The Son-In-Law (21 page)

I couldn’t hear their conversation, but the three of them seemed to get on better for a while. I’d almost decided it was safe to join them when all hell broke loose—Theo was yelling and pushing Ben onto the floor, and Ben lay there hamming it up like a football player, pretending his leg was broken. When I ran over to help, Theo stuck his middle finger up at me as though he really hated me and snarled, ‘You shut your fat mouth, Scarlet.’

Suddenly, it all got on top of me. I very nearly cried. I asked Mr Hardy if we could please go home, and he agreed. As we reached Faith Lane, I took him out of earshot of the boys.

‘This is all because of Dad turning up again,’ I said. ‘All this nastiness. We were doing okay before.’

Mr Hardy looked at me. ‘Were you?’

‘Yes,’ I said firmly. ‘We were. Tell him, will you? Tell him to leave us alone.’

•

Theo impresses as a sensitive boy with a keen mind. It was
clear that he understood the reason for my visit, and at first he
appeared unwilling to engage with me. However, he shares my
boyhood interest in locomotives and we were able to spend
some time exploring the exhibits.

Ben is a chatty four-year-old with a delightful sense of
fun and mischief. He did not appear unduly concerned at
being brought on an outing, and I suspect was reassured by
the presence of Scarlet, who was most attentive towards him. He enjoyed using wooden model engines in an interactive area
of the museum. I noted that a recurrent theme was the enactment
of a violent assault by one engine on the other. A third
engine then arrived to drag the miscreant to prison. I was struck
by this role play, which appeared markedly joyless and angry.

I decided not to raise the subject of their father directly
with the boys. For some time, both were happy to chat about
their lives and interests. However, Theo abruptly told me that
‘My friend’s dad wants to bring back the death penalty for
murderers.’

I asked him how he felt about this, and he shrugged. He
looked extremely uncomfortable. A little later he returned
to the subject again: ‘My friend’s dad says murderers don’t
deserve to live. They’re costing the taxpayer good money. He
says they should all fry in boiling oil.’ I sensed that this image
disturbed Theo very deeply.

Ben did not partake in the discussion and appeared more
interested in ensuring that I had ordered chips. However
shortly afterwards he began to play out the same violent scene
as before, using two glasses. Unfortunately he smashed them
together with such force that one broke.

One further incident is of note. Towards the end of our visit,
Theo was telling me about his ambition to be a professional
footballer. Ben interrupted, describing a football talent scout
who had seen Theo playing. I am aware that Joseph Scott
recently spoke to the boys in a park. Despite Theo’s obvious
agitation, Ben refused to stop talking about this man. In the
end, Theo angrily pushed Ben onto the floor. I suspect that
Theo is well acquainted with the identity of the stranger
in the park. It seems likely that he enjoyed the interaction,
and is struggling with conflicting feelings. I would hazard a
guess that Ben, too, has some inkling that this stranger was
significant.

Scarlet behaved with maturity throughout the day. She
seemed painfully embarrassed by her brothers at times, which
I regard as typical for her age group. She also took charge
of them in an adult way, for example trying to clear up the
mess when Ben broke a glass and running to comfort him
when he was hurt. I felt that she took this responsibility
more seriously than I would expect of a girl of her age. She
is perhaps mothering them in the absence of her own mother.

My observations bore out Nanette Marsden’s view that
all three have flourished under the care of their grandparents,
but that they are conflicted in their feelings about their father. I fully accept the grandparents’ account that Joseph Scott’s
application has upset and destabilised the entire family. It is
to all parties’ credit that they have the best interests of the
children at heart.

The decision regarding interim contact is finely balanced. I have not found it easy to reach a clear recommendation.

Nineteen

Joseph

In late January, winter gripped the moors. Snow spilled from heavy skies, roads became blocked by drifts several feet deep, and Brandsmoor was cut off from the world.

Joseph spent hours with a shovel each day, digging routes for himself to get to the farmyard and to enable him and Abigail to reach her stock. The sheep had been brought down for the winter, but tending them and the other animals was a daily polar expedition. Their fourth day of imprisonment found him and his two companions—Abigail and Rosie—playing Scrabble at Abigail’s kitchen table. Joseph had been up and feeding animals since dawn, and Rosie had dug her way out of her van and come to help him. She’d appeared smiling by the tractor, smothered under a woollen shawl, her nose and cheeks crimson in the sub-zero temperatures. Once the job was done they left their boots in the hall, making ice-melt puddles, and sought refuge by Abigail’s range.

