The Horse Dancer (42 page)

‘Then get on to the main road,’ he said, brake lights winking, ‘where you can bloody well be seen.’

It was dark now. The rain came down steadily for almost an hour and Boo, his earlier fizz dissipated with the extra miles, walked and trotted sluggishly, his head as low as she would allow, mane plastered to his neck. Sarah tried to encourage him but she ached too. The rucksack full of items she had believed invaluable had dragged on her shoulders for the past ten miles, and her seat bones were sore so that she shifted periodically, trying in vain to find a way of staying comfortable. Her saddle darkened with water and, despite the waterproof jacket, her jeans were soaked. She knew that if she had to ride much further the rough, wet fabric would chafe her chilled skin. Still, she could see the sodium lights of the town. They would rest soon, she told him.

When she reached the dual-carriageway, the traffic was deafening. She kept to the verge, ignoring the flashing of car headlights, the mind-numbing roar, picking her way past the lorries that lined up on the specially widened hard shoulder, all stationary along the last part of the fast road. She passed cabs where pulled curtains hinted at sleeping drivers, others in which small televisions cast moving shadows around chintzy, domesticated interiors strung with tinsel. She saw Czech lorries, Polish lorries, photographs of families and posters of naked women, handmade signs warning that ‘This lorry is regularly checked’ and that ‘Illegal immigrants will be prosecuted’. One or two drivers caught sight of her as she passed; one shouted something she couldn’t hear.

Boo was too tired to be disturbed by any of it. He had started to feel uneven, his legs struggling under the distance. And then there it was, the huge sign arching over the main road. She sat a little straighter, gathered up her reins. As they came over the brow of the hill she saw the ferries, their windows glowing, sitting in the harbour, the elegant twist of the flyovers that guided the traffic towards them.

Two more miles. She felt a germ of something like excitement inside her. She ran her hand down her exhausted horse’s neck, pleading with him to go a little further. ‘You can do this,’ she murmured. ‘Just get us there. And I promise I’ll never leave you again.’

‘Could you state your name to the court, please?’

‘Constance Devlin.’

‘And please state your profession.’

‘I am a teacher at Norbridge School. I am head of year four, and have held that position for the last eleven years.’ She paused to drink some water, glancing up at the skylight on which rain pattered.

‘Miss Devlin, how long have you known Lucy Persey?’

‘Well, it’s a small school. I’ve known her since she started in Reception and I taught her all last year. I also do private tuition in languages, and Lucy has had extra lessons for almost two years.’

‘Could you speak up a little?’ the judge said. ‘I’m finding it difficult to hear you.’

The woman flushed. Natasha smiled at her, trying to reassure her. Outside the courtroom, Constance Devlin had been an unusually nervous witness. She was not happy about being dragged into this, she had told Natasha several times. It really was not her job. She had never even been in a courtroom. And she was quite sure the school was not happy for her to be involved in a divorce case either. Natasha had got her measure immediately: spinsterish, truly comfortable only in her own sphere, a world of nice young girls, the cloistered, rarified atmosphere of an exclusive school. She would be devoted to her job, and reduced to tears by the wrong brand of digestives in the staffroom. ‘I would really rather you ask me as few questions as possible.’ Her shaking hands had belied the careful and determined tone with which she spoke.

‘Would you say you know your pupils well, Miss Devlin?’ Natasha made her voice as gentle as possible.

‘Yes. Probably better than most teachers.’ She looked at the judge, twisting a handkerchief nervously between plump fingers. ‘We have very small classes. It’s a rather . . . good little school.’

‘And in the time you have known her, how have you found Lucy Persey?’

Constance Devlin paused. ‘Well, she’s never been what you’d call one of the more forthcoming pupils. Even in Reception she was a little shy. But she was always a happy little thing. She’s bright. She has a good grasp of figures, and her literacy age is well above average.’ She smiled a little, thinking of the child. Then the smile faded. ‘Although last year . . . she slipped back a bit.’

‘Slipped back a bit?’

‘Her marks dropped. She’s struggled at school.’

‘Has her personality changed at all?’

‘She has – in my opinion – become increasingly withdrawn.’

