The Son-In-Law (31 page)

The judge sat with his pale eyes fixed on me. He nodded gravely from time to time, brow creased into lines of compassion. He took copious notes. It wasn’t until later that I understood: he was going through the motions, letting me have my say. He’d already made up his mind.

‘We’ve coped,’ I said. ‘Frederick and I. We picked up the pieces—three children who’d seen their mother die. We made a home for them.’

Compassionate nod. Scribble.

‘Tell us about Frederick’s health,’ suggested Jane.

‘Frederick is ill because of all this,’ I said. ‘He was fine before Scott came out of prison. He will be fine again, if only this stress could end.’

Nod. Scribble.

‘And what do you fear?’ asked Jane. ‘If they go to stay in a caravan with Joseph Scott, unsupervised?’

‘A dozen things! He doesn’t know them. The younger two are a handful. They squabble, and Ben can be hyperactive. Scott may lose his temper. He may get drunk. He may say something to upset them. They may be frightened and homesick.’

Nod. Scribble.

‘Anything you’d like to add?’ asked Jane.

‘Yes. They feel safe in their home. They feel loved. Staying with a half-stranger, with a man they’ve feared for years, in some remote caravan site is just too much for them. It isn’t putting them first. It’s putting Scott’s demands first, at their expense.’

The judge laid down his pen and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Mrs Wilde,’ he said slowly. ‘Sorry, Dr Wilde . . . Forgive me if my question sounds insensitive, but have you thought about your husband’s future?’

‘Of course! With the right input, he will recover. People frequently do.’

Again, the furrows in that brow. I was beginning to loathe them. ‘Conversely, he may need increasing care. That would mean you’d be harder pressed than ever. In any event, it looks as though he will be less active in family life. Driving, and so on.’

‘I’m ready for that. I have taken indefinite leave from work. The children are older now, and Scarlet is a great help. Many families manage illness. We’re hardly unique in that way.’

‘You don’t think it might be a blessing for them to stay with their father from time to time?’

I laughed incredulously at the idea. ‘Joseph Scott, a blessing? Hardly.’

Then I went off script. I thought it was my only chance—I didn’t yet understand that I had no chance at all. I could have put on a red nose and done the hokey cokey in the upright coffin; the outcome would have been exactly the same.

‘I’m not an intransigent battleaxe, Your Honour,’ I said, turning to face him properly.

‘Nobody’s suggesting—’ ‘Oh, yes. I think they are. But I’m not. It’s just that the risks of letting those children go to stay with that man are far too high. Please believe me. I
know.
My daughter married him, and look where she is now.’

He thanked me warmly, and waved Scott’s solicitor away. ‘No, Mr O’Brien. You don’t need to ask any questions.’

When he gave his judgment, it was brief and to the point. It was in the best interests of the children to build a relationship with their father, which meant staying with him every fortnight, starting from . . . he consulted a calendar on his desk . . . Saturday week. And he expected that during the summer holidays, ten days would be on offer. Minimum. After all, what was ten days in such a long holiday? Understood? Good. Excellent. Well, Mr O’Brien and Mrs Whistler, perhaps you’d draw up an order? Lovely. Now, I think there’s another case waiting to come in.

Thank you. Thank you. Goodbye.

Twenty-seven

Scarlet

You know, there were times over that first weekend when I forgot about Dad killing Mum. He became an ordinary dad again. Just a dad. My dad.

He picked us up in a blue rust bucket of a car, which he called his ‘chariot’. He looked as excited as a big kid, but I thought he was nervous as well. When we pulled away down Faith Lane, I turned back to wave at Hannah and Gramps. They’d already gone in. That surprised me. It worried me, too.

It was May. The sunlight looked soft and dewy, as though it was shining through gauze. As we passed the shopping centre on the ring road, Ben spotted McDonald’s.

‘Can we go to McDoodle’s?’ he asked hopefully.

Dad grinned. ‘With all the other McFathers having their weekly McContact visits? No, my friend, not today. I’ve brought us a picnic.’

After a long drive through the countryside he turned the car up a bumpy track, finally parking at the edge of a wood. We sat for a moment, in that extra quiet silence you get when a car’s engine has been turned off.

‘Is this the moors?’ asked Theo.

‘Not quite. Hop out.’ Dad went around to the boot and lifted out a cardboard box, and then we followed him into the trees. Ben and Theo grabbed sticks and began to play fight, sliding on mud and last year’s leaves.

