A Special Relationship (38 page)

I had to admire Tony’s solicitors: their offer was ferociously strategic. Accept our terms and you come out with a little money to get your life re-started again. Turn us down – and we will embroil you in a legal battle that you cannot afford, and which will end up having the same result: Jack stays with Tony and that woman.

Of course, there was a significant part of me that wanted to simply agree to their shitty terms and be done with it – to take the money, and try to find a new place to live and a job, and attempt to negotiate, over time, a shared custody agreement. But that would mean Jack growing up, looking upon that woman as his mother – whereas I would be some damaged parental adjunct, whom he would eventually come to regard as the person who had failed him by being unable to cope with motherhood. Judging from their behaviour so far, I had no doubt that Tony and that woman would do their best to poison him against me. But even if, in due time, they became equitable and fair-minded, I would still have been legally blocked by them from raising my son. And that was something I simply couldn’t accept.

‘You don’t sound as shaky as I’d expect,’ Sandy said that night when she phoned me.

‘Oh, I’m shaky all right,’ I said. ‘And I find myself crying spontaneously. But this time I’m also angry.’

Sandy laughed.

‘Glad to hear it,’ she said.

But my anger was also tempered by the
realpolitik
of the situation. Legally and financially, I’d been trumped. For the moment, there wasn’t a great deal I could do about it … except attempt to present an exemplary face to the world.

Which meant, from the outset, adopting a certain mind-set when it came to the social workers at the contact centre who were now dealing with me. I could not come across as arrogant or enraged, or someone who believed it was their inalienable right to raise their child. In their eyes, the Interim Hearing order said it all: I had been declared dangerous to my child’s well-being. It didn’t matter that facts had been manipulated against me by a very clever barrister, or that I had been suffering from a clinical condition. I couldn’t play the blame game here. Like it or not I had to somehow accept that I was at their mercy.

So when a woman named Clarice Chambers phoned me from Wandsworth Social Services to suggest that my first supervised visit start in two days’ time, I agreed immediately to the time she suggested and showed up fifteen minutes ahead of schedule.

The ‘contact centre’ was located in a grim, modern, breeze-block building, just off Garratt Lane in Wandsworth. It was situated near a squat ugly tower block called the Arndale Centre – which was known locally as one of the easiest places in the borough to score a vial of crack.

Certainly, my fellow unfit mothers at the contact centre looked like they had all borne witness to assorted domestic horrors, not to mention the trauma of being legally cut-off from their children. There were four of us waiting on a bench in a hallway with scuffed linoleum and dirty concrete walls. My three bench mates were all young. One of them looked like she was no more than fifteen. Another had the sort of zombie eyes and shell-shocked demeanour that made me wonder what controlled substance she was on. The third woman was vastly overweight, and was about to burst into tears at any moment. We said nothing while waiting for our names to be called.

After ten minutes, a woman appeared from a reception area, and said ‘Sally Goodchild’, then directed me to Room 4, straight down the corridor, second door on my right. Walking down towards the room, I felt fear. Because I didn’t know how I’d react to the sight of my son.

But he wasn’t there when I went in. Rather, I found myself face-to-face with Clarice Chambers – a large, imposing Afro-Caribbean woman with a firm handshake and a firm smile. I noticed immediately that this room was set up as a nursery – with soft toys, and a playpen, and animal wallpaper that looked forlornly incongruous under the harsh fluorescent lighting and broken ceiling tiles.

‘Where’s Jack?’ I said, my nervousness showing.

‘He’ll be with us in just a minute,’ she said, motioning for me to sit down in a plastic chair opposite her own. ‘I just want to chat with you for a bit before you have your visit with your son, and to explain how this all works.’

‘Fine, fine,’ I said, trying to steady myself. Clarice Chambers gave me another sympathetic smile, and then said that I should now consider this day and hour – Wednesday, eleven am – as my time with Jack. His father had been informed of this fact – and Jack’s nanny would be bringing him here every week. She would not be present during these visits – only myself and Clarice. However, if I wished, I could nominate a friend or family member as the supervisor for these visits – but, of course, this individual would first have to be vetted by Wandsworth social services to assess their suitability for this role.

‘I’m still new in London, so I don’t really know anybody who could …’

I broke off, unable to continue.

Clarice touched my hand. ‘That’s fine then. I’ll be your supervisor.’

She continued, explaining how I could bring any toys or clothes I liked for Jack. I could play with him. I could hold him. I could simply watch him sleeping. I could also bottle feed him, and Clarice would act as liaison between the nanny and myself to find out what sort of formula he was drinking, and what his feeding routine was right now.

‘The only thing you cannot do is leave the room with him unaccompanied. Nor, I’m afraid, can you be left alone with him at any time. Supervised contact means just that.’

Another firm,
we’re going to get along just fine, aren’t we?
smile.

‘I know that this is all rather artificial and difficult for you. But we can try to make the best of it. All right?’

I nodded.

‘Right then,’ she said, standing up. ‘I’ll be back in a moment.’

She disappeared into an adjoining room and returned a moment later, holding a familiar carry-chair.

‘Here he is,’ she said quietly, handing him over to me.

I looked down. Jack was fast asleep. But what struck me immediately was just how much he’d grown in three weeks. He’d filled out a bit, his face had more definition, more character. Even his fingers seemed longer.

‘You can pick him up if you want,’ she said.

‘I don’t want to disturb him,’ I said. So I placed the carry-chair on the floor beside me, reached down and, using my right index finger, stroked his clenched fist. His hand unclenched, his fingers wrapped around mine, and he held on to me, still sleeping soundly.

