A Special Relationship

'It's eight am', she said, 'and this is your wake-up call'.

I slurped down the coffee. I took a fast shower. I put on my good suit again. I did a little damage control with foundation and blusher. We were out the door and on the tube by nine-fifteen. It was a brilliantly bright, sun-dappled day.

'Sleep all right?' Maeve asked me as we settled down in the front left hand pew of the court.

'Not bad'.

'And how is your sister?'

'A bit better, I think'.

Just then Nigel showed up, accompanied by Rose Keating. She gave me a little hug.

'You didn't think I was going to miss this, did you?' she asked. 'Who's the woman in the back row?'

'My sister', I said.

'All the way over here from the States to support you? Good on her. I'll sit with her'.

'How are our last-minute witnesses?' Maeve asked.

'Due here this afternoon, as requested', she said.

'They know how to get to the High Court?' Maeve asked.

'It's all arranged. Nigel meeting's one of them at Paddington during the lunch break, and I'm going to Victoria for the other one'.

Tony and Co. then arrived - his lawyers nodding with their counterparts on this side of the court; their client and his new partner avoiding my gaze as before. Just as I also didn't want to make eye contact with either of them.

Then the court clerk stood up and asked us to do so as well. Mr Justice Traynor entered, sat down, greeted us with a brief 'Good morning', and called the hearing to order.

It was now Maeve's turn to present our case. And so she called her first witness: Dr Rodale.

She didn't smile at me from the witness stand. She seemed to be deliberately ignoring my presence - perhaps because that would give her testimony more weight.

Maeve got her to recite her professional qualifications, her long-standing association with St Martin's, the fact that she'd had two decades' experience of treating women with postnatal depression, and had written several medical papers on the subject. She then had her outline, briefly, the emotional and physiological roller-coaster ride that was this condition, how it sneaked up unawares on its victims, how it often caused those in its vortex to do uncharacteristic things like uttering threats, becoming suicidal, refusing to eat or wash, committing violent acts... and how, with rare exceptions, it was always treatable.

Then she detailed my clinical case.

When she had finished Maeve asked her, 'In your opinion, is Ms Goodchild fully capable of resuming the role of full-time mother?'

She looked straight at Tony and said, 'In my opinion, she was fully capable of that role when she was discharged from hospital nearly ten months ago'.

'No further questions, My Lord'.

Lucinda Fforde stood up.

'Dr Rodale, during the course of your twenty-five-year career, how many women have you treated for postnatal depression?'

'Around five hundred, I'd guess'.

'And, of these, how many documented cases can you remember of a mother threatening to kill her child?'

Dr Rodale looked most uncomfortable with this question.

'When you say "threatening to kill a child...?"'

'I mean, just that: someone threatening to kill a child'.

'Well... to be honest about it, I only remember three other reported instances...'

'Only three other instances, out of five hundred cases. It's obviously a pretty rare threat to make then. And let me ask you this: of those three cases... actually four, if you include Ms Goodchild, how many of those actually went on to murder their child?'

Dr Rodale turned to the judge.

'My Lord, I really find this line of questioning...'

'Doctor, you must answer the question'.

She looked straight at Lucinda Fforde.

'Only one of those women went on to kill her child'.

A triumphant smile crossed the lips of Lucinda Fforde.

'So, given that, one of those four women actually killed her child, there was a twenty-five per cent chance that Ms Goodchild would have killed her child'.

'My Lord' -

But before Maeve could utter anything more, Lucinda Fforde said, 'No further questions'.

'Re-examination?'

'Absolutely, My Lord', Maeve said, sounding furious. 'Dr Rodale, please tell us about the patient who killed her child'.

'She was suffering from extreme schizophrenia, and one of the worst cases of manic depression I've ever treated. She had been sectioned - and the murder happened on a supervised visit with her child, when the supervisor became physically ill and had to leave the room for no more than a minute to seek help. When she returned, the mother had snapped her child's neck'.

There was a long silence.

'How rare is this sort of case in postnatal depression?' Maeve asked.

'Rarer than rare. As I said, it's the one instance in five hundred or so cases I've treated. And I must emphasize again that, unlike all the other cases, this was one where the patient was essentially psychotic'.

'So there is absolutely no relation whatsoever with the condition suffered by the woman who killed her child, and that of Ms Goodchild?'

