‘I was seated behind her on the flight from Glasgow to Dubai and although the plane changed for the second leg from Dubai to Melbourne, we kept the same seat numbers, aisle seats they were. I was 18H, Joanna was in the bulkheads with the baby cot – 17H.’
‘She was travelling with her partner and her baby, yes?’
‘That’s right. She was . . . She . . . was . . .’
‘Out of control?’
‘Leading the witness!’ Joanna’s lawyer had taken to his feet.
The female lawyer smiled an apology. ‘Can you describe Ms Lindsay’s behaviour on the flight from Glasgow?’
‘I was trying to find the exact word. It was a long flight and she was very stressed. Her baby wouldn’t stop crying and no one was helping her.’
‘Was she rough with the infant?’
‘Objection! Ms Amery’s definition of “rough” is subjective.’ Joanna’s lawyer didn’t look up as he spoke, which somehow gave his words more power.
‘Overruled.’ The judge nodded to the witness. ‘You can answer the question Ms Amery.’
‘How was she with the baby? Gentle? Rough?’ The female lawyer was aggressive now.
‘Well . . . he wouldn’t settle.’
‘Was Ms Lindsay rough with her infant?’
‘I wouldn’t say—’
‘Answer the question please. Yes or No. Was she rough with the infant?’
Ms Amery looked at Joanna again, and then at the lawyer, who moved in closer.
‘Was she rough with Noah? Was. She. ROUGH?’ The lawyer was no more than five inches from the witness’s head.
‘Yes.’
‘You’re saying Ms Lindsay was rough with baby Noah. She shook him.’
‘Yes, yes, but—’
‘No further questions.’
3
JOANNA
13 February
The fifteen-and-a-half-hour flight from Dubai to Melbourne was uneventful. They boarded the plane after a two-hour wait in transit. The airline had promised Joanna that her buggy would be available for them during this time. It wasn’t. It was in the hold. There was no getting it out. And there were no spare buggies in the airport.
Despite this, it was a beautiful two hours. Joanna sat on a chair outside a café and gazed at the contented baby in her arms. She couldn’t understand why she had been angry. How could she have been mad with this gorgeous child? Ah, she loved him. Little Noah.
Alistair looked sprightly after his long snooze and tapped away on his laptop. She adored his energy. From the moment Alistair woke, to the moment he put his head on the pillow, he was purposeful and happy. While Joanna could do nothing for long periods of time, often indulging in mini-depressions involving daytime talk shows and True Movies, Alistair was always busy, positive and uncomplicated. Her perfect antidote.
‘I’m a nutjob,’ she said, stroking his forearm.
‘My nutjob!’ Alistair smiled and kissed her on the lips.
So she was. Since his wife fled, she was all his: his to stroke on the forearm, to kiss on the lips, to get mad at when she wasn’t coping, to ask for help, because he would always have the energy and the willingness to find solutions.
Need to believe we are for ever? Have my baby.
Need the tap fixed? I fixed it!
Need a mushy email? Joanna, last night you looked more beautiful than any woman I have ever seen. Let’s go to Amsterdam next weekend!
Need to be told you’re a wonderful mother and the cleverest and sexiest woman in the world?
‘A nutjob who also happens to be a wonderful mother and the cleverest and sexiest woman in the world,’ Alistair said, kissing her again then returning to his laptop.
In the first two years of their relationship, Alistair had been wildly romantic. After his wife Alexandra found out about their affair and left, he made big gestures. The beautiful love letters (well, emails), the trip to Amsterdam, the living room full of red roses when she turned twenty-seven, making love to her months later while saying: ‘Remember this, can you feel it? We’re making our child.’
She kissed Alistair on the shoulder: her administer of medicine, her fixer of things, her maker of happiness. Noah would sleep more soon, she would sleep more soon, and the roar and the tingle of those first two years would return.
