I Made a Mistake

by Jane Corry

  Naturally, I couldn’t tell Jock that I was spending my days at Jane’s house or he would have been furious at me disobeying his order not to see her again. He’d also have accused me of neglecting my own ‘duties’ at home. By now, my stitches were healing and my body was more like its old self. So I used to tidy up before I went to Jane’s pretty regularly and then race back to make sure that I was there by the time he walked in from the factory.

  Poor Gary was finding it all a struggle. Although it was the school summer holidays, he still had to go in every now and then for meetings and to prepare the next term’s lessons. ‘I’m happy to look after the girls when you’re not there,’ I assured him.

  By then, Jane had been put on antidepressants. They made her sleepy. Once when I was there, she woke up with a start and put her arms out for Violet. But the poor little thing screamed as if her own mother was a complete stranger. In a way, she was.

  Jane had handed her back to me without a word and closed her eyes.

  I felt obliged to tell Gary when he got back that night. He shook his head. ‘As I said, she was like this with Alice – it’s why she lost her friends. They couldn’t understand. But then she cheered up a bit and, even though she was never quite the same as she was before, I thought things were getting better. That it was just a matter of time.’ He sighed. ‘But now she’s worse than ever. I can’t give up work to look after her full-time.’

  He started to cry then. Poor man! Spontaneously, without thinking, I put my arms around him. For a moment he stiffened, as if unsure how to react. But then he relaxed. ‘It will be all right,’ I said, stepping away.

  ‘I hope so,’ he said quietly. ‘I miss her so much.’

  So did I.

  That night, when Stuart woke in the small hours as he always did, Jock lost his temper. ‘Can’t you keep that bairn quiet?’ he roared. ‘How do you expect me to do a day’s work without any sleep?’

  ‘You could doss on the sofa,’ I suggested.

  ‘I’ve got a better idea. You can do that. What’s more,’ he added, using more Scottish words than usual as he sometimes did when he was cross, ‘y’can damn well tak the bairn with you.’

  I thought about arguing back but I knew from experience that I wouldn’t win.

  At least I could escape to Jane’s house to get away. As I walked there the next day, pushing Stuart up the hill from our horrible flat, I couldn’t help wishing that I’d found a man like Gary. That I had never married Jock. How different my life might have been.

  One of my mother’s friends had recently lost her husband to an early death through drink and she seemed so much happier. ‘Got a new lease of life, she has,’ said Mum darkly.

  And though it made me sick to the core to admit it, I occasionally began to wonder if I’d also be happier if something happened to Jock …

  Central Criminal Court, London

  ‘Poppy Page, I’d like to take you back to the time when you were a young drama student, in a relationship with Matthew Gordon. Is it true that he left you for another student, then known as Sandra Wright?’

  The woman on the stand visibly stiffens. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And is it also true that you were deeply upset by this at the time?’

  ‘I was only twenty-one,’ she says haltingly. ‘He was my first love. So, yes. I was upset.’

  Every member of the jury appears to be paying close attention now. There’s nothing that a court loves more than a touch of romance. It helps to lighten the darker issues. Or make them even deadlier.

  The barrister is consulting a document. Her manner suggests it contains facts of vital importance. This could, of course, be a ruse. Maybe it’s a lawyer’s trick to flourish a sheet of paper (the opposition wouldn’t know that the content is irrelevant). This might then unsettle the person in the witness box and make them more likely to tell the truth.

  ‘Before he ended the relationship, you had been chosen to play the prestigious lead role in the third-year showcase student production opposite Matthew Gordon, hadn’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Poppy Page says this quietly. You can almost see the jury wondering what this has to do with the case. The barrister appears, from her expression and tone of voice, to be almost enjoying the suspense.

  ‘And is it correct that Sandra Wright, your understudy, was substituted for you?’

  She nods.

  ‘Please answer verbally, Mrs Page.’

  ‘Yes.’

  It’s as if she has to force the word out of her mouth.

  ‘Perhaps you can explain to the court why that was?’