Ben entered the court and sat quietly behind her. She half expected another note, but instead he handed her a folder of school reports, and her mind drifted. Mac would be at the hospital now. If he had found Sarah there, would he call her to let her know?

‘It says here, Miss Devlin, that Lucy has missed a lot of school.’

‘There have been quite a few occasions, yes.’

‘An average of fifteen days each school term. With her parents’ knowledge?’

‘I . . . assumed so. We tend to deal with Mrs Persey.’

‘You tend to deal with Mrs Persey.’ Natasha let that one hang. Along the bench, she could see Mr Persey whispering urgently to his brief. ‘And what reasons did Mrs Persey give for her daughter’s absences on those days?’

‘It wasn’t anything very specific. She would say Lucy wasn’t feeling up to it. Sometimes a headache. A couple of times she didn’t give any reason.’

‘And did the school have any thoughts about these absences?’

‘We were a little concerned about the number. And . . . the change in Lucy’s behaviour.’

‘That she had become withdrawn and had fallen behind in her work?’

‘Yes.’

‘Miss Devlin, how long have you been a teacher?’

The older woman was breathing more evenly, her voice lifting a little. ‘Twenty-four years.’ She glanced around the court as she spoke.

Natasha smiled encouragingly. ‘In your experience, if there is a change in a child’s character and academic performance, teamed with increasing absences, what would you conclude?’

‘Objection.’ Simpson was on his feet. ‘You’re asking the witness to extrapolate.’

‘I believe Miss Devlin’s experience in this field is valid, your honour.’

‘Rephrase your question, Mrs Macauley.’

‘Miss Devlin, in your experience would such behavioural changes suggest problems at home?’

‘Objection, your honour.’

‘Sit down, Mr Simpson. I’d like a different wording, Mrs Macauley.’

‘In cases where there are problems at home, Miss Devlin, what would you say are the most common behavioural changes that become evident at school?’

‘Well . . .’ Miss Devlin looked awkwardly at Mr Persey ‘. . . I would say poor performance . . . perhaps either withdrawn or disruptive behaviour. It can swing between the two.’

‘And, during your teaching career, have you taught many children with known problems at home?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said, a little wearily. ‘I’m afraid that being at a private school does not insulate children from family disruption.’

‘Miss Devlin, if there had been something seriously wrong at home, if, say, Lucy had suffered something even greater than the trauma of divorce, do you think you could tell?’

There was a long silence, so long that the judge stopped what he was doing and tapped his pen expectantly. Natasha, waiting for the woman to gather her thoughts, scribbled a note to Ben:
Has Mac rung?

He shook his head.

‘Miss Devlin?’ the judge interjected. ‘Did you hear the question?’

‘I did,’ she said, her voice quiet and precise. ‘I heard it and the answer is that I don’t know.’

Bugger, Natasha thought.

Miss Devlin placed her hands on the wood in front of her. ‘I only know that when a child goes quiet they are suffering. Everything about Lucy – her silence, her lack of enjoyment in things that once made her happy, her withdrawal from her friends – tells me she is suffering.’ She took a deep breath. ‘But I don’t know exactly what children like Lucy are suffering because they don’t trust us enough to tell us. They don’t tell teachers, and they don’t tell parents because they can’t trust them not to get cross when they say something they don’t want to hear. So, no, Mrs Macauley, they don’t tell us because half the time nobody listens to them anyway.’

The court was very still. Miss Devlin was talking directly to the parents now, her face flushed, her voice growing in volume and urgency. ‘I have seen this week after week, year after year, you see. I have watched these children’s worlds fall apart, their lives as they know them dissolved, without any say-so from them. They have no power over where they live, who they spend their time with, who their new mummy and daddy are – goodness, sometimes even what their new last name is – and we, the teachers, the supposed role models, are expected to tell them it’s okay, it’s how life goes, that they just have to get on with it. Oh, and make sure they don’t drop behind with their schoolwork.’

‘Miss Devlin—’ the judge began.