The women seemed cheerful about their enforced seclusion, but Joseph was a caged lion. At nine o’clock he asked to use Abigail’s museum piece of a telephone. He knew Richard O’Brien’s number by heart.

‘I’m on my way to court,’ said the solicitor. He sounded harassed.

‘Any news?’

‘Not yet. He’s going to write an interim report.’

‘How long until we know?’

‘Piece of string, Joseph. Piece of string.’

Abigail was winning the game. She always won. Her killer instinct at Scrabble was a delight to Joseph, who knew for a fact that she’d left school at fifteen. By contrast, Rosie seemed to have mild dyslexia, couldn’t spell to save her life and always came last. It never dampened her spirits.

Joseph had just picked up the worst set of tiles in history—AAOOIIQ—when the phone jarred their peace.

‘Bloomin’ thing never stops,’ grumbled Abigail. She hobbled over to the cabinet. ‘Like Paddington Station in here.’

Rosie cupped her hand around her mouth. ‘She means someone rang last year. A wrong number.’

‘I heard your cheek, young woman,’ chided Abigail, lifting the receiver. ‘Button your lip . . . Yes?’ She stood, listening. Joseph could faintly hear a male voice.

‘Yes,’ said Abigail.

More words.

‘Yes,’ said Abigail.

She carefully laid the receiver on the cabinet, returned to the table, and sat down. ‘Does Joseph Scott live here?’

Joseph leaped across the room as though she’d jabbed him with a cattle prod. ‘Hello? . . . Oh, hello, Lester. Sorry to keep you waiting . . . No, we’re snowed in, I’m afraid . . .’

He listened for a long moment, then slapped his palm onto the cabinet. ‘That’s fantastic! Thank you! Wednesday? I’ll get there if I have to ski from here to York. Thank you, thank you . . . Well, I know you’re only doing your job, but all the same. Okay then! See you on Wednesday.’

He rang off and paused, gazing out of the deep windows. He felt stunned. Clouds were breaking apart; sun and shadow raced across the bleak hillside opposite.

‘Zoologist!’ crowed Abigail, from behind him. ‘Triple word score. Eighteen times three, plus . . .’

‘I knew a zoologist once,’ said Rosie wistfully. ‘He was chronically unemployed. He wanted to marry me.’

‘And you turned him down?’ Joseph heard Abigail sucking on her front teeth, a sure sign of disapproval. ‘Daft lass! Hang on—where’s my dictionary?’

Dimly, Joseph was aware that Abigail had left the room.

Rosie’s steps crossed the kitchen towards him. ‘Seen a vision?’ she asked quietly.

‘Maybe.’

‘I saw a vision, once.’

Joseph raised one eyebrow. ‘What exactly had you been smoking?’

She didn’t answer, and he stole a glance at her profile. Her cheeks were rounded, faintly blushing under the wild hair. ‘What was it?’ he persisted. ‘A ghost?’

‘Nope.’

‘A pink elephant?’

‘I don’t have visual hallucinations,’ she said. ‘It isn’t insanity that’s driven me out of society and into a kombi van.’

‘Thought never entered my head.’

‘Liar.’

Joseph rubbed the side of his nose. ‘Actually, I wondered whether you’re escaping an abusive relationship. A man, I mean.’

‘A man.’

‘Yes.’

‘As opposed to . . .?’

‘Erm, well, a woman, I suppose.’

The idea seemed to amuse her. ‘Oh, I see. Well, no, I’m not escaping . . . no, no I don’t think that’s the word. I’m taking time out,’ she said carefully. ‘To think about a relationship that is good and loving.’

‘Good and loving? What’s the catch?’

‘There isn’t one. He’s offered me everything. He’s enriched my life.’

Joseph felt a sudden surge of resentment. What was this—surely not jealousy?

Don’t be daft
, he scolded.
What rights have you got? You
wouldn’t wish yourself on a nice girl like Rosie.