‘Careful!’ Dad took Ben’s left hand with his right. I looked at those big fingers, wrapped around Ben’s little ones. I couldn’t help it. I remembered what those fingers had done—I could almost see the blood on them. The last human contact my mum had was that hand smashing into her face. How could I spend twenty-four hours with someone whose hand did that? I stumbled over a tree root and Dad said, ‘Careful, champ.’

Suddenly, Ben was pointing and shouting. ‘Look, Scarlet! Water!’

We all stopped walking, and stared. I forgot about Dad’s hand.

There was a lake in the woods. It was a magical mirror, full of sky and spring-leafed trees. Two swans were drifting on the surface, each gliding upon a reflection of itself.

‘Wow,’ I breathed.

Dad chuckled. ‘I thought it would be fun to have our picnic here. It’s not my home, and it’s not yours.’

‘Neutral ground?’

‘Exactly.’

He led us along one edge of the lake until we came to a wooden jetty. We followed him onto it, through reeds and bulrushes—clump, clump, went our feet, echoing across the stillness—until he put down his cardboard box. A family of black moorhens came paddling out of some reeds close by. Tiny ripples spread from them in a V shape, and every ripple flashed with jewels of light.

‘Where are we?’ I asked, looking around in amazement. ‘This is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.’

‘We’re in the grounds of an abbey—the monks’ back garden!’

‘Holy woods, then,’ said Theo. He was taking off his shoes and socks, and plonked himself down on the edge of the jetty with his toes dangling in the water. ‘Brrr! Holy water is freezing.’

‘Well, it has holes in it,’ said Dad. ‘Also very large holy pike, apparently.’

I imitated the music from
Jaws—
duh
dum
, duh
dum
, and Theo jerked his feet out of the water.

Dad had tried really, really hard. It was sweet. He’d been to a baker’s and got sausage rolls and buns with Smarties on them. He’d got cans of juice. He had crisps, apples and cheese sandwiches he’d made in the caravan—‘In case anyone’s still hungry,’ he said anxiously, as though he wasn’t quite sure how much his children might eat. Poor Dad.

‘This is a great picnic,’ I said, watching Ben stuff an entire sausage roll into his mouth. ‘How did you know all our favourite treats?’

‘How did I . . . ? You don’t remember? I used to take you out for picnics, when . . . ’ He stopped short, and looked away. After a minute, he reached out and ruffled Theo’s haystack hair. ‘Should we bring a fishing rod next time, Captain Theo?’

Theo rolled onto his tummy and edged his head and shoulders out across the water, like a plank. ‘I can see hundreds of tiny fish,’ he said. ‘No pikes at all. Oh—look, Dad!’

He was pointing at a dragonfly that skimmed and darted near the surface. It moved so fast that I couldn’t follow it with my eyes.

‘Amazing fellow,’ breathed Dad. ‘He looks like an electric blue helicopter.’

‘Gramps would know exactly what that’s called,’ I said, without thinking. The words weren’t out of my mouth before I wished I hadn’t mentioned Gramps. Dad on one side, Gramps and Hannah on the other.

Zipping my lips, I lay on my back. I looked through the depths of the sky and into outer space. There were dark dots, zillions of them, speckling the blue. I knew it was just my eyes playing tricks, but I imagined they were the blackness showing through. The boards of the jetty felt warm. I could smell rotting leaves and mushrooms and damp earth.

‘Can I have another bun?’ asked Ben. Dad said he could, and then I heard the two of them wandering away to explore among the trees, chatting like old friends. I could hear Theo’s feet swishing in the water. Somewhere very close by, a bird called. I don’t know what it was (Gramps would have, though), but its cry was thin and reedy, ringing across the still water.

I closed my eyes. Just being by that lake seemed to calm everyone down. I can’t explain it. It was the most tranquil place you can imagine, as though we were taking in peace with every breath. I felt myself sinking down, down through the boards of the jetty. I suppose I was tired, because I hadn’t slept properly the night before—I’d woken up in the bathroom again. Gradually, the swishing of water and calls of birds seemed to fade away.

I was dozing when Theo splashed water on my face. It was cold and wet and not funny at all. I shrieked blue murder.

‘You freak!’ I yelped. ‘Effing tosspot! Look at my top, it’s soaked.’

Then I saw that he was laughing himself silly. Solemn Theo who wet his bed, sad Theo with the serious face, savage Theo who attacked his brother in the street. His eyes were crescents, with tears of laughter squeezing out. He looked normal. He looked happy.

So I giggled, and stuck up my middle finger, and called him a butt-hole.