Alistair was on the laptop typing an urgent press release involving the transport minister, a married fifty-two-year-old who’d claimed expenses for posh meals with a member of the Young Labour Society. The story wouldn’t have been a story if the supporter in question wasn’t blonde, the owner of a set of DD breasts, and only just sixteen. Joanna read the headline: ‘Ross Johnstone defends “legitimate party meetings with promising young politician”.’
‘You quashing a shitstorm, hon?’ Joanna asked.
He pressed Ctrl+S. ‘Quashed.’
It wasn’t long before Joanna fell asleep on Alistair’s shoulder.
*
‘It’s time to board.’ Alistair was smiling at her when she woke. ‘Are you okay? What a nightmare that first leg was. He seems settled now, eh?’
‘He does.’ He had the longest eyelashes, this boy. And dark, dark hair, like his dad. He’d be a heart-throb one day.
‘Here, you need your antibiotics.’ Alistair opened the bottle, took a dab from the rim, taste-tested it, and spooned the medicine into Joanna’s mouth. ‘Is it still very sore?’
‘It was, during the descent. It’s a bit better now.’ She put her hand on Alistair’s cheek. ‘I love you.’
‘I love you too.’ He kissed her on the forehead. ‘I’m taking him for this flight, all right? You feed him when I say, but otherwise, you have nothing to do with him.’
‘Really?’ She looked at her sleeping baby again, lulled by his peacefulness, reluctant to give him up for so long. ‘Oh, but . . .’
‘But nothing. You need rest. And when we get to Point Lonsdale, you’re going to express some milk and Mum’s going to take him to her house for twenty-four hours.’
‘You organised it already?’ Imagine – time off to sleep, eat, go to the toilet, eat cheese with biscuits, go for a walk, make love . . .
‘I arranged it with Mum two weeks ago,’ Alistair said.
Typical Alistair: thinking ahead, looking after her, getting things done. Sometimes, she had to pinch herself. Was he real? Was he really hers?
*
Joanna couldn’t remember much of the first part of the flight from Dubai to Melbourne. For the first eight hours, she slept, waking twice when Alistair gently prompted her to feed the baby. It was the best sleep she’d had since his birth.
With five and a half hours to go, Joanna woke with a jolt. The cry. Her ear was throbbing with pain and Noah’s noise was jabbing at it. Oh God, no, not this again. Every day seemed the same, every night, every minute, the same. It would never be different. This was her life now. Until she died.
The cry was coming from the back of the plane. Joanna looked behind her and saw that Alistair was holding Noah in the queue for the toilets, nappy and wipes in hand. She put her trainers on and walked towards Alistair and the baby.
‘Let me take him,’ she said.
‘Absolutely not. He’s fine. Just a dirty nappy.’
The toilet door opened and the businessman Joanna had accosted on the previous flight exited. When he saw Joanna, he glowered. He’d worn a suit the entire trip and it appeared unscathed. Lucky guy. Joanna’s clothes were covered in all sorts of shite.
‘Get back to your seat and rest!’ Alistair said.
‘Can I not have a pee first?’
‘Well, okay.’
Locked in the cubicle, Joanna berated herself. Alistair had managed with the baby for eight hours, much longer than she’d managed on the first leg of the flight, and he was still cheerful, still willing and able to keep going. He was so much more capable than her. Why did she find a tiny baby so hard to deal with? The breastfeeding bitches were right: it wasn’t rocket science.
Joanna did as Alistair kindly suggested after going to the loo, but couldn’t rest. Her ear was killing her and Noah’s crying was getting louder, more distressed. The nappy change hadn’t worked.
‘Have a kip, hon,’ she eventually said to Alistair. ‘You’ve done a marathon, you’re a star. I’ve had enough sleep – I’ll be fine, honest.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Really, I’m fine.’
Alistair handed the baby over and was asleep within ten minutes.
For the next three hours, Joanna went through the routine again and again. Nappy? Bored? Tired? Food? Nappy? Bored? Tired? Food? Nappy? Bored? Tired? Food?
