The Son-In-Law (40 page)

‘How beautiful,’ said Rosie. There was a wistful edge to her tone.

Their route south plunged through ploughed fields and russet woodland. Rosie wound down her window, closed her eyes and let the wind play havoc with her hair. Joseph found himself glancing sideways, watching her. She seemed so still, physically and emotionally; so very different from Zoe.

‘How are you feeling?’ she asked.

‘Cat on a hot tin roof.’

‘Scared of facing the in-laws?’

‘Always.’ Joseph slowed to a crawl behind a tractor.

‘Because Zoe’s mother hates you?’

‘Yes; and because I feel so bloody guilty every time I see them; and because a selfish kid in me thinks they might’ve given me a bit more support when Zoe was ill and we were struggling. Maybe that’s unfair, though. You know, they seem to think she was absolutely perfect—they just don’t understand the incredible power she had. They don’t know what it was like to be spun in that whirlpool, year after year.’

‘Maybe they understand more than you think,’ suggested Rosie. ‘After all, they were with her when she went through her teens. She must have hurt them too.’

‘If so, they’ve never acknowledged it. They seem to think being widowed and losing my children and spending three years in prison was all part of my cunning plan.’

It had been a bad night for Joseph. Time and again he’d heard the crack of impact and looked into wide green eyes.

‘Am I making a mistake?’ he asked now. ‘Is this the most selfish thing I’ve ever done?’

‘Not selfish,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘I don’t think you’re motivated by selfishness.’

‘Stupid, then?’

‘Hmm . . . not that, either. No. Look, anyone who sees you and those kids together would know that you’re absolutely devoted to them. Then again, it’s a really big thing to move them permanently.’

‘You think I don’t know that?’

They lapsed into silence. Rosie broke it.

‘Do you want me to wait with you at the court?’

He glanced at her, touched by the offer. ‘That would be so . . . but no, you do your errands. Spend your vouchers. We could meet up at lunchtime, maybe?’

‘Maybe.’

Their road meandered through sandstone villages, past pubs with window boxes, past sleeping churches. The sun twined its rays through the mist. Joseph wished the day was over; wished he knew his children’s fate, either way. He felt as though he’d joined in battle only to discover that he feared winning.

Rosie wound up her window. ‘I’m out of time,’ she said suddenly.

‘Out of time?’

‘I’ve stayed far too long already.’

‘Rosie, no.’

‘I’m going back next week. I’ve already told them.’

Joseph didn’t trust himself to speak.

‘You’ll either have the children by then, or you won’t,’ she said. ‘We’re not even neighbours nowadays. There’s nothing more I can do to help.’

‘Help! Is that why you’ve stayed so long? Out of charity—to
help
me?’

‘Partly.’

‘Bullshit.’

She shrugged. Their easy camaraderie had been obliterated. Joseph drove mechanically, thinking about life without Rosie. Finally, he exploded.

‘No, I’m not buying that! You stayed because you’re happy. You love Brandsmoor and that scruffy kombi. You are your own person, not some black-veiled expendable with your hair and body and . . . personality all covered up!’

‘You really don’t know me, Joseph.’

‘For God’s sake!’

‘Precisely. For God’s sake. I’ve promised to stay in that community. Those women are my sisters. I found meaning there, and I must go back now. And you’re far too close to that car in front. I don’t want to die just yet.’

Gritting his teeth, Joseph eased his foot off the accelerator. He realised that he was hunched over the wheel, and forced his shoulders to relax. He knew he had no right, no claim upon Rosie; yet he felt as though she’d kneed him in the stomach.

Neither spoke again until they were in York. They pressed through an increasing sludge of traffic, around the ring road and into the city itself. Joseph sulkily asked where she’d like to be dropped, and she sulkily told him. The castle car park suited them both. Joseph squeezed into a space right beside the mound of Clifford’s Tower, and switched off the engine.

‘We’re here,’ he said.

‘Yep.’

‘Far too early.’

‘Mm-hm.’

‘I suppose you’re going to beetle along to an internet café and start emailing your fellow sisters. Tell them to sweep your cell.’

‘Childish, Joseph.’

‘Starch your wimple.’

Rosie sighed exaggeratedly.

Neither made a move to get out of the car. Tourists toiled up and down the steps of the tower, and they watched in an unhappy silence.