  Poppy Page is gripping the front of the stand. ‘I’d had to have a minor procedure in hospital the previous day and stayed in because there were complications,’ she says.

  ‘What kind of “minor procedure”?’

  Then something happens. And despite the tension in the room, it appears from the faces that no one is expecting what comes next.

  Poppy Page starts to weep. Not just shed a few tears. But to cry as if her very insides are spilling out. Several of the jurors lean forward in their seats. Some with sympathy. Others with naked curiosity.

  ‘I had a termination,’ she sobs.

  There is a gasp from the public gallery. A young girl runs out, followed by an older woman.

  ‘Whose child did you abort?’

  ‘Matthew’s, of course!’ The tears are still spilling but her eyes are flashing now as the words pour out in a furious torrent. ‘I didn’t mean to get pregnant. It was an accident. I wanted to keep it but Matthew said it wasn’t “the right time”. I can remember his exact words.’

  There’s a sharp intake of breath from a member of the jury, a young man with a pained expression on his face. Is it possible that he might have experienced such a situation? That maybe it was his girlfriend who had decided to abort his child? That’s the thing about juries. There is generally at least one person who identifies with the case for personal reasons. This can be useful for the defence. Or it could be a killer.

  Right now, Poppy Page’s words ring clearly in the air as if she is on stage, determined to project right to the very back row of the audience. ‘“We’re too young to have a child at this stage of our lives,” he said to me.’ She extracts a tissue from her sleeve and wipes her eyes. ‘We have our careers to think of. What if you got picked for a big role, Pops, as I’m sure you will? How could you be an actress with a small baby? We can always think of having a family later on when we are more established.’

  ‘“Pops”,’ repeats the barrister softly. ‘Was that his nickname for you?’

  ‘Yes.’ She has her head in her hands now.

  ‘But the two of you didn’t have a family later on, did you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can you tell us why?’

  She looks up. Her face is tear streaked but she’s not crying any more. Her expression is one of pure hatred. ‘Because he then left me for Sandra.’

  ‘Was he having an affair with her already?’

  ‘He said he wasn’t.’

  ‘Did you believe him?’

  ‘Yes. No. I wasn’t sure.’

  ‘Yet there’s something else too, isn’t there? Is it correct that when Sandra stepped into your shoes, she was spotted by a talent scout in the audience? This led to her getting an agent and her first role?’

  ‘Yes. But she never actually made it big.’

  ‘Even so, she got the chance that you might have had. This must have felt very unfair to you, Mrs Page. You terminated your baby for the sake of your career and because of Matthew Gordon’s feelings. But you ended up by losing all three.’

  Poppy Page holds the barrister’s gaze for a moment.

  ‘Yes,’ she says tightly. ‘You’re right. I did.’

  ‘To make it worse, Matthew then married Sandra.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You must have been very upset.’

  ‘I was. But then I met my husband and we had our lovely girls.’
She looks up at the gallery. ‘I put it all behind me.’

  ‘But did you, Mrs Page? Isn’t it true that when you bumped into Matthew Gordon at the Association of Supporting Artistes and Agents’ Christmas party, all that “upset” came back?’

  ‘Not really.’ She is calmer now. Or at least she appears to be. Maybe she realizes that the previous anger might not have been such a good thing. ‘Seeing him revived old memories, but I was wistful, rather than angry.’

  ‘Angry?’ The barrister seizes on the word. ‘That’s rather different from your earlier use of “upset”. Is it also true that you slept in a Worthing hotel with Matthew Gordon shortly after meeting him at the party. In a king-size bed in a double room that you yourself had booked and he had paid for?’

  There is a silence.

  ‘Please answer the question.’

  Still Poppy Page says nothing.

  The barrister’s voice is laden with sarcasm. ‘Perhaps you would like me to repeat it?’

  Poppy Page shakes her head. Whether this is in reply to the barrister or to admonish herself is uncertain. ‘I booked the room because I needed somewhere to stay after seeing my father,’ she says. ‘There was only limited accommodation left, which is why I had to take a double.’