She tried the emergency dummy she’d packed in case he might change his mind about it.
Nappy? Bored? Tired? Food?
She tried walking, rocking, singing, humming, tickling, massaging.
Nappy? Bored? Tired? Food?
The looks had started again. Passengers were getting annoyed. A young air hostess was scowling at her.
She wouldn’t lose it this time. She would cope.
She might need a little assistance, though. There was nothing wrong with needing a little assistance.
It wasn’t easy, getting the Calpol in. She lay Noah on her lap, his head resting on the crook of her left arm, opened the bottle, filled the spoon, leaned his head back, and gently prised his mouth open with her finger. Noah wriggled as she moved the spoon towards his mouth – some of the liquid dribbled down his chin and onto his bright red bib. He jerked his hand and a good dollop of it ended up joining the many stains on Joanna’s once-white T-shirt too.
She put the medicine in the black case and the medicine-coated bib in one of its outside pockets, put the case back in the locker, and sat down.
Noah must have taken some of the medicine in because, within half an hour, he had fallen asleep on her lap. She felt her eyes closing within minutes of his.
When Joanna woke, Alistair was sitting beside her reading a book and Noah was wrapped up on his lap, baby-seatbelt on for landing. They were descending into Melbourne. The city sprawled on beneath her. In the distance, she could see smoke from the fires that were raging.
Joanna had travelled around Europe a lot after university, and every summer since she’d been teaching she went to Spain or Italy or France, but she’d never been to the southern hemisphere. She dreamed that one day she and Alistair would build a holiday house here with the money she inherited when her mum died. It’d have a veranda overlooking the sea. She’d researched the trees she’d have in her garden: a wattle tree, a lemon, and a Syzygium. She’d make Lilly Pilly jam from the pretty pink-red berries of the Syzygium while Noah jumped on the trampoline.
‘Has he slept the whole time?’ she asked Alistair.
‘He woke and cried for a bit,’ Alistair said, ‘but I got him settled. You slept through it! Well done. See, it is possible.’
Joanna felt invigorated, happy. ‘You, Mr Robertson, are the best thing that has ever happened to me.’
4
JOANNA
15 February
Alistair transferred Noah to the nifty buggy-cum-car-seat which was waiting for them just outside the plane. The baby was wrapped snugly in his blue blanket, his tiny face barely visible.
‘Shh, no!’ Alistair scolded Joanna when she leant down to check on him. ‘Don’t wake him!’
Alistair was right. Even looking at him might cause this blissful calm to erupt.
Wheeling Noah ahead of them in the buggy, they manoeuvred through the queues at immigration, collected their baggage, and exited the air-conditioned terminal building.
Joanna wheezed in a mouthful of boiling air and panicked – it felt like someone had put the nozzle of a hair dryer in her mouth.
They walked as fast as they could to the car rentals parking area, not wanting to disturb Noah by removing his blanket.
‘Can you smell it?’ Alistair’s Australian accent was stronger already.
Joanna sucked thick air in through her nose. ‘Eucalyptus?’
‘Eucalyptus and . . .’ Alistair clicked the doors open to the hire car, put his hand up and held it out ‘. . . bushfire.’ A piece of ash from the fire that had been raging for three days floated down and landed on the palm of his hand. ‘God it’s good to be home.’
Alistair detached the buggy seat from its frame and strapped it into the car. He put the cases that were on the trolley Joanna had wheeled from the terminal in the boot, the smaller ones on top. A perfect fit. He’d probably asked the rental people to give the measurements of the boot to make sure the cases would fit before choosing this model. Joanna smiled at her organised manly man.
He sat in the driver’s seat beside Joanna and checked his phone. ‘Shit!’ he whispered.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked quietly.
‘That young labour girl with the tits has spoken to the Daily Mail. Says the dinners with Johnstone weren’t just dinners. He liked to wear a dog collar. Shit shit shit. What’s the time?’
Joanna looked at her watch, which she’d adjusted when they taxied in. ‘It’s 3 p.m. here.’