‘Sounds perfect,’ he said blandly. ‘Maybe a tad obsessive.’

‘Not at all.’

‘What went wrong?’

‘I have commitment anxiety. And that’s quite a few questions you’ve asked me, so here’s one for you.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘Who was on the phone?’

Joseph shook his head in disbelief. ‘A miracle.’

•

In the overwhelming majority of cases, it in the best interests of
children to know both parents. Where one has died, the remaining
parent has enhanced significance. There is undoubtedly risk
inherent in introducing this father to these children; however,
the court has to balance such risk against the negative consequences
of their conflicted feelings about him. Furthermore, I
believe that Joseph Scott has much to offer his children should
he prove able to rebuild a relationship with them. In the
medium and long term, his input may be of considerable help
to the Wildes in meeting the needs of Scarlet, Theo and Ben.

I suggest that I speak to the children in advance and reassure
them that they will be reunited with their father in a safe
environment; also that the decision has been made for them by
others, so that they do not need to take responsibility for the
anxiety of their grandparents. Contact will be brought to an
end immediately if any child appears to be unduly distressed.

My recommendation is that there be contact between
Joseph Scott and his children, supervised by me, at the
CAFCASS office in York. I shall then provide an addendum
to this report.

Lester Hardy
Family Court Adviser

Twenty

Hannah

Frederick’s hands began to shake on the morning of the funeral. They have shaken ever since.

He was sitting at the kitchen table, trying to write on the card we wanted to put with Zoe’s flowers. I was frozen nearby, watching the tremor in those strong fingers. I couldn’t help him; I was barely functioning myself. I didn’t even remember getting dressed. I had channelled every drop of courage I had into the children over the past ten days, and that had saved me. If it hadn’t been for them, I believe I would have lost my mind.

I’d experienced grief before. My sister Eliza died in her fifties, after a lifetime of abusing her liver. My parents—and Frederick’s—had all gone over the decades, and several friends, too. It happens as you get older. People begin to die. I thought I was mature and wise about Death.

Losing Zoe was in a different league. The pain took me to a black and lonely place, well beyond tears. It was a place with no hope, and no future.

They’d arrested Scott. They’d interviewed the neighbours and friends and us. Zoe’s body had been taken away, to lie alone and cold in a fridge. We read the autopsy report later. I don’t think people realise to what butchery their loved ones are subjected. They’d cut her open and weighed her organs. They’d taken out her brain and cut bits off it. They’d checked the alcohol levels in her blood and found them to be high—one of the reasons Scott got off. They said the cause of death was traumatic subarachnoid haemorrhage, probably caused by a blow to her head when she struck the marble fireplace as she fell. Apparently, alcohol is a risk factor. You can imagine how Scott and his lawyers made hay out of that, making Zoe sound like a raddled old lush. Zoe liked a party, liked to have fun; she wasn’t like her Aunt Eliza, who was never sober.

Finally, they put her back together—I imagined them stuffing in her organs like pyjamas into a case—and sewed her up. Only then were we allowed to have her back.

Thankfully, Marie Scott offered to lend a hand with the children, bless her. She quietly came to stay, and kept them upstairs on the morning of the funeral. I could hear the baby crying as though his tiny heart would burst. He’d been looking for his mother all week. Sometimes he could be distracted for a few minutes, but the respite was short-lived. Every time he heard a female voice he’d crawl out with a happy yell, looking for her. As soon as he realised it wasn’t Zoe, the little chap would simply sit down on the floor, his face would crumple, and he’d wail inconsolably. Nobody else would do. Nobody could comfort him.

Freddie held the pen suspended, mouthing the words he wanted to say to his daughter. A small card for a million words. His lips were moving. He forced the pen down and managed to write

Precious, beloved

before the pen wobbled, smudged and spoiled the pristine whiteness. He was weeping openly now. His shoulders shuddered, his breath tore from his body. Comfortable, competent women bustled in our kitchen, hired caterers taking care of practicalities. They witnessed my dry-eyed paralysis and Freddie’s brokenness. They saw how he suffered while I did nothing to comfort him. One of them couldn’t stand it; she dropped to one knee and put her arms around him, and I was so grateful for her humanity.