by Jane Corry
An odd look that I can’t interpret flickers across her face. ‘Yes,’ she says.
‘And did you then plead guilty to stop the court from recalling me and giving me more grief?’
I couldn’t bear it if it had been my fault.
‘No, although I didn’t want you to be persecuted any more. The fact is that it was right that I should be imprisoned.’ She almost looks relieved, as if a weight has been taken off her shoulders. ‘The barrister says I’m probably looking at fifteen years.’
My eyes fill with tears.
‘Don’t get upset, darling,’ she says, reaching out towards me and then stopping, as if remembering the no-touching rule. ‘I’m looking forward to it. You see, I’m finally going to pay.’
36
Betty
I nearly gave myself away with that last sentence.
‘What do you mean, “finally”?’ Poppy asks, leaning forward as if confused.
‘Well,’ I say, hastily, ‘it’s been some time, hasn’t it, since it happened. I was inside for five months until the trial, remember. But the barrister said I was lucky. You can actually be on remand for much longer apparently.’
Time is such a funny thing. It doesn’t seem possible that Jane died all those years ago. Sometimes it feels like last week. I wonder, as I do almost every day, how little Violet and Alice are doing. They will be grown women now, perhaps with children of their own. Gary will have married again, I’m sure of that. A kind, charming, handsome widower doesn’t stay single for long. I’ve seen the pattern in the groups I belong to. As soon as one of the women dies, the others flock around her bereaved man like bees to a honeypot.
‘I’m a bit tired,’ I say. ‘Do you mind if we say goodbye for now, love?’
Poppy’s disappointed. I can see that. But my mind is such a muddle! I need some time to myself. And if I can get back before my cellmate – who is still here in the visitor’s room nattering away to her man as if he’d never beaten her up like she’s told me – I might have some peace and quiet. I can’t sleep in this place. I thought Jane and the smell of her floral perfume would stop visiting me after the accident. But she hasn’t. On and on she goes, in my head, all night long. ‘You think you’ve paid? Hah! You’ve only just begun, Betty. You don’t know the first thing about suffering.’
It’s driving me mad. Maybe that’s my real punishment – not just the long prison stretch looming before me. And like I said to Poppy, I deserve it.
I’m led back to my cell. I lie down on the hard blue plastic mattress and concentrate my mind on the cracks in the ceiling above. But it’s no good. It’s all coming back to me. Those heaving bodies on the platform at Waterloo. The perspiration. The pushing. The frustration radiating out from people coming back from work. The excitement of the travellers with their suitcases; the commuters; the mother with that sweet toddler in the pushchair; the woman with the Selfridges carrier bag. But it’s Matthew Gordon’s face, close to mine, that stands out. Furious. Sweating with desperation. His hands clutching that package, trying to stop me from grabbing it.
I’m not normally an angry person. But right now I am a lioness, protecting my cubs and my cubs’ cubs. ‘You are not having this money,’ I hiss.
He grins wolfishly. ‘Try to stop me.’
That’s it. I give this odious man a little push. He falls backwards into a girl with a cello. ‘Watch out,’ she snaps, hugging her instrument protectively. ‘This is extremely valuable.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say.
And then it all starts to happen.
What follows next is the real story. No more lies. Honestly.
37
Poppy
I carry on working. It’s the only thing I can do. Sally has been amazing, which makes me feel worse. Ironically, we are in even more demand after the court case. Every casting director in town is curious. ‘It would make a great film,’ says one. I don’t comment. But silently I can’t help feeling the irony that Matthew has finally achieved his desperate desire to return to stardom now he is dead. The world is talking about him.
As for the £50,000, I can’t talk about it. It’s a ticking time bomb waiting for the truth to explode. And it’s also one more example – as if it’s needed – of how I have let my family down.
Meanwhile, Doris has dropped her case against us after Matthew’s death. The lawyer’s letter simply said that she ‘no longer wished to proceed’. I only hope she is feeling better but I don’t dare approach her directly or ask through formal channels in case that gets misinterpreted like my flowers note did.
In other ways, things have carried on as normal. I visit Dad every week; spend more time cooking at home (never fish pie as that hurts too much) and doing all the other things that Betty used to do, like the cleaning. I like to think that our kitchen floor is almost up to my mother-in-law’s standards. Is this why she was so house-proud, I wonder. Did she also do it to feel like she had control of her life, for whatever reason?
The children lay a place for their absent grandmother every evening at the table. We don’t talk about her. They don’t talk to me. I’m still sleeping in Betty’s room. Stuart goes away one week for a conference, or so he claims. I feel I have no right to ask details. I’m too scared to mention the name ‘Janine’. Mentally, I mark off each day until Betty’s sentencing.
Then I receive a surprise call from Jennifer. ‘Have you got time to talk face to face?’ she asks. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not nagging you about work. But I’ve just heard a little snippet that might be interesting.’
We meet in a small restaurant off Marble Arch. Jennifer doesn’t look so bouncy today. She doesn’t speak in capital letters like she does when excited. In fact, her eyes won’t quite meet mine. Maybe she’s shocked like everyone else to find out that the woman she’d idolized (her word, not mine) had cheated on her husband.