That’s when I lost the battle I’d been waging ever since I arrived here. I started to cry, putting a hand across my mouth to muffle the sobs and not wake him up. Once I glanced up at Clarice Chambers and saw her watching me with a cool professional eye.

‘I’m sorry’ I whispered. ‘This is all a bit …’

‘You don’t have to apologize,’ she said. ‘I know this is hard.’

‘It’s just so good to see him.’

He didn’t wake for the entire hour … though his fist did unclutch after around ten minutes, so I simply sat by him, rocking him in his chair, stroking his face, thinking just how serene he was, and how desperate I was to be with him all the time.

Clarice said nothing for the entire hour, though I was conscious of her watching me – seeing how I related to Jack, how I was handling the highly charged emotionalism of this situation, and whether I seemed like a stable, balanced individual. But I didn’t try to play to the gallery, or put on a big maternal show. I just sat by him, happy for the temporary contact.

Then, before I knew it, Clarice quietly said, ‘It’s time, I’m afraid.’

I gulped and felt tears sting my face.

‘All right,’ I said.

She gave me another minute, then walked over to us. I touched his face with my hand, then leaned over and kissed his head, breathing in his talcum powder aroma. I stood up and walked to another corner of the room, staring out a grimy window at a trash-strewn courtyard as she picked up the carry-chair and left. When she came back, she approached me and asked, ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m trying to be.’

‘The first time is always the hardest.’

No, I thought. Every time will be hard.

‘Remember – you can bring clothes and toys for him next week,’ she said.

As if he’s a doll I can dress up and play with for an hour.

I shut my eyes. I nodded. She touched my arm with her hand.

‘It will get easier.’

I went home. I sat down on the bed and cried. This time, however, the crying wasn’t underscored by that physical sensation of plummeting which I so associated with the start of an extended depressive jag. This was simply another ferocious expression of grief – and one over which I had no control.

They say there’s nothing like a good cry to expunge all the pent-up sorrow you carry with you. But when I finally brought myself under control, and faltered into the bathroom to splash some water on my face, I found myself thinking:
That did me no good whatsoever.

I thought:
if I am permanently kept from him, will this ever stop? Will I ever come to terms with it?

The next six days were bleak. My sleep was broken – despite the ongoing use of knock-out pills. I had little appetite. I left the house for the occasional foray to the corner shop or Marks and Spencer. I found myself devoid of energy – so much so that, when I did go down to St Martin’s Hospital for a consultation with Dr Rodale, she immediately commented on my wan appearance.

‘Well, it’s not been an easy few weeks,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I did hear about the court order. I’m very sorry.’

‘Thank you,’ I said – though I was silently angry at her for her professional reserve, her refusal to tell me I had been so desperately wronged, especially when she knew that I was incapable of physically harming my child, and that I had been in the grip of a monstrous ailment over which …

No, no. I wasn’t going to play the
don’t blame me
card again. I was simply going to face the reality of the situation and …

… but why the hell couldn’t Dr Rodale tell me what she must know: that the court decision was so manifestly unfair?

‘And how do you feel in yourself right now?’

She had quickly moved us back into the realm of pharmacological questioning. All right then: you want straight answers, you’ll get straight answers. So I met her gaze and said, ‘I cry a lot. I find myself angry a great deal of the time. I think what’s happened to me is completely unjust and underhand.’

‘And those “downward spirals” you used to describe?’

‘They’re not so frequent. It’s not that I don’t get low – I do all the time – it’s just that I seem to be able to dodge the black swamp. But that doesn’t mean I’m exactly happy …’

Dr Rodale’s lips contorted into a dry smile.

‘Who is?’ she said quietly.

At the end of our interview, she announced herself once again pleased with my progress, and appeared even more gratified by the knowledge that the anti-depressants had proved so effective.

‘As I told you from the outset, these sorts of drugs take time to build up in the system – and to demonstrate their efficacy. But the fact that you seem to be avoiding the “black swamp” shows that they have made considerable positive impact. You may not be happy, but at least you’re functioning again. Which is good news. So I see no need to alter the dosage for the time being. But on the unhappiness front … have you been in touch with Ellen Cartwright?’

Actually, she called me the day after I saw Dr Rodale, apologizing profusely for being incommunicado when my solicitor’s assistant came chasing her for a witness statement.

‘The message on my answerphone was a bit garbled,’ she said, ‘so I didn’t exactly understand why she needed this statement from me. Something about a court proceeding …’

I informed her about that proceeding, and its outcome. She sounded appalled.

‘But that’s scandalous,’ she said. ‘Especially as I could have told them … Oh God, now I feel dreadful. But how are you feeling?’

‘Horrible.’

‘Would you like to start our sessions again?’

‘I think that would be a good idea.’

‘Fine then. One thing, though – you know that I just do NHS locums at St Martin’s – and only for anyone who’s resident in the unit. So if you want to see me, it will have to be on a private basis.’

‘And what’s the charge?’

‘It’s £70 per hour, I’m afraid. But if you have private health care …’

‘We were with BUPA, but I’m pretty sure I’ve been taken off the policy.’

‘Well you should still give them a call, and if you’re still covered they will tell you how many weekly sessions they’re willing to cover – and for how long. You’ll also need a reference from Dr Rodale – but that will be no problem.’

I did call BUPA as soon as I finished speaking to Ellen. The ‘customer service representative’ on the other end of the line asked me for my name, my address and my policy number. Then, after a moment, she confirmed what I already suspected: ‘I’m afraid your policy has been cancelled. You were insured under your husband’s policy – which, in turn, is part of a group company policy. However, he left his job and the policy was cancelled. Sorry.’