'Absolutely none whatsoever. And anyone who attempts to make that sort of comparison is guilty of a monstrous manipulation of the truth'.

'Thank you, Doctor. No further questions'.

Next up was Clarice Chambers. She did smile at me from the witness box and, under gentle, brief questioning from Maeve, told her how well I had 'bonded' with Jack, the grief I had displayed at our first supervised visit, and the way I had been able to establish a genuine rapport with him during our hourly visits each week. And then Maeve asked her virtually the same question she had posed to Dr Rodale.

'As you have been the one-and-only person to have watched the interaction of Ms Goodchild and her son over the past months, is it your professional opinion that she is a caring mother?'

'A completely caring mother, in whom I have the greatest confidence'.

'Thank you. No further questions'.

Once again, Lucinda Fforde played the 'I have just one question for you' game. And the question was, 'In your experience, don't all mothers who have been legally prevented from unsupervised contact with their child - due to worries about the child's safety - don't they always express terrible grief in front of you?'

'Of course they do. Because' -

'No further questions'.

'Re-examination?'

'Ms Chambers, is it true that, for the past six weeks, you have allowed Ms Goodchild to have unsupervised contact with her child?'

'That is completely correct'.

'And why have you permitted this?'

'Because it's clear to me that she is a normally functioning person, who presents no danger whatsoever to her child. In fact, I've actually felt that way about her since the beginning'.

'Thank you very much, Ms Chambers'.

Moving right along, Jane Sanjay took the stand. She explained that she had been my health visitor - and had seen me several times after I had come out of hospital with Jack. And she reported that she had no doubts about my competence as a mother. Maeve asked, 'However, this was before the full-scale effects of the postnatal depression had afflicted her, is that correct?'

'Yes, that's true - but she was, at the time, obviously suffering from exhaustion, postoperative stress, not to mention ferocious worry about her son's condition. The exhaustion was also exacerbated by sleep deprivation, and the fact that she had no help at home. So, under the circumstances, I thought she was coping brilliantly'.

'So, there was nothing in her behaviour to indicate a woman who could not deal with the day-to-day business of child care?'

'None at all'.

'You know, of course, that she did accidentally breastfeed her son while taking a sedative. Is that, in your professional experience, a rare occurrence?'

'Hardly. We must have a dozen of those cases a year in Wandsworth. It's a common mistake. The mother isn't sleeping, so she's on sleeping pills. She's told, "Don't breastfeed while taking the pills." The child wakes up in the middle of the night. The mother is befuddled. She breastfeeds the child. And though the child goes floppy for a bit, he or she simply sleeps it off. And in the case of Sally... sorry, Ms Goodchild... the fact that this happened didn't have any bearing whatsoever on my opinion that she was a thoroughly competent mother'.

'No further questions'.

Up came Lucinda Fforde.

'Now, Ms Sanjay, didn't the breastfeeding incident of which you speak happen after your dealings with Ms Goodchild?'

'That's right. She entered hospital for a time thereafter'.

'She entered a psychiatric unit thereafter... the breastfeeding incident being the event that brought her to hospital. So how can you say that you know that this incident was just a common mistake if you weren't there?'

'Because I've dealt with these sorts of cases before'.

'But you didn't specifically deal with this one...'

'I dealt with Ms Goodchild...'

'But before the incident, is that not right?'

Pause. Jane was cornered, and she knew it.

'Yes, I suppose that's right'.

'As for your claim that "though the child goes floppy for a bit, he or she just sleeps off the drugs", I have a clipping here from the Scotsman, dated 28 March of this year - a short news item, detailing a death of a two-week-old boy in a Glasgow hospital after his mother breastfed him while taking a similar sedative. No more questions'.

'Re-examination, Ms Doherty?'

'Yes, My Lord. Ms Sanjay, have you ever dealt with a death like the one just described?'

'Never - but I am certain it could happen. But only if the mother had ingested far beyond the normal dose of sedatives. I'd be interested to know if that mother in Scotland had been a drug addict - because many addicts mainline high doses of the drug. And if you then breastfed a baby after mainlining an overdose of sedatives, well... a tragedy like that can happen'.

The judge came in here.

'Just out of interest, was the Glaswegian mother a drug addict, Ms Fforde?'

Ms Fforde looked profoundly uncomfortable.

'She was, My Lord'.

After