by Harriet Tyce
And, conversely, she was happy when her mother paid attention to her—a vehement yes.
Her mother was very good when something was upsetting Freya—yes.
She could be very supportive if there was a problem—another strong yes.
But otherwise was quite preoccupied with her own life—yes.
Fair to say that Freya had problems at school—yes.
She’d lost some friends over the years—yes.
She had caused a lot of problems in school over the years too—a sheepish yes, eyes flicked to the gallery.
But the defendant—Mr. Taylor—had been helpful. Yes. He had. Very helpful. Freya nods.
She developed strong feelings for Mr. Taylor as a result. A long pause. Yes, but not…
“Yes or no, please,” Barbara says.
“Yes.”
And so it goes on. I know what picture Barbara is painting. She won’t take long over it. Freya the lonely child, acting out to get attention, distressed by her parents’ divorce. The moment she’s given any attention by a teacher, she latches on to him. And when it all goes wrong…
Barbara moves off on a small tangent. She’s holding the list that I put together of the lies Freya told. She pauses for a moment before proceeding.
“Did the police take a laptop away from you, specifically a Hewlett Packard?”
“Yes.”
“Was there a Facebook account on there in your name?”
“Yes.”
“Did you message a friend called Susie?”
A long pause, a nod. “Yes.”
Barbara clears her throat. “Did you ever message Susie to tell her that a boy at another school had sexually assaulted you?”
Edward rises to his feet. “Your Honor, I must interrupt this line of questioning by my learned friend…”
The judge holds up her hand. “Be careful, Miss Carlisle.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Barbara says. “There is a point to this.” She turns back to Freya. “Did you ever send a message to your friend Susie to that effect?”
“Yes.”
“When you made the complaint, did you believe it to be true?”
A very long pause indeed. Freya looks down at her hands, back up at Barbara again. She looks very exposed. I turn to look at Jeremy. For once he’s looking up at Freya, his expression intent.
“Please can you answer the question?” Barbara says.
“No,” Freya says. “No, I didn’t believe it to be true.”
“Did you say it for attention?”
“No,” Freya says. I’m watching her intently. Her voice says no, but her face says something else entirely.
“Did you say it for revenge?”
“No,” Freya says, but she looks even more troubled.
“Are you sure about that?” Barbara says. Even though she’s on the attack, her approach is still gentle. There’s a sympathetic tone to her questions, a tilt of the head.
Freya looks at her, defiance bristling from her. The two stare at each other, woman and girl, but it’s Freya who looks down first. “Yes, I said it for revenge.”
“Because he didn’t want to enter into a relationship with you?”
Silence. Another battle of attrition fought, lost.
“Yes, because he didn’t fancy me.”
A phone goes off in the public gallery and the judge shouts and it’s only at that moment that I realize how high the tension has grown in the courtroom. Barbara turns to me. There’s a pulse beating in her neck. Few words may have been spoken but this part of the war definitely belongs to the QC. The jury can clearly sense it too—for once, they’re fully engaged, some of them writing notes. Their expressions have changed as they look at Freya, now full of cool calculation. She’s done it once, what’s to say she’s not doing it again…
Barbara brings another piece of paper out. She’s moved on from what I’ve unearthed. She has exactly what she needs from the witness—anything else on the subject would detract from the effect that’s been made.
“You told the court that Mr. Taylor had given you books to read?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve named some of the books—one of them was Fanny Hill?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Taylor didn’t recommend that book to you, did he?”
“He did. Yes,” Freya says, indignation rising in her voice.
“He recommended some books to you about the Tudors, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“And when it was pointed out to him that there were some sex scenes in the books, he changed his recommendation, didn’t he?”
“No, he didn’t. He started with books by Philippa Gregory, and then they got worse. More sex.”
“You found Fanny Hill somewhere else, didn’t you?”
“No,” Freya says, almost in a shout.
“And you hit on it as a good prop to use in manufacturing this story, didn’t you?”
