The Mistake

by Wendy James

  She has never been good at friendship, she realises this – even as a child she had always been at the periphery of any group, routinely included but never essential, nobody’s particular buddy. The child Jodie had always been slightly different to the other children, mildly aloof – from shyness more than anything else – self-contained. For a short time, in third grade, she’d had a real best friend – Bridie – someone to share everything with – every thought, every dream. Jodie remembers her vividly, but Bridie was in her life so briefly, her arrival and departure so abrupt and so beset by mystery, that she sometimes wonders whether she’d actually invented Bridie – an imaginary friend for a lonely child.

  It’s not only Jodie’s friends who appear to have abandoned her, but the community itself – the whole sticky web of connections that has always provided support. Now, without the once taken-for-granted buttress of respectability, and the associated assurance of welcome, every excursion outside the house – for shopping, to pick up Tom from school, visits to the solicitor – has become fraught and painful.

  She can no longer expect a mildly flirtatious conversation with the local butcher (an old school mate of Angus’s) when she buys her meat, for instance, or a chat about the unseasonably warm weather with the local newsagent (a former colleague), or a friendly inquiry about the children’s doings from their old baby-sitter (daughter of her old school-teacher). People tied to her own family in countless ways offer a curt hello, at best, or give her the cold shoulder. And it seems she can’t leave the house without some malicious wit calling out to her, can’t avoid the refusal to meet her eye, the swiftly down-turned faces of people she would once have smiled at easily in the supermarket. She has even heard the words fucken murderer hissed by someone vaguely familiar and has had to lower her flaming cheeks, blink back tears.

  Twice she has actually been spat on. The first time it was a high-school girl, sixteen or so, who let out an obscene torrent of abuse after gobbing at her feet. The second time, even more shockingly, it was an elderly woman, well dressed, who stopped in front of her and grabbed at Jodie’s hand. She’d assumed that the old woman needed help, that she’d lost her balance, perhaps, and so had allowed herself to be gripped, had tried to steady the frail, birdlike creature. But the woman had pulled her head back slowly, her eyes narrowed. As if in some strange alternate reality Jodie had watched the woman’s jaw tense, her throat working as she collected the vile projectile in the back of her mouth, had realised finally what the woman was about to do, had reared back in horror, but it had been too late: the spittle found its target, hitting her in the side of the face. The old woman had hissed something at her, as Jodie pulled free of her clasp, but Jodie hadn’t tried to make out the words, had hurried on, trying desperately to remove the shameful gobbet of mucus from her cheek. Utterly humiliated, she had told no one of either instance, had tried hard to forget them herself.

  She has no idea how to act in public, whether to hold her head up, to refuse to bend, to look all her accusers firmly and boldly in the eye, or whether she should be timid, apologetic, deferential. To beg her erstwhile friends and acquaintances, if not for mercy, then for their sympathy, their assumption of her innocence, and a resumption of their good will.

  Angus merely shrugs and tells her to ignore it when she asks him, genuinely bewildered, how she should respond to her sudden pariah status. But her husband too has continued to retreat in some essential way. There’s nothing obvious, nothing she can put her finger on: there is no obvious discord between them. She had expected the tense arguments, the eruptions of anger, that have occurred when things between them have been difficult in the past. She would have preferred this: anger is something she could bear, could understand – could fight.

  Jodie now finds that there are days when she speaks to no one other than Tom and Angus and, less and less frequently, Hannah. She goes for long walks with the dog, Ruff – walking for hours some days, from their house on The Hill and out along the dirt roads connecting the small acreages on the outskirts of town. Once, she would have enjoyed the walks, would have had friendly company, Fiona, Karen, sometimes Sue; they would have chatted about this or that, or perhaps walked silently, lost in their own thoughts. But now there’s no choice – there’s only her own thoughts, or a one-sided conversation with the ever-ebullient Ruff. She imagines herself eventually becoming one of those women – bag ladies, she supposes they’re called even in the country – who walk through the streets muttering to themselves, oblivious to everything but their own internal narrative, endlessly reliving the memory of some desperate failure or long-ago success.