‘I’m sorry about telling the police that I saw you going up to the fourth floor with that … that man,’ she says.
Like me, she seems to find it hard to say Matthew’s name.
‘I need you to know that I wasn’t spying. It so happens that my room was on the same floor too. The police asked us all if we had seen anything at the party that might be relevant, so I …’
Her voice trails away.
‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘I understand.’
She lifts her eyes now and looks at me. ‘I might be able to make it up to you now.’
I want to laugh. Nothing can get me out of this mess I have created for myself.
‘The thing is,’ she continues, ‘that I saw Doris the other day. Her shoulder is fine now.’
‘Good,’ I let out a breath of relief.
‘But she confided in me about something.’
‘Ah,’ I say. ‘I know what you’re going to tell me. I received a letter from her lawyer. It’s water under the bridge now.’
‘Actually, I don’t think it is.’ Jennifer is twisting her napkin. ‘Doris was too embarrassed to tell you the whole story at the time. But she was so shocked by what came out at the trial that she’s asked me to do it instead. She thought it might help your mother-in-law.’
I sit forward. ‘How?’
‘Your … friend. I mean old friend … I mean …’
‘Matthew Gordon,’ I say, gritting my teeth.
She nods. ‘Doris and Matthew got talking at the Christmas party apparently and swapped room numbers. She was on the fourth floor too.’ She looks awkward. ‘She told me they actually slept together after the party had ended.’
‘Is that right?’ I say slowly. A vision comes into my head of him saying goodnight to me so tenderly that I’d been tempted – oh so tempted – to ask him in.
Jennifer looks away again as if she can speak more easily when not facing me. ‘They stayed in touch. After you told him about Doris falling on the carpet, he blackmailed her by saying that he would tell her husband about their affair if she didn’t sue you.’
What? Just when I thought I knew the
depths Matthew had sunk to, it seems he had plummeted further.
‘She was so terrified that she agreed,’ continued Jennifer, nervously picking at her short, squat nails. ‘But she felt awful about it, especially when that woman Sharon began telling everyone that you were negligent in receiving clients at your home because you weren’t insured. And then, when you gave evidence that Matthew Gordon had blackmailed you too, Doris felt even worse. She thinks that if she’d told you what he was doing at the time, none of this might have happened.’
It’s not strictly true, although I might have been more on my guard.
‘It’s a bit late now, don’t you think?’
Jennifer nods her head. ‘I know. She was really scared to talk to you about it. However, she wants you to know that she didn’t have a choice.’
‘But we all have a choice,’ I want to say. We simply persuade ourselves that we don’t because we don’t wish to admit responsibility for our actions.
‘Anyway, how is this going to help my mother-in-law?’ I ask irritably. ‘The case has already been tried. Besides, as the barristers argued, Matthew might have been a blackmailer, but that’s no excuse for Betty to have killed him.’
‘I see. Oh dear. I’m sorry.’
Jennifer hangs her head. I want to cry. When she’d said that she had information that might help Betty, I’d felt hopeful for a minute.
‘May I tell her that you forgive her?’ she asks. ‘Doris knows she was stupid and she’s desperately sorry.’
I swallow the lump of misgiving in my throat. The worry about her suing us had driven me almost to distraction at the time. But who am I to cast judgement on others? ‘Yes,’ I say shortly.
‘Then can she return to your agency? She’s not happy with Sharon.’
I push my chair back. ‘No. I’m sorry. I don’t think that would work.’
‘Why?’
Do I have to spell it out? ‘How could I possibly have a client who would be a constant reminder of the man who had slept with us both – and held us to ransom?’
‘I see.’
Jennifer stands up. ‘Then you’ll have to terminate my contract too, I’m afraid.’
‘I don’t understand.’
She is meeting my eyes now. ‘Matthew took my number at the party as well, you see. I was flattered, of course I was. Not many men look at a big lump like me but he said he admired my curves.’
She flushes beetroot.
‘We slept together a week later. He told me I was cuddly in bed. Afterwards, he asked if I could lend him two thousand pounds. He said he was in trouble over a debt and promised to pay it back when we saw each other the following week. I was so thrilled that he wanted to see me again that I gave him the money. And then …’
Jennifer starts to sob.
I can’t help it. I reach out across the table and take her hand.
‘Then he didn’t turn up at the restaurant where we’d arranged to meet. He didn’t pick up my calls and didn’t return my texts.’
‘Bastard,’ I mutter.
‘I know.’ Jennifer’s voice is cracked. ‘I wish I’d given evidence at the trial now. But I was too embarrassed.’
I wonder how many other potential witnesses had also failed to come forward for the same reason. ‘Like I said, I don’t think it would have made a difference but I’ll ring the lawyer anyway.’
When I speak to my barrister, I discover I am right. It would, apparently, be extremely unusual for further ‘bad character’ evidence to overturn a murder conviction. ‘It only proves what a scumbag Matthew Gordon really was,’ she said.
During the trial, she and I had become almost friends. I didn’t feel she’d judged me for my affair. People, she told me, do all kinds of things when they’re under stress.