“I’m not manufacturing anything!”
Barbara nods as if satisfied with that answer. “Turning away from the book for a moment. You developed a crush on Mr. Taylor, didn’t you?”
“I, no. Yes. I mean…”
“Let me clarify what I mean,” Barbara says. “He paid you attention as a teacher, and you developed inappropriate feelings for him.”
“No! It wasn’t like that. You’re twisting it!” There’s red rising in her cheeks, a dull flush on her neck.
“But those feelings weren’t reciprocated, were they?”
“They were!”
“You tried to get Mr. Taylor’s attention, but he made it clear to you that he had no interest in that way.”
“That’s not what happened.”
“And the hurt of that rejection was compounded by your discovery that he was in a relationship.”
Freya has started to cry now, small sniffs and the wiping of sleeve across face.
“He dumped me. Yes, it hurt,” she says, very quietly.
“And that’s when you told the police that he had been in a relationship with you?”
“Yes.”
A long pause from Barbara, as if she’s making sure the jury has the point she’s making.
I have to hand it to Barbara, it’s all very effective. She clarifies that there’s no trace of the iPad to be found, and that there is only Freya’s word that there was any correspondence between her and Jeremy at all. Finally, Barbara asks a couple more questions in which she spells it out a little more clearly that she’s suggesting Freya is making the entire story up in revenge for Jeremy’s rejection of her. The bubble of Freya’s self-confidence is completely popped. She’s crying uncontrollably by the time she leaves the witness box, the shreds of her evidence all around her.
And it’s been done with sensitivity. There’s been no suggestion that Freya is sexually promiscuous, no attempt to put her moral values on trial. A portrait has been deftly drawn of a fractured relationship between parents and daughter, the girl desperate for love and attention, but unable to find it without acting out and lying. Edward’s face is somber as he leaves court at the lunch break, when the cross-examination is over.
He knows the damage that has been done to his case.
39
I check my phone as soon as we’re out of court, but there’s nothing, no message from Nicole or Julia giving any update about Daisy. The longer that Daisy is unconscious, the worse the prognosis will be.
Sitting down at the canteen table with my coffee, I flick through the apps on my phone, unsure whether I should ask for an update or whether I should wait.
“I think the prosecution case will finish today,” Barbara says, sitting down opposite me. “Tomorrow at the latest.”
“You think?” Jeremy says. He’s to my left. He looks at my coffee. “Aren’t you going to eat anything?”
“I’m not very hungry.”
“Oh, it’s that poor girl, isn’t it?” he says. “Is there no news yet?”
“None,” I say, cl
icking at my phone again.
“What’s this?” Barbara says.
“It’s one of the girls in Sadie’s daughter’s class,” Jeremy explains. “She’s in a coma. It’s very concerning.”
Barbara raises an eyebrow.
“She’s at Ashams, you know,” Jeremy adds.
“Yes. Terrible parents there, by all accounts. Though aren’t they all.” Barbara shovels the rest of her sandwich into her mouth. “I have to make a call. See you back in court.”
The rest of the afternoon passes without detriment to the defense case. Edward calls a girl called Asha, who is supposedly a friend of Freya’s, but her evidence doesn’t really progress the case much. Freya had dropped hints to her about a secret relationship but had not gone into much detail. I look at the girl’s statement and can see that, for whatever reason, she’s playing it down. When she made her statement to the police, she was adamant that Freya had actually discussed Jeremy by name with her, but she says now that she can’t remember. Edward is clearly frustrated, but he can’t push it too far.
Barbara cross-examines her, but only very briefly, to clarify that Freya never said with whom she was carrying on the secret relationship. She also asks if Asha had speculated at all about it—when the girl replies that Freya was known to invent boyfriends and bad situations to make herself look interesting, Edward’s shoulders visibly slump. There are no further questions.