‘In 1190,’ said Joseph, ‘one hundred and fifty Jews took refuge in that tower. Families with children. The mob was baying for their blood. When a fire broke out, they realised they were facing horrible deaths. So they committed mass suicide. Husbands killed their children and wives, and then the men killed each other.’

A group of schoolchildren rolled down the mound, pushing one another with shrieks and giggles. Their teachers took photographs.

‘Did anyone survive?’ asked Rosie.

‘The survivors were tricked into coming out, then butchered. All of them.’

‘I’ve never heard that story.’

The morning’s mist had burned away. The tower looked tidy and snug in the sunlight, its mound manicured. Joseph had never been able to look at it without imagining one hundred and fifty terrified ghosts. He closed his eyes.

‘Stay,’ he said. ‘Please stay.’

She made a sound of exasperation, reaching to pick up her handbag from the floor.

‘Sorry,’ said Joseph. ‘I’ve no right to ask. Forget it.’ Abruptly, he got out and walked across to the ticket machine. When he returned she was waiting by the car, shielding her face from the sunshine.

‘Your phone went off,’ she said, handing it to him.

It was a text from Akash.

Gd lk scott. Lt me know if u up 4 a pint 2nite.

‘He’s a good lad, Akash,’ remarked Joseph, as he wrote a short reply. ‘Always thinking about other people, even though he’d rather die than admit it. He collected me from Armley, looked after me, made sure I didn’t make a dick of myself. I owe him.’

Rosie’s bag matched her clothes. It was large and vaguely 1970s, made of a rich crimson cloth. As she hitched it onto her shoulder, the strap tangled in the mass of her hair. Joseph stepped closer, lifted the strap and freed her curls. She looked up at him.

‘Sure you don’t want me to keep you company this morning?’ she asked.

‘No, no. Thanks. Better not. They might assume you’re . . . you know.’

‘Quite.’

‘Don’t want them thinking I’ve got myself a fancy piece already.’

‘Do I look like a fancy piece? Well, good luck. Text me.’ She kissed his cheek before turning to walk away. Joseph watched her with a rising feeling of loneliness.

‘Um,’ he muttered.

She turned back, eyebrows raised enquiringly. ‘
Um?
’

‘On second thoughts,’ said Joseph.

•

Hannah

Back in that wretched little room. Waiting. Waiting.

Freddie was at his best in the mornings, and today he seemed far calmer than I felt. He’d dressed himself and knotted his own tie—not too badly, either. He and I saw the children off at the door, waving as Scarlet led her brothers up Faith Lane. They were all subdued, but Scarlet looked terrible—pale and pinched, forcing every word. When I asked her, she said she’d slept badly. I wondered how Scott could do this to her.

Once they’d gone, Freddie did the washing-up in his shirtsleeves, listening to Radio 4. It took him a long time, but he did it. When he discovered me compulsively tidying the sitting room—as though I had one last chance to be a good grandmother—he clicked his tongue and gently took the wooden trains from my hands.

‘Don’orry,’ he said. I was getting better at understanding him. ‘Not . . . tide that matters.’

‘I feel as though it is,’ I replied bitterly. I could always be honest with Freddie; perhaps more honest than I could be with myself. ‘I feel as though I have made my whole life untidy. I’ve never achieved order, as other women seem to do.’

‘Other women . . .’ He ran out of steam, and finished the sentence by looking theatrically sickened. Then he wrapped his arms right around me. I shed a tear or two, while he shushed and rocked.

My phone rang as we were leaving. I scrambled to find it in my handbag, and was surprised to hear Marie Scott’s voice.

‘Hannah,’ she said. ‘The hearing’s today, isn’t it?’

‘We’re just off to court.’

‘My bloody brother.’ She sounded agitated. ‘Heck, I’m sorry.’

‘It’s not your fault.’

‘All the same, I’m sorry. I can’t believe he’s doing this to you. D’you need anything? Should I come down and collect the kids from school?’

I was touched by her kindness. ‘No,’ I said. ‘But thank you so much.’

‘Good luck.’

I turned my phone off after that. I was afraid I’d forget and leave it on, and it would ring while I was in the witness box. Freddie had reached my coat down from the stand and was holding it for me to shrug into—right arm, left arm. Before shutting the front door behind us, I glanced back into the house. I had a sense of things ending.

I drove the car, but it was Freddie who steered us in the real sense of the word. When we arrived at the court building, he walked in steadily with his hat tucked under his arm. He nodded courteously to Malcolm at the desk. This time, we took the lift.