  There was a girl who’d been at Grammar when she was there – a few years older than Jodie, she had come from an artistic sort of family, was drop-dead gorgeous, smart, popular. She was destined to be something, someone, that was clear: she could act, sing, dance, paint, write. After school she’d moved to the city and over the years, through this and that avenue, Jodie had heard stories about her life – maybe true, maybe apocryphal: she’d scored a part in a big soapie, sung in some night-club, taken up with a mogul, lived in London or New York, Paris, maybe. She didn’t know the full story, perhaps no one did, but the girl – Arabella, her name was – had arrived back in Arding, moved in with her ageing parents, ten or so years ago, a shadow of that former glamorous self. Drugs, they said. Alcohol, love. Her old friends and acquaintances had avoided her; her family just tolerated her. Though she had never known her well, Jodie had been one of the avoiders, not wanting to meet her eye, or be forced to acknowledge her, make conversation. But now when Jodie sees poor Arabella make her aimless circumnavigations about town, it’s hard not to empathise.

  DAILY TELEGRAPH

  ‘Hospital defends reputation of midwife

  at centre of Elsa Mary adoption claims’

  Belfield Private Hospital last night released a statement defending the reputation of former midwife Sheila O’Malley.

  According to claims made by Jodie Garrow, the woman currently under police scrutiny over the disappearance of her infant daughter twenty-four years ago, Matron O’Malley was instrumental in setting up an illegal adoption, in which money is said to have changed hands.

  However, Dr Chandler Purvis, CEO of Saratoga Private, who now own Belfield, and a former colleague of the late Matron O’Malley, has publicly repudiated Mrs Garrow’s accusations.

  ‘Having passed away a few years back, Mrs O’Malley is unfortunately not able to defend herself. Belfield and Saratoga Private would like to make clear our complete repudiation of Mrs Garrow’s allegations,’ Mr Purvis said yesterday.

  ‘Matron O’Malley was one of the best midwives this hospital has ever had the privilege to employ, and to suggest that she did anything that was against the law or in any way unethical is a terrible slur against a remarkable woman.’

  Investigations into the disappearance of the child, who would now be twenty-four, and a search for her alleged adoptive parents continues.

  17

  Knowing how painful all social appearances have become for her, Angus has been making a real effort to relieve Jodie, doing some of the shopping, volunteering for much of the running around of children, leaving work briefly to pick up and deliver Tom and Hannah to sporting practice, music lessons, rehearsals, friends’ houses. It’s an easy way to show his support for his wife both publicly and automatically, and one that requires no real conversation, no emotional effort – all is beyond him at the moment – and he’s quite enjoying the extra time spent with the kids. Usually he just drops them off and goes back to the office, retrieving them when they’re ready to go, but occasionally he waits. Today, he’s surrendered to Tom’s appeal that he stay and watch his indoor hockey game at the high-school hall. He settles back on the wooden seat, waves to his tousle-haired, mouth-guarded boy, and prepares to enjoy the noisy battle.

  ‘Angus.’ The mother of one of the other team members sits down beside him, gives him a slightly strained smile.

  ‘Mary.�
� Angus nods. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Oh, you know … busy. How about you?’ Her gaze drifts away towards the game, back again, never quite looking at him fully. ‘Yeah. We’re pretty busy, too.’ Drily. He ploughs on, asking the expected.

  ‘And how’s Big Jim? Haven’t seen him for a while. How’d the soccer season go?’

  ‘Well, he’s retired, actually – getting too old. He hurt his leg last winter – tore a ligament …’ He can almost hear her brain whirring as she wonders whether to reciprocate.

  ‘And how’s … how’s Jodie?’

  ‘Well, you know. She’s okay, I guess. Coping, anyway.’

