‘Especially when he’s already decided what the outcome will be.’
‘I’m afraid so.’
Rose Keating had come down to us. She put a consoling hand on my shoulder.
‘You all right, dear?’
‘Just about. How’s Elaine Kendall?’
‘Bearing up. Just. I think I’ll get her home to Crawley. Don’t want to send her back on her own.’
‘Good idea,’ Nigel said. ‘And I’ll get Ms Griffiths to Paddington.’
‘You will be back for the decision?’ I asked.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Will you be all right for the next two hours?’
I glanced across the court. There, opposite us, sat Diane Dexter. Immobile. Rigid. Her face reflecting a mixture of emotional concussion, fury, and sadness. There, next to her, was Tony, frantically whispering to her, trying to bring her around, their relationship suddenly gone haywire after the revelations just disclosed. Revelations that only came out because they had tried to rob me of my child. Which gave me no option but to lash out and find something to undermine them. Just as Maeve and Lucinda Fforde had worked so hard on our respective behalves to decimate the other’s case. And now, here we were – in thrall to the forthcoming judgment of a third party – exhausted, spent, equally decimated. No one wins in a case like this one. Everyone comes out looking shabby and squalid.
I put my hand on Maeve’s shoulder.
‘Whatever happens now, I cannot thank you enough.’
She shook her head. ‘I’m going to be straight with you, Sally. I think it looks bad. I could tell that Traynor truly hated our final flourish. Especially poor Elaine Kendall.’
‘That was my fault. My great pro-active move.’
‘No – it was the right move. And what she said needed to be said. I should have briefed her myself, gauged her emotional state. That was my job – and I didn’t do it properly.’
‘What are you going to do for the next two hours?’
‘Go back to Chambers. And you?’
I grabbed my sister from the back of the court. We walked across the bridge, and lined up for last-minute tickets to the London Eye. We managed to obtain two places. Up we went into the clouds, the city stretched out on all sides of us like one of those sixteenth century maps of the world, where you can begin to believe that the world is flat, and can actually see where the city ends, the precipice begins. Sandy peered out west – past the Palace, the Albert Hall, the green lushness of Kensington Gardens, the high residential grandness of Holland Park, into the endless suburban beyond.
‘You say this town has got its great moments…’ she said, ‘but I bet most of the time, it’s just grim.’
Which kind of sums up so much of life, doesn’t it?
When we were released from that massive ferris wheel, we bought ice creams like a pair of tourists temporarily freed from the day-to-day demands of life. Then we crossed Waterloo Bridge back to The Strand, and entered the High Court for what I knew would be the last time.
En route back, we fell silent until we reached the court. At which point Sandy asked, ‘Can I sit next to you for the judgment?’
‘I’d like that.’
Tony and his team were already in place when we got back. But I noticed that Diane Dexter was now sitting next to their solicitor. Maeve was in the front row next to Nigel. No one greeted each other. No one said a thing. Sandy and I sat down. I took a few deep breaths, trying to stay calm. But no one in this room was calm. The aura of fear was everywhere.
Five minutes went by, then ten. Still, we all sat there in silence. Because what else could we do? Then the clerk entered. And we all stood up. Traynor walked slowly to the bench, a folder held between his long, elegant fingers. He bowed. He sat down. We bowed. We all sat down. He opened his file. He started reading. As he began his recitation, I remember what Maeve told me some days earlier.
‘In the course of his judgment, he may make what he refers to as “findings”. These are considered to be, in legal terms, irrefutable facts – which essentially means that, once made, they cannot be challenged.’
But from the outset, he let it be known that he wasn’t pleased with the entire tone of the case.