Then two days after we speak about Jennifer’s revelation, my lawyer rings me. Her voice sounds hopeful. Almost excited. ‘Poppy? There’s been a development. Another witness has come forward. You’re not going to believe this.’
Right now, I’d believe almost anything if it might help Betty. ‘Try me.’
I hear her take a deep breath at the other end of the line. ‘Apparently there was a Japanese tourist on the platform at the time of the death. And he saw something you need to know.’
38
Betty
‘Do you understand what I’ve just said about the new witness evidence, Betty?’ says the lawyer. She is sitting opposite me in the prison visits room, with an office-type desk between us. There are bars on the window and a poster on the wall. It is a criminal offence to exchange items of any type without formal permission. I turn back to the lawyer. I’m trying to listen but my mind is such a muddle.
‘Betty,’ says the lawyer again. ‘I asked if you understood what I’ve just been saying.’
Once more, I attempt to concentrate. Poppy and my son are sitting at the side of the room on adjacent metal-framed chairs. There is a palpable coldness between them. I ache to feel their arms around me. To make them put their arms around each other too.
‘Not really,’ I mumble.
‘A Japanese tourist on the platform at Waterloo Tube station was filming as part of his holiday portfolio,’ says my son in his usual measured fashion. He’s always spoken like that, ever since he was a little boy. ‘And he caught on camera the argument between you and … that man.’
He can’t say Matthew’s name. No wonder. Jock had found it hard to say Gary’s name too.
The lawyer takes over. ‘Mr Takano didn’t realize that someone had been accused of murder. Apparently, his son-in-law saw his holiday film some time later when he returned to Japan, but only put two and two together when reading about the trial on the internet after the verdict. He then got in touch with the British police. The film clearly shows that you stepped away from Matthew Gordon, who still had the package under his arm. Then he appeared to stumble and fall onto the track.’
She stops. ‘It is very clear from the video that you did not push him. Matthew was responsible for his own death.’
39
Poppy
There are times when I wish Stuart would tell me to leave. On a few occasions, I’ve almost walked out myself. His silence when I speak and his refusal to look me in the eye are unbearable. But I can’t abandon the girls, even though they’ve barely said a word to me since the trial. I also need to talk to Sally about something really big. But that will have to wait.
My – our – only priority is to get my mother-in-law out of jail.
There are, the lawyer has explained, two potential ways of dealing with this clear proof that Betty wasn’t responsible.
There could be a retrial, which is a very long complicated procedure and might mean Betty stays in prison for months and maybe years while it goes through the different channels. Or there could be an appeal hearing in which the verdict might be overturned.
Three weeks later, the lawyer summons us to another meeting. ‘A retrial or an appeal would generally only take place if the prosecution challenges the evidence,’ she explains. ‘They have, in fact, accepted it. So we are applying for Betty to be released as soon as possible.’
‘That’s amazing news!’ says Stuart. For a minute, I think he is going to hug me. No. Of course he’s not. Instead, we exchange glances of relief, which, for a few moments, unite us. Then it’s back to the cold treatment again. Separate bedrooms. An offhand goodnight. Distance during the day, even when we’re in the same room.
How much longer can this go on?
40
Betty
The video told the truth. It also revealed details that I had pushed to the back of my mind. I couldn’t tell anyone about it after it happened. It was too impossibly horrendous. If I did talk, it would make it real.
But then they encouraged me to write my life story in our prison creative writing class. I did it in the form of letters to you, Poppy, because it felt more natural that way. How it all spilt out! It’s strange how these things can appear on paper when you d
on’t mean them to. Even if they aren’t quite the same as the words I said under oath in court. I was flustered then. I forgot to say things. I said others that weren’t quite accurate. I blanked out details that might have helped my case although the jury still might not have believed me. But my pen couldn’t get the words out fast enough:
I can see those last few moments at Waterloo so clearly.
Matthew and I wrestle for the package, forced against each other by the crowds. He’s a big man. For one awful moment, I fear he is going to push me onto the line. There is a hiss of air, indicating that a train is coming. He shoves his way towards me, his face red with rage. Scared, I move back.
‘Push him,’ urges Jane in my head. But I ignore her. I know it’s wrong.
Then I notice something. The lace on his right shoe has come undone. My mouth starts to form the words to warn him.
It’s too late.
One foot is already standing on the lace as he clasps the package to his chest. He seems to stumble. But I am frozen, unable to do anything. And then – I still can hardly bear to think about it – he just falls. Right in front of the train.
No! He can’t have done. I must be imagining it. This hasn’t happened. The rest of the platform is also frozen around me. But then someone screams.
And all I could think of was that, without meaning to, I had caused a man’s death. Just as I had caused Jane’s.
41
Poppy
I still don’t understand why Betty had, at the end of her trial, declared that she was responsible when Matthew was, in fact, the author of his own misfortune. Or indeed why she didn’t tell us the truth afterwards.
But here, in my hands, is the real account of what happened in black and white. The ending to her life story that the psychologist showed us when we arrived for our next visit.