  ‘Oh. Well, pass on my regards. We’re missing her … tennis, canteen …’ Her voice is edged with anxiety now. She narrows her eyes and stares straight ahead as if following the game intently.

  Angus moves the conversation into dangerous territory, deliberately offhand. ‘Well, you could pass them on yourself, you know. Our phone number hasn’t changed.’ He masks the sharp rebuke with a friendly tone, an open expression. ‘It would be good if she could get out a bit more, actually, get involved in things again.’ He waits for an evasive response, but Mary’s side-stepping is more literal than he’d expected – she jumps to her feet, waving manically at someone on the other side of the field.

  ‘Oh, sorry, Angus,’ she apologises breathlessly. ‘I really have to talk to Christa Underwood about something. Wonderful to see you.’ She trips away, her handbag clutched to her chest, her relief at escaping evident.

  Angus sighs. He has tried this manoeuvre a number of times, with certain old friends, longstanding acquaintances, and almost every time the response has been the same: shocked embarrassment at Angus’s (indecent!) mention of his wife’s problem, his implicit plea for sympathy and support. A few of his victims have murmured hasty reassurances, vague promises; others pretended they hadn’t heard him, deftly changed the subject, then quickly moved on. Only one woman – the district magistrate’s wife, slightly eccentric, renowned for her tart remarks and trenchant opinions – had made an honest rejoinder. It wasn’t one he’d enjoyed hearing, but it was honest nonetheless.

  ‘It’s right of you to support your wife, Angus,’ she had said softly but intently, gripping his forearm with surprising strength. ‘But you can’t expect everyone to be so loyal – not when we don’t know the full story.’

  The truth is that Angus doesn’t know the full story either. And one part of him – the cool, disinterested lawyer side of him, the aspect that, as the years pass, as his work becomes almost a second skin, has begun to define him – that part of him doesn’t want to know the full story, is warning him to proceed with caution. It’s complex, almost paradoxical. It’s not that he doesn’t believe what his wife has told him – he does. It’s what she’s not saying that worries him. The fact that Jodie’s initial impulse had been to omit certain crucial details (come on, she’d lied!) really hadn’t bothered him at first; he had, just as he’d reassured her, understood. But now, more and more, he finds himself wondering, and the more he wonders, the less he wants to know. And not wanting to know means having to distance himself, and the more he distances himself the less certain he is of Jodie herself – of what she’s told him, of who she is.

  He sits alone for the rest of the game, distracted, only half watching the boys’ clicking progress up and down the wooden boards, though he manages to clap when required, and gives a big cheer when Tom hits a goal. His uncertainty extends beyond Jodie, has transformed his sense of self, his position in Arding, his place in the world. So often, these days, in any public situation, he feels his presence is perceived as almost a provocation to others – as if, given the opportunity, they’d be glad to challenge him, to call him up on his defence of his wife, on his claims to respectability, decency. That they’re convinced it’s all a pretence – that all these years he’s only been acting the role of upright citizen, good father. As if the reality is something else.

  People are still friendly enough, respectful – he’s still Angus Garrow, after all, and not a person to be casually slighted – but he can sense a certain wariness in some people and occasionally, particularly amongst those who were formerly the most deferential, a barely concealed contempt.

  He has, as Susan had predicted, been forced to relinquish his mayoral ambitions, and though outwardly resigned to his sidelining, has observed the local elections with frustration and considerable envy. He has tried hard to contain his bitterness – there have been no recriminations, he has barely even mentioned it to Jodie, but the resentment surfaces at odd moments. His practice has suffered, too – several long-term clients have moved their accounts elsewhere, their excuses so clumsily expressed he’d been embarrassed on their behalf.

  His employees – the two PAs, and a young law clerk – have, after their initial unguarded expressions of surprise, nervously avoided mentioning the situation. His partner Gemma, with whom he had a brief and almost perfunctory fling years ago, is even more careful to be circumspect on the rare occasions when Jodie is mentioned.