‘Let me say at the start that, in the two brief days of this Final Hearing, we have had much dirty linen washed in a most public way. We have learned that Mr Hobbs has had two children by two different women, and that he forged no relationship with these children. We’ve learned that Mr Hobbs’s new partner, Ms Dexter, had a drug addiction problem, which she courageously overcame after it caused her to miscarry a child. And I must say, I found Ms Dexter’s candour about her past addictions both courageous and exemplary. She was a most impressive witness…’
Oh, God…
‘Since then, as we’ve also learned, Ms Dexter has gone to extreme lengths to have children … to the point where, if the respondent’s counsel is to be believed, she was willing to conspire with her partner to snatch his son away from her mother, on allegedly trumped-up charges of threatened child abuse.’
Sandy glanced at me. Traynor had just hinted that he hadn’t bought our case.
‘We have learned that, over twenty years ago, Ms Goodchild handed her father a drink which may – or may not – have put him over the legal limit, and may, or may not, have contributed to the fatal accident in which he was killed along with his wife and two innocent people.
‘And we’ve also learned that Ms Dexter and Mr Hobbs weren’t particularly honest about the actual duration of their relationship … though, in truth, the court can’t really see the importance of whether they were first intimate three years ago or just three months ago.’
Another nervous glance between Sandy and myself. I glanced around the court. Everyone had their heads lowered, as if we were at church.
‘And I say that because, amidst all the evidence of the last two days, the central issue has been obscured: what is best for the child? That is the one and only issue here. Everything else, in the opinion of the court, is extraneous.
‘Now, without question, the relationship between a mother and her child is the most pivotal one in life. One might go as far as to use the word “primordial” to describe this immense bond. The mother brings us into life, she suckles us, she nurtures us in the most critical early stages of our existence. For this reason, the law is most reluctant to disturb, let alone rupture, this primordial relationship – unless the trust which society places in a mother has been profoundly breached.
‘Earlier today, counsel for the applicant outlined the “accusations” – as she called them – against the respondent. And it must be acknowledged that these accusations are most grave and serious. Just as it must also be acknowledged that the respondent was suffering from a severe clinical disorder that impaired her judgment, and also caused her to behave in a thoroughly irrational way.
‘But while acknowledging said clinical condition, can the court risk jeopardizing the child’s welfare? This is the central dilemma that the court has had to address. Just as it has also had to study whether the child’s welfare will be better served by being placed in the care of its father and his new partner – a woman who may claim to be his surrogate mother, but who will never, in the eyes of this court, be considered so.’
He paused. He looked up over his glasses in my direction.
‘Threatening a child’s life – even in delusional anger – is a most serious matter…’
Sandy reached over and clasped my hand, as if to say: I’ll be holding you as he sends you over the edge.
‘Doing so twice is profoundly worrying. So too is poisoning a child with sleeping tablets – even though it was the result of a befuddled accident.
‘But are these actions enough to break that primordial bond between mother and child? Especially when questions must be raised about the ulterior motives of the child’s father, and the real reasons for the legal action he took eight months ago to gain residence of the child?
‘Ultimately, ho
wever, we turn, once again, to the heart of the matter: if the mother is granted sole or shared residence of the child, will she act on the threats she made earlier? Shouldn’t we be prudent in this case, and thus breach that primordial maternal bond, in order to serve the best interests of the child?’
Traynor paused and sipped at a glass of water. In front of me, Nigel Clapp put his hand to his face. Because that last sentence had given the game away. We’d lost.
Traynor put the water down and continued to read.
‘These are the questions that the court has had to ponder. Large, taxing questions. And yet, when all the evidence is carefully studied, there is a clear answer to all these questions.’
I bowed my head. Here it was now. Finally. The judgment upon me.
‘And so, after due consideration, I find that the mother, Ms Goodchild, did not intend to harm her child, and was not responsible for her actions during this period, as she was suffering from a medically diagnosed depression.
‘I also find that the father, Mr Hobbs, has done everything he can to sever the bond between the mother and the child. As such, I find that the motivations of Mr Hobbs – and of his partner, Ms Dexter – in claiming that the child was at risk were not wholly altruistic ones. And I also find that they manipulated the truth for their own gain.’