At the end of the day, the whole defense team, apart from Jeremy’s mother, sits in the conference room while Barbara outlines the next steps. She’s proposing a submission of no case to answer, as in her view, the case is paper thin.
“Do you think it’ll succeed?” Jeremy says. “Will this finally be over?”
“It should do,” Barbara says. “But the judge may take the view that as it all hangs on the credibility of the witness, it should be a matter for the jury to decide, so the trial will carry on. We’ll have to see how it goes.”
She stands, signaling that the conference is over, and she and Zora leave the room. Jeremy catches at my arm as I’m about to follow.
“Do you have time for a quick drink?” he says. “I know it’s all looking positive, but I’m completely terrified. It would be really helpful just to calm me down.”
I’m not sure. I don’t want Barbara to think I’m acting inappropriately. I’m worried about Robin, too, but something about the way he’s asked the question tugs at me. He’s doing his best to seem calm, I can see that, but there’s a tension humming underneath, and looking at him more closely, his eyes are rimmed red, a furrow deep by his left eyebrow.
“Let me check a couple of things,” I say. “I may have to go home. Give me a few minutes and I’ll let you know. OK?”
“OK,” he says. “I know you have a lot of demands on you, but it would really help.”
I head over to the robing room and change. Barbara is checking her emails.
“Jeremy has suggested a drink,” I say to her. “I think he’s quite worried.”
“He doesn’t need to be,” Barbara says. “But I suppose it’s stressful.” She looks up. “Good idea. Go and calm him down. All part of the service.”
I text Nicole. Any news about Daisy? All well with the girls? I’ve been asked to have a drink with the client—does it work for me to pick up a bit later tonight? xx
No problem at all, comes the reply. And no news. Robin is distracting Pippa from worrying so that’s good xx
We walk toward Blackfriars together, stopping finally at a pub on The Cut. I ask for white wine and Jeremy goes up to the bar while I sit at a table near the back of the room. It’s filling up, tired office workers in crumpled suits. No children in here, no groups of mothers. I look around with a sense that time has run away from me; the last ten years I’ve spent in America raising Robin all slipped away, the habit of court and drinking after work so easily resumed.
Jeremy sits opposite me and puts a bottle of wine down on the table with two glasses.
“It was cheaper than by the glass,” he says. “Made more sense.”
“Thanks.”
He fills the glasses and I take a sip and then another, the alcohol smoothing its way through me.
“Is the little girl all right?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I really don’t know. It’s so strange. The mother is a bit odd, too.”
Jeremy nods. “I know exactly what you mean. I’ve met pretty much every type of parent doing this job. Some of them are completely nuts. I always do my best to keep my distance. I feel really sorry for some of the girls, the way their parents behave.”
“Is that why you were trying to help Freya?” I say, before thinking. I pause and take another sip of wine. “Sorry. We shouldn’t discuss it.”
“It’s fine. Freya was having problems at school, and there were a lot of meetings. She didn’t have any parental support. They weren’t interested, either mother or father, particularly once they’d split up. I tried to engage with her mother, but it didn’t get very far. It was as if she’d given up on Freya. I guess divorce is always hard on kids.”
“That’s what I worry about, the effect on Robin.” It doesn’t feel like I’m talking to a client any more. I look down at the table and pick up a coaster, tearing it into tiny pieces.
“Freya’s parents went through a very nasty divorce, from what I understand. I thought my parents were bad, but hers were terrible from what she said. It doesn’t need to be like that, though,” he says. “I didn’t realize you were getting divorced.” He looks at my left hand. I follow his glance, twist my wedding ring around.
“We’ve only separated recently,” I say. “That’s why Robin has started at Ashams. It’s been… difficult.”
The bar is full now, all the tables occupied. Jeremy’s voice has got lower and I’ve had to lean closer to hear him. A man pushes past the back of my chair and it jolts me forward. I bash Jeremy on the forehead and he jumps back. I rub the bump and we both start laughing.