‘So that’s 6 a.m. in the UK. I’ll call the office when we get to the house.’
*
Air conditioning now almost too chilly, they headed along the Tullamarine Freeway.
‘Never thought I’d say this, but I am aching to be in Geelong,’ Alistair said, looking at the smoggy Melbourne skyline ahead. Geelong, a one-hour drive from Melbourne, was a poor cousin to the money-dripping metropolis of Victoria’s capital and Alistair had been scathing of it as a teenager and young man. He’d craved Melbourne or, better, London. But as he made his way to the Princes Highway which would take them west, he looked more and more excited. He told Joanna he was looking forward to eating burgers on the beachfront and mooching in the country-town-feel shopping centre and driving along the Great Ocean Road. But most of all, he was desperate to see his daughter, Chloe.
Joanna first met Chloe four years ago. It wasn’t a good meeting. Joanna was in bed making love to her daddy. Chloe was standing in the bedroom door, next to her mummy.
‘Who’s that?’ ten-year-old Chloe had asked, pointing to the naked woman on top of her father.
Joanna jumped off her lover, grabbed the sheet and attempted to wrap herself in it.
‘That,’ Alexandra said, ‘is a fucking slut.’
Alistair sat up, completely naked. ‘Alexandra, watch your language,’ he said.
‘Oh sorry, darling, of course,’ his wife said to her already deflated husband. ‘Swearing will traumatise our daughter.’
‘Chloe, go to the kitchen,’ Alistair ordered.
‘But what are you doing with that woman?’ Chloe asked.
‘Kitchen! Now!’
Chloe obeyed her father and left the bedroom.
‘Alexandra, will you please let us get dressed? We’ll talk about this calmly. Okay? And not in front of Chloe.’
They didn’t talk calmly. Alexandra threw a lamp at Joanna, who dressed and left. Alexandra then hit Alistair, refused to discuss an amicable divorce, waited till Alistair left the following day for a conference, packed, and fled, taking Chloe with her.
Alistair phoned Chloe regularly in the months that followed, and would have flown to Australia to visit, if not for several emergencies in Westminster.
But his attempts to make contact dwindled in direct proportion to his growing desire to make a new family with Joanna. (Need to believe we are for ever?
Have my baby.)
This new family might have been enough for him had the following story by feared Tory blogger James Moyer not popped up on his Google Alert shortly after Noah was born.
Aw, how sweet are these photos of Alistair Robertson and his family? Mum and Dad pushing their pride and joy through the Botanics. He’s the right man to champion family values, the right man for Labour to prime for a safe seat in the next election.
But hang on, that woman’s his mistress, not his wife.
And the baby’s his second child, not his first. His first, fourteen-year-old Chloe, lives 12,000 miles away, and he hasn’t bothered to see her for four years.
And if you look even more closely, which I have, there’s more . . . The ex-wife, Alexandra Donohue, was caught drink driving yesterday . . . on the way to collect her daughter from the animal sanctuary.
The value of a Labour family?
Nada.
Alistair and Joanna had come to Australia to fight for custody of Chloe. Alistair’s lawyer was very confident. The mother took the child from the UK without asking or even telling the father: kidnapping, yes, they could call it that. The mother did not reveal her whereabouts for over a month once she arrived there: that’d be called non-cooperation or evasion of responsibilities. The mother collected the child from her voluntary work at the Healesville animal sanctuary under the influence of alcohol, and was planning to drive the child home drunk: that was neglect . . . hell, that was criminal.
‘It’s not because of that idiotic blog,’ Alistair said to Joanna before they left. ‘I don’t care about work. Since Noah, since our family, what matters is clearer than ever. That woman was always a drinker, and now I know she’s happy to endanger the life of my little girl. Chloe should be safe. She should be with her dad. She should be with an inspirational, kind, caring, responsible woman – with you, Joanna – and with her baby brother, she should be with her family.’
The Cry Page 2