Sandy was now squeezing my hand so hard I was certain she was about to break several bones. But I didn’t care.
‘These are the reasons why it is the decision of this court that this child must see and spend substantial time with both parents…’
He stopped for just a second or two, but it felt like a minute:
‘ … but that I grant residence of the child to the mother.’
There was a long, shocked silence, broken by Traynor.
‘As I also find that there was malice directed against the respondent, I order that the applicant pay the respondent’s costs.’
Lucinda Fforde was instantly on her feet.
‘I seek leave to appeal.’
Traynor peered down at her. And said, ‘Leave refused.’
He gathered up his papers. He removed his half-moon glasses. He looked out at our stunned faces. He said, ‘If there is no further business, I will rise.’
Fifteen
SIX WEEKS LATER, London had a heatwave. It lasted nearly a week. The mercury hovered in the early eighties, the sky was a cloudless hard dome of blue, and the sun remained an incandescent presence above the city.
‘Isn’t this extraordinary?’ I said on the fifth day of high temperatures and no rain.
‘It’ll break any moment,’ Julia said. ‘And then we’ll be back to the grey norm.’
‘True – but I’m not going to think about that right now.’
We were in Wandsworth Park. It was late afternoon. Around a half-hour earlier, Julia had knocked on my door and asked me if I was up for a walk. I pushed aside the new manuscript I was working on, moved Jack from his playpen to his pushchair, grabbed my sunglasses and my hat, and headed off with her. By the time we reached the park, Jack had fallen asleep. Parking ourselves on a grassy knoll by the river, Julia reached into her shoulder bag, and emerged with two wine glasses and a chilled bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.
‘Figured we should celebrate the heat with a drop of drinkable wine… that is, if you can indulge just now?’
‘I think I can get away with a glass,’ I said. ‘I’m down to two anti-depressants a day now.’
‘That is impressive,’ she said. ‘It took me nearly a year to be weaned off them.’
‘Well, Dr Rodale hasn’t pronounced me “cured” yet.’
‘But you’re certainly getting there.’
She uncorked the wine. I lay back for a moment, and felt the sun on my face, and let the sour lemon aroma of the grass block out all the usual urban odours, and thought: this is rather pleasant.
‘Here you go,’ Julia said, placing a glass beside me, then lighting a cigarette. I sat up. We clinked glasses.
‘Here’s to finished business,’ she said.
‘Such as?’
‘Finally wrapping up a fucking awful project.’
‘The East Anglian history thing?’
‘Yes, that beast,’ she said, mentioning some tome she’d been editing which had bored her senseless (or so she had kept telling me). ‘Done and dusted last night. And anyone who’s spent three months enveloped in East Anglian history deserves a few glasses of wine. You still working on the Jazz Guide?’
‘Oh, yes – all 1800 pages of it. And I still haven’t gotten beyond Sidney Bechet.’
‘Watch out – Stanley will get worried.’
‘I’ve got seven weeks before it’s due. And given that Stanley just asked me out, I doubt he’ll be hectoring me about—’
Julia nearly coughed on her cigarette.
‘Stanley asked you out?’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘My, my – I am surprised.’
‘Over the course of my adult life, men have occasionally asked me out.’
‘You know what I’m talking about. It’s Stanley. Not exactly the most forward of men. And even since his divorce, he’s maintained a pretty low profile on that front.’
‘He’s quite charming, in his own avuncular way. Or, at least, that’s the impression I got when we had that lunch all those months ago.’
‘And he’s only in his early fifties. And he does look after himself. And he is a very good editor. And I hear he does have a rather nice maisonette in South Ken. And—’
‘I’m certain he can hold a fork in his hand without drooling.’
‘Sorry’ she said with a laugh. ‘I wasn’t really trying to sell him to you.’
‘Sell him as hard as you like. Because I’ve already told him I’m too busy for dinner right now.’
‘But why? It’s just dinner.’