  ‘But did you sleep with Matthew Gordon there?’ asks the barrister impatiently.

  ‘Yes!’ Her voice comes out almost as a moan. ‘But I realized immediately afterwards that it was a mistake.’

  The barrister seizes on this with relish. ‘You did sleep with him,’ she repeats, as if to drum home the point to anyone who might have missed it. ‘But he wouldn’t leave you alone, would he? He kept pestering you and asking to meet up.’

  ‘That’s right. He said we were meant for each other.’

  ‘How did that make you feel?’

  She glances up at the gallery again. ‘Scared that he might tell my husband.’

  The barrister’s voice rings out. ‘I put it to you, Poppy Page, that you weren’t just “upset”, as you said earlier. You were indeed angry. In fact, you were furious. Here was a man who had betrayed you. He’d encouraged you to abort your child. The medical complications meant you missed an important career opportunity, which fell into the lap of another student. He callously – some might say – threw you over for this same woman whom he subsequently married. And then he came back, years later, threatening to ruin the life you had built for yourself.’

  You could drop a pin and it would be heard as clear as day.

  ‘So please tell the court the truth. Were you furious and bitter enough to want Matthew Gordon dead?’

  ‘No,’ she whimpers.

  But it is clear from the jurors’ faces that no one believes her.

  15

  Poppy

  Just in case I ever need it, I’ve hidden the phone picture of us in bed using a privacy app I’d read about in one of the Sunday supplements, but I have no reason to hope that Matthew’s been as discreet. What if Sandra sees it? She’d be perfectly entitled to turn up at the house and make a scene. She might sue for divorce, citing me as the other woman.

  I would, if I were her.

  What, I ask myself, had possessed me to go to bed with a man who had hurt me so badly all those years ago? Was it the hankering for what might have been? The fulfilment of a desire that had never gone away? The disappointment in my marriage? Or – and I can barely bring myself to consider this – was it because I wanted to show Matthew Gordon that he’d made one big mistake in breaking up with me all those years ago? Was I punishing him?

  Whatever my reason, it’s all come back to bite me. Because Matthew Gordon has finally done what I’d yearned for when we were students. He has fallen for me. And now he won’t go away.

  I’m working from home today without any external appointments. But I’ve hardly got anything done. I jump every time the phone goes or a text pings, in case it’s him. Those words from last night still haunt me. I’ll ring tomorrow. Sweet dreams.

  I’ve been turning over the events of my relationship with Matthew continuously since yesterday morning. We hadn’t even mentioned the abortion, which makes me wonder if Matthew had thought about it at all. At the time, it hadn’t, I’m ashamed to say, seemed such a big deal. I knew of at least five people who’d had a termination, including one of my flatmates. It wasn’t, I’d told myself back then, as if I was getting rid of a fully grown baby. It was ‘simply a seed’.

  But years later, when I’d got pregnant with Melissa and felt that first flutter in my tummy, I began to wonder. When she was born and I held her in my arms, I wept both tears of joy but also of grief for the child I’d chosen not to have and who would now have been a person in his or her own right. Perhaps I should have told Stuart right at the beginning when we’d met. But I’d felt too embarrassed – despite my self-justifications – and now it seems way too late.

  If I’d had a mother to talk to, it might have helped. But that was out of the question.

  That reminds me. Dad! I need to speak to the doctor confidentially. That petrol ‘mistake’ is one more example that my father’s memory isn’t right. What if he leaves the gas on? Or the key in the front door? In the last couple of years, there have been three burglaries in his road.

  The doctor isn’t available so I speak to the same practice manager I’d spoken to before. ‘Obviously we can’t disclose your father’s notes because of confidentiality. But I can tell you that this is becoming increasingly common; both memory loss and parents not wanting their children to “interfere”. I could ask the doctor to pay him a routine call, if you like.’

  ‘But when you did that last time, Dad refused to have any tests.’

  ‘Then I’m afraid there’s not much more we can do.’