  At home, Angus’s panic attacks have become both more intense and unaccountably predictable – occurring now only in the evenings, usually soon after his arrival home, when he should, by rights, be winding down. He has been able to rush off to the study, or the bathroom, claiming work, the need for a long soak, and somehow – so wrapped up in her own worries – it seems that Jodie hasn’t noticed anything odd. Though Angus can find no way to explain this change, and though he’s grateful that he no longer has to lock himself in his office at work, pleading a migraine, while the panic passes, he fears his virtual absence even at home will eventually create more strain. He is stricken with guilt, knowing that, under their current peculiar circumstances, Jodie will be feeling his absence keenly, that she must feel that he has abandoned her, that he can’t bear to be near her. He has thought about confiding in Jodie, telling her what’s happening; he would welcome her sympathy, her advice. But Angus can’t tell her, won’t – he doesn’t want to make things any worse, give her more to worry about: however tough he’s doing it, there’s enough, more than enough, on her plate already.

  When the game finishes – the other team winning 3–2 – Tom doesn’t hang around with his mates for the usual debrief, but wanders over to his father, dribbling the ball despondently. Angus gets up ready to go, ruffles his son’s hair.

  ‘Well played, champ. They were a good team – you did well.’

  But Tom doesn’t reply, keeps hitting and stopping the ball, without lifting his head.

  ‘Tom?’ He peers down at his son’s half-hidden face, glimpses red eyes, tearstained cheeks. ‘What’s going on, mate?’ But Tom can’t answer, is sobbing openly now.

  ‘Oh, shit.’ Angus kneels down in front of him. ‘What’s wrong, Tommy?’

  The boy tries to speak but chokes on his words, his lips still clenched around the plastic guard.

  ‘Pull it out, Tommy, will you?’ But his son sinks to the floor, as if overcome, his hands covering his face, his chest heaving. Angus half lifts, half drags the boy through the hall and out into the car park, ignoring the concerned faces of other parents, the coach, team members. By the time they get to the car, the worst of his crying has stopped, and he has finally managed to spit out the guard. Tom sits in the back, his face turned away from his father, the occasional painful sob erupting.

  Angus waits for a moment before turning on the ignition, his hands gripping the steering wheel. ‘What happened in there, Tom? Do you think you can tell me?’ He keeps his voice calm.

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Please, Tom. It does matter. I need to know. You’re not upset about losing?’

  ‘Of course not!’ The boy glares at his father, his scorn unmistakable.

  ‘Did someone hurt you – is that it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well then, what? Tommy?’ The boy hesitates, looks away again before speaking. ‘They were teasing me – a couple of the boys on the
other team.’

  ‘Teasing you? What about?’ Angus’s heart sinks, knowing what’s to come.

  ‘They were talking about you and Mum.’ The words are hesitant, his voice half muffled.

  ‘What were they saying? Tom?’

  ‘All sorts of stuff. Sort of whispering it at me when I was down the back. Two boys from St Marks.’ The words come in a rush now, as if he’s suddenly desperate to be rid of them. ‘One of them kept saying that Mum was a murderer. That she killed that baby. That everyone knows it.’

  ‘Oh, Tom.’ He is helpless in the face of his son’s terror – which is really just a replica of his own.

  ‘And the other one, he was saying you must be in on it too – and that you’d both be going to jail. It’s not true is it, Dad? You’re not —’

  ‘None of it’s true, sweetheart. Your mum did just what she says she did.’ He hears his voice: loud, clear, certain. ‘And no one – no one – is going to jail.’ Angus sounds just the way a father, defender of his family, should – he only wishes he could be sure that he was, in fact, that man.

  Daily Telegraph

  Dear editor,

  I am writing to you as I am Jodie Garrow’s mother and I thought I should tell you a few things about my daughter as people are very interested and there are so many things being said and I thought it would be better to get the story straight.