‘I know – but he is my sole source of income at the moment. And I don’t want to jeopardize that by veering into situations non-professional. I need the work.’
‘Have you reached a settlement with Tony’s solicitors as yet?’
‘Yes, we’ve just got there.’
Actually, it was Nigel Clapp who got us there, forcing their hand through his usual hesitant determination – a description which, if applied to anyone else, would sound oxymoronic, but made complete sense when portraying Nigel. A week after the hearing, the other side got in touch with him and made their first offer: continued shared ownership of the house, in return for 50 per cent payment of the ongoing mortgage, and an alimony/child support payment of £500 a month. Tony’s solicitors explained that, given he was now no longer in full-time employment, asking him to pay the entire monthly mortgage, coupled with £500 for the upkeep of his son and ex-wife, was a tremendous stretch.
As Nigel explained to me at the time, ‘I… uhm… did remind them that he did have a wealthy patroness, and that we could dig our heels in and force him to hand over ownership of the house to you. Not that we would have had much chance of winning that argument, but … uhm… I sensed that they didn’t have the appetite for much of a fight.’
They settled rather quickly thereafter. We would still own the house jointly – and would split the proceeds when and if it was ever sold, but Tony would handle the full mortgage payment, in addition to £1000 maintenance per month – which would cover our basic running costs, but little more.
Still, I didn’t want any more. In fact, in the immediate aftermath of the hearing, my one central thought (beyond the shock of winning the case, and getting Jack back) was the idea that, with any luck, I would not have to spend any time in the company of Tony Hobbs again. True, we had agreed joint custody terms: he’d have Jack every other weekend. Then again, the fact that he’d be spending all forthcoming weekends in Sydney ruled out much in the way of shared custody… though Nigel was assured, through Tony’s solicitors, that their client would be returning to London on a regular basis to see his son.
Tony also assured me of this
himself during our one conversation. This took place a week after the hearing – the day both our solicitors had agreed upon for Jack to be returned to me. ‘The hand-over’ as Nigel Clapp called it – an expression that had a certain Cold War spy novel ring to it, but was completely apt. Because, on the morning before, I received a phone call from Pickford Movers, informing me that they would be arriving tomorrow at nine am with a delivery of nursery furniture from an address on Albert Bridge Road. Later that day, Nigel rang to say he’d heard from Tony’s solicitors, asking him if I’d be at home tomorrow around noon, ‘as that’s when the hand-over will take place’.
‘Did they say who’ll be bringing Jack over?’ I asked.
‘The nanny’ he said.
Typical Tony, I thought. Leave it to a third party to do his dirty work for him.
‘Tell them I’ll be expecting Jack at noon,’ I said.
The next morning, the movers arrived an hour early (‘Thought you wouldn’t mind, luv,’ said the on-the-job foreman). Within sixty minutes, not only had they unloaded everything, but they’d also put Jack’s crib, wardrobe, and chest of drawers back together again in the nursery. Accompanying the furniture were several boxes of clothes and baby paraphernalia. I spent the morning putting everything away, rehanging the mobile that had been suspended above his cot, setting up a diaper-changing area on top of the chest of drawers, repositioning the bottle sterilizer in the kitchen, and setting up a playpen in the living room. In the process, I started erasing all memories of a house without a child.
Then, at noon, the front door bell rang. Was I nervous? Of course I was. Not because I was worried about how I’d react, or whether the momentousness of the moment would overwhelm me. Rather, because I never believed this moment would happen. And when you are suddenly dealing with a longed-for reality – especially one that once seemed so far beyond the realm of possibility – well, who isn’t nervous at a moment like that?
I went to the door, expecting some hired help to be standing there, holding my son. But when I swung it open, I found myself facing Tony. I blinked with shock – and then immediately looked down, making certain that he had Jack with him. He did. My son was comfortably ensconced in his carry-chair, a pacifier in his mouth, a foam duck clutched between his little hands.
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