“Let’s not talk about Freya any more,” he says. “Let’s have another drink and you can tell me the whole story.”
The ice is broken now. I’m starting to relax. I might not have sought this change in my life, but now I have a proper trial, a future career. Robin is starting to make friends; I’m starting to talk to people. And Jeremy is beginning to relax, too; he knows the case isn’t in the bag, but it could all be over the next day.
There’s almost a celebratory feel to the night, the conversation rapidly moving from Andrew to lighter, more fun topics. The first bottle is soon finished, another bought. We order food and before I even realize the time, it’s after eight o’clock. I check my phone. Nicole has texted—Robin can stay if you like—we’ve enough uniform spare for tomorrow. They’re having a lovely time Nxxx
“I should go,” I say to Jeremy. “I have to collect Robin. Though Nicole does say she can sleep over tonight.”
“Then stay,” he says. “Have some more wine. You deserve a break. It can’t be easy doing everything on your own.”
I look at my phone, at the wine, at Jeremy. I text Thank you xx to Nicole and settle back down until the pub closes at eleven, and we are asked to leave.
“Thank you,” Jeremy says as we stop to say good night at the tube station. “I feel much better.”
“I had a lovely night too.”
He leans forward to kiss me on the cheek. I turn and we lock eyes. It’s only when I feel the touch of his lips against me that I’m pulled back into myself, suddenly only too aware that he is my client. I drag myself away, wave as I run to hail a taxi with its light on, and he waves back and disappears into the tube. I sit in the cab, prodding my conscience. It might not have been strictly appropriate, but the evening was encouraged by Barbara, and the client has gone home happy. As am I, despite everything else that’s happening. I did ask him again about what he’d said about the dead girl at Ashams, but he hadn’t known any more, and it had been a relief to spend the evening talking about books and
films and music, forgetting all about my worries for a while. I travel back home with a smile on my face, falling asleep the moment my head hits the pillow.
40
My good mood has faded by the morning. The house is too empty without Robin.
I wash and dress quickly, eager to get out, before it hits me that without the school run there’s no need to leave for court so early. I make another coffee and wander around, unable to settle. All I can see are the flaws, the cracks in the walls, the holes in the floor. I’ve done a lot to the place in the time we’ve been here, but it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough.
Just like I was never enough for Lydia. Usually I ignore the thought of the pile of destruction in my old bedroom at the top of the house, but right now it lies heavy on me. I try not to imagine Lydia’s triumph that she’d be bound to feel if she knew that my much-despised marriage has ended.
I pick up the photograph of my father from the shelf and look at him, wondering if it would all have been different had he lived past my infancy. Lydia rarely talked about him, and then only to complain about how inconsiderate it had been of him to die like that and leave her all on her own to manage when he was the one who wanted a baby in the first place. So much resentment, so much blame. He is smiling in the photograph, hair brushed neatly to one side, and I smile back at him. At least he wanted me, even if Lydia didn’t.
I still can’t work out the motivation behind Lydia’s legacy to Robin, grandmother to granddaughter. Was it purely to assert control over us? It wouldn’t surprise me. But rather than being destructive, it’s actually provided the thing that I so desperately needed, the route to escape from Andrew. Robin is happy, too. If my mother was hoping otherwise, she’d be disappointed.
I’ve just put the photograph down when my phone rings.
It’s Andrew. The last person I’d expect to be calling me. It’s the middle of the night in New York, let alone anything else. I take a moment to answer, nerves grabbing me around the neck. Anger, too, that he thinks he can just contact me like this, out of the blue. There’s a delay on the line, a silence of a few seconds before some crackling noises. Then the sound starts to fade in and out, before the line cuts out entirely. I try calling back once, twice, but no reply. All the peace of mind I’ve built up collapses. I send a text, What do you want? and wait in vain for a reply. Different answers to my question dance around my head, none of them good. Andrew moving here, instigating a divorce, demanding custody of Robin.