  I call Dad but there’s no answer. Perhaps he’s putting out his rubbish or sitting in his garden. He loves to watch the birds feed. I catch up on some emails, mainly briefing clients on shoots and chasing payments from production companies (cash flow is always an issue when you’re self-employed), and then I try Dad again.

  Still no answer. Maybe he’s at the social club. He goes to lunch there sometimes. I check my messages again. Nothing from Matthew. Perhaps he’s slept on it and seen sense. What a relief that would be! I have certainly, I reflect grimly, learned my lesson. Never again. I’ll also go teetotal. It’s a big step, but it will be worth it, if only to keep my head clear for the future. Not, of course, that I will ever allow myself to be in such a position again.

  I break briefly for lunch. Sometimes I sit down to a bowl of soup or a salad with Betty but she isn’t in today. The door of her bedroom is shut and her outdoor shoes have gone. Chances are that she’s at one of her meditation or jewellery-making classes. Stuart says that she started all these hobbies after he went to university, but got even more ‘into’ them after Jock died. I think it’s great that she keeps herself busy instead of grieving all the time. I also like to think that, much as she helps us, we help her too by sweeping her into our frenetically busy but loving family life.

  Not that you were quite so appreciative of it in the Worthing hotel, says a little voice as I heat up a slice of cheese-and-broccoli quiche Betty had made earlier and take it back to my desk, along with a mug of decaf coffee.

  And what about Stuart and this Janine? Or am I making more of this simply to justify my own behaviour? Stuart gave me a kiss on the cheek this morning when he left. He doesn’t always do that. Would an unfaithful husband bother with a display of affection?

  Well, his unfaithful wife had kissed him back.

  Still no answer from Dad.

  So then I ring Reg, his mate who lives down the road. My father won’t be happy. He only gave me Reg’s number because I’d virtually twisted his arm the other year, telling him I needed it for emergencies. ‘What if something happened to us and you didn’t pick up your phone but we had to get in touch with you?’ I’d pointed out, hoping this might carry more weight with my proud dad than the real reason for my concern
: that I needed to have a way of checking he was all right.

  Reluctantly – and to my relief – he’d given in.

  ‘Hi, lass,’ says a voice. My name must be in his phone. ‘How are you doing?’

  Reg lives four roads away from my father. Dad and he go way back. Mum, I remember, hadn’t cared for him very much, partly because he smokes like a chimney. I make a quick courteous inquiry into his chilblains – putting him on speaker phone as I often do, so I can also check my emails at the same time – and then cut to the chase. ‘Really sorry to bother you, Reg, but would you mind going round to Dad’s to see if he’s all right? He’s not picking up.’

  ‘OK, lass. But it will have to be after I’ve dropped off the newspaper to a neighbour of mine. She’s waiting for me.’

  I bet she is. Reg is one of those men who was very shy until his wife died and then he seemed to find a new lease of life. But right now I need to stress the urgency of the situation. ‘I’m really worried about him, Reg. I went down to see him at the weekend and found out about the …’

  I stop, suddenly realizing I might have dropped Dad in it.

  ‘You mean the police and the petrol?’ he cuts in. Then he laughs. ‘That was just a silly mistake. We all do it. By the way, lass, I saw you coming out of a hotel on Monday morning – having one of my early walks, I was – and spotted you running like a bat out of hell. I called out after you but then you got into a taxi. Everything all right?’

  Reg had spotted me? Supposing Matthew had come after me? Reg would have seen him too. He might have told Dad – would have told Dad – and then he might have told Stuart and then …

  ‘Fine,’ I say quickly. ‘I was just trying to catch an early train home to the family.’

  PING! It’s an email from my assistant Sally with a photo attachment.

  We need to pitch for this new film. Look!!!! They need a man with a really long beard. Perfect for Ronnie the vicar, don’t you think? Can you ring him to check on availability? I’ve got that shoot to go to.

  I try to reply at the same time as talking to Reg. ‘Can you let me know when you get hold of Dad?’