It was as if a dam had broken: ‘But it’s not. It’s a betrayal. It’s a betrayal and we all stay silent about it because . . . well, because life is hard, and sometimes these children have to learn that, don’t they? It’s just
life
. But if you could see it from where I am, these lost children, these
lost
children, wandering around, lonelier than you could believe . . . all that potential wasted . . . Well, frankly it makes no difference to me whether that child was hit or not.’ She wiped her face with a plump palm.

‘Oh, yes, I know what you’re asking me, Miss Macauley. Yes, that’s what I said – that to me it makes no difference. And the fact that I’m standing here, being asked to pinpoint exactly which little bit of that child is hurting and who is to blame, in order to work out who gets to win most in this hideous marital farrago, frankly makes me complicit.’

Mrs Persey was sitting in frozen silence: her husband, along the bench, was muttering furiously to his barrister: ‘I am not listening to this! The woman is clearly hysterical.’

‘Miss Devlin—’ Natasha got no further because the woman held up a hand.

‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘You asked me to be part of this, so I’m going to tell you. Oh, yes, they’ll survive.’ She nodded sarcastically.

‘As you no doubt tell yourselves, they’ll grow up a little faster, end up a little wiser. But you know what else? They’ll stop trusting. They’ll become a little more cynical. They’ll spend their lives waiting for everything to fall apart all over again.

‘Because it is a rare person, a
rare
person, who can contain their own pain and still give a child the support and understanding it needs. In my experience, most parents haven’t got the time or the energy to make sure it happens. Perhaps they’re just too selfish. But what do I know? I’m not a parent. I’m not even married. I’m just one of those unfortunate people who gets paid to pick up the pieces.’

She stopped. The courtroom was in total silence, waiting. The clerk, who had been typing at some speed, paused expectantly. But Miss Devlin took a deep breath. When she had apparently composed herself, she turned to the judge. ‘Please may I have your permission to leave? I’d very much like to go now.’

The judge appeared utterly taken aback. He glanced at Natasha. She nodded mutely, and was dimly aware of Simpson doing the same.

Miss Devlin gathered up her bag and walked determinedly towards the door. As she passed the bench where the Perseys sat, she stopped. Her ears were pink and her voice quavered as she spoke: ‘It will be surprisingly easy for Lucy to head down the wrong path,’ she said quietly. ‘All you have to do is stop listening.’

Natasha stood very still, watching the short, neatly clad figure disappear through the heavy wooden door. She heard the murmur of dissatisfaction to her right. She saw this scene suddenly as if through someone else’s eyes, framed it as Mac might: the parents, for once, more furious with a common enemy than with each other; her junior, grinning with private delight at this unexpected turn of events; the judge, whispering to the clerk. Then she began to unpin her wig. ‘Your honour,’ she said, ‘I’d like to seek an adjournment.’

‘You want a what?’

She stood at the foot-passenger ticket office, her jacket dripping on to the floor of the oversized Portakabin. She had removed her hat, but the sight of a girl in boots and wet jeans still drew attention. She could feel the eyes of the other foot passengers burning into her. ‘A ticket,’ she said quietly. ‘For a person and a horse.’

‘Are you having a laugh?’ The fat man looked past her at the people in the queue, searching for affirmation. Do you see what we’ve got here? his expression said.

‘I know you take horses. They cross the Channel all the time.’ She held up Boo’s passport. ‘My horse even comes from France.’

‘And how do you think he got here?’

‘On a boat.’

‘Did he row it?’

There was a smattering of laughter behind her.

‘A ferry. I know they cross all the time. Look, I’ve got the money. And we both have passports. I just need to . . .’

He was gesturing to someone seated a short distance away behind the big sheet of glass. A colleague, in the same liveried blazer, got up and approached the window. She took in Sarah’s bedraggled appearance, the passport in her hand. ‘You can’t take a horse on with the foot passengers,’ the woman said, when the man had explained.

‘I know that.’ Anxiety hardened Sarah’s voice. ‘I’m not stupid. I just want to know how I can get a passage for him.’

‘He has to be on a transporter. You need to go via a specialist company. He’s got to have veterinary papers. There are Defra rules about transporting livestock.’

‘He’s not livestock. He’s a Selle Français.’