‘Ladylike,’ remarked Dad, who was striding back. Ben trotted at his heels like a terrier dog.

Theo looked disgusted. ‘Scarlet’s not a lady!’

‘She is to me,’ said Dad firmly.

Back in the car, we talked about the caravan. Ben claimed to remember being there before, which was rubbish as he was a baby back then. I really did remember it, and so did Theo. We talked about things that didn’t hurt anyone—the stepping stones and the rope swing. Dad told us about lambing at the farm, and how he’d actually delivered quite a few, and he’d introduce us to them. Nobody mentioned the fact that last time we’d been at the caravan, Mum was there with us.

But we were all thinking it.

So Mum was the Elephant in the Car.

•

Joseph

‘Here we are,’ he announced, swinging into Abigail’s rutted yard. ‘Welcome to Chez Dad. And here’s old Jessy, come to meet us.’

The children piled out of the car, and he showed them the way through the kissing gate. Ben and Theo galloped ahead, rushing in circles among the buttercups that carpeted the margins of the campsite.

‘Pretty!’ said Scarlet, shielding her eyes.

‘There’s nowhere lovelier at this time of year.’ Joseph picked a golden flower and held it under her chin. ‘Apparently, you like butter.’

She smiled politely. Her composure was unsettling; he had no idea what she was thinking. ‘Can we go down to the caravan?’

The place rocked to the thudding of children’s feet, exploring, throwing open doors, exclaiming at the fun smallness of everything. Joseph quickly saw that someone had been into the caravan while he was away. They’d aired the towels and bedding and left a bunch of wildflowers. A plate of Abigail’s rock buns lay on the table. He suspected Rosie.

‘Let’s paddle in the beck!’ demanded Ben.

‘Good idea.’

‘Right now?’

Joseph hesitated with his hand on the kettle. He’d been looking forward to a mug of coffee, but he couldn’t bring himself to refuse any request. Not today.

‘I’ll go with them,’ offered Scarlet. She was ushering her brothers out of the door when she ducked back inside, whispering, ‘Um . . . look, don’t say anything . . . but you’ll need to get Theo up in the night.’

‘Oh.’ Joseph blinked.

‘Better safe than sorry. If you don’t, he might wet his bed and he’d be mortified. About midnight, okay? He won’t even remember it.’

‘Okay.’

‘Thanks,’ she said, and disappeared outside.

Joseph was gripped by an odd sensation as he followed her. It was a mellow evening, and the hedgerows were bursting into life. The breeze carried a trace of bracken. Three children dashed around beside the beck, absorbed in some game. Two boys lugged a rock between them—one, two, three . . . splash!—into the water. Laughter. High voices, resounding up the valley. Two boys, and a girl with fiery hair. His children.

The odd sensation swelled. He wanted to shout, to let it out.

‘Beautiful kids,’ said Rosie’s voice. She stood a little apart from him, looking at the scene.

‘They are.’

They watched for another minute. Scarlet was stooping to roll up Ben’s trousers, and he was tipping water on her head.

‘Thanks for the flowers and everything,’ said Joseph. ‘I assume that was you.’

‘Yes, but Abigail donated the rock buns. I’ll give you all a wide berth this weekend. This is precious time with their dad.’

‘You’re always welcome.’

‘How do you feel?’

He hesitated. ‘Like I’ve got an airbag inflating in my chest. I’m blowing up like a massive balloon.’

‘Sounds to me like joy,’ she said quietly.

•

Abigail had invited them for supper. Darkness was gathering when they set off for the farmhouse, so Joseph opened the box of glow sticks.

‘I remember these!’ Scarlet exclaimed, as Joseph handed them out. ‘Mum totally loved them. She always—’ She broke off in confusion. ‘Never mind.’

There was a ghastly pause. Scarlet and Theo exchanged unreadable glances. Even Ben looked wary.

‘She did,’ said Joseph evenly. ‘She did love them. She bought these very ones, that you’re holding. So you can think of them as a present from her.’ He tried to smile at the three, but they didn’t smile back. They stared down at their coloured lights, mesmerised, as though they held the memory of their mother in their hands.

It was Ben who spoke first. ‘Thanks, Mum.’

‘Yeah,’ agreed Theo, nodding. ‘Thanks, Mum.’

They set off up the hill, the children twirling their luminous wands on strings like spinning Catherine wheels. Blossoming hawthorns were pale smudges in the gloaming. As they neared the top of the hill, a van door slid shut. It sounded harsh in the stillness.