We sat in the little room. And sat. And sat. Both courts had busy lists. We hadn’t managed to settle our case, and as retribution they put us last. By ten fifteen we’d run through our statements, discussed every angle. We were already exhausted, though the day’s fight had not yet begun. Frederick stood ramrod-backed by his usual window, blinking at the traffic.

‘Children at school?’ asked Jane.

‘Yes.’

‘I did show you the reports from both schools, didn’t I?’ she asked, extracting some papers from her file. ‘They were accepted by the other side at the last minute, so we haven’t needed to call the teachers.’

‘That’s good,’ I said. ‘I’m sure teachers have better things to do than wait around at court all day.’

I have never been good at small talk; Freddie used to be infinitely more competent, in his heyday. To think of anything at all to say—in that airless room, on that airless day—was impossible. Nothing was sensible. Nothing was relevant. At ten forty I rushed to the ladies’. I was afraid I might be sick, as I’d once been in Leeds Crown Court. I felt that same clutch of doom. My breakfast stayed down, but I emerged feeling ghastly.

As I washed my hands at the basin I caught sight of an old woman in the mirror. She had crêpe-paper cheeks and half-moons beneath her eyes. Even her hands were unkempt. I tried to smile at her, but she just bared her teeth in a grim rictus. She looked downright sinister. I combed her hair and brushed colour onto her lined mouth, but all I achieved was to turn her into a sad old clown.

I stopped by the drinks machine in the lobby. We had the same kind at work, and I usually avoided them like the plague, but I thought a cup of sweet tea might help Freddie—and the crone in the mirror—to look less pallid. The lobby was dimly lit as ever, and the usual platoons of desperate combatants waited to join battle. I caught a distant glimpse of Scott’s solicitor, looking cuboid and sober.

A woman was stooped beside the machine, watching mud-coloured liquid trickling into a mud-coloured plastic cup. Not old, not young. Fortyish and hippyish, with a purple midi skirt and a mop of long hair. I assumed she was there to divorce her husband and take him for every last penny; or possibly she was a battered girlfriend, hoping for an injunction. She caught my eye as I approached.

‘Sorry,’ she said cordially. ‘I’m holding you up. I’ve just pressed the button for one more.’

‘I’m in no hurry.’ I dropped into a nearby chair and fished in my purse for change. We both watched as another cup dropped out of the machine, to be filled by a frothing brown fountain. The whole operation looked faintly obscene.

‘Do you think it’s going to taste anything like coffee?’ the woman asked curiously.

‘I can assure you that it won’t.’

‘Mm.’ She grimaced. ‘I was afraid of that.’

‘I’d go for the tea next time,’ I advised her.

Her smile was so friendly and open that I found myself returning it. She was apple-cheeked, her face rather rotund for beauty. In that awful place, on that awful day, kindness was particularly welcome. I decided she couldn’t possibly be a divorcing wife. She was far too tranquil for the role; there was no bitterness. Perhaps she was a social worker.

She looked more keenly at me, and I’m fairly sure she saw the white-faced crone I’d met in the powder-room mirror. ‘Actually, are you all right?’

‘Certainly not!’ I tried to smile. ‘Isn’t this a place people come to when things are all wrong?’

‘Can I help? Should I call someone?’

‘No, no,’ I assured her. ‘Thank you. I’m absolutely fine. I have people waiting in one of these rooms.’

The plastic cup was full. She had two more stacked on a small shelf, and somehow managed to pick them all up. ‘Betcha I’ll drop the lot,’ she predicted, as she moved away. ‘I hope your morning goes well.’

‘You too,’ I murmured automatically. Then I turned my attention to the machine, which seemed determined to give me soup instead of tea.

‘Shouldn’t be too much longer,’ said Jane, as I entered the room with my plastic cups. Over at the window, Freddie lost his footing and clutched the sill.

‘Freddie,’ I snapped. ‘For God’s sake, sit down before you fall down.’

He turned his head to look at me, hurt stretching his eyes. ‘All right, all right,’ he murmured gently, and made his way towards a chair.

‘Sorry,’ I said.

A tap on the door made us all swing around. The blonde court clerk was poking her head into the room. ‘He has risen!’ she announced breathlessly.

I overcame an inclination to enquire whether she was referring to the judge, or to Jesus Christ. Funny how the most inappropriate and puerile ideas pop into one’s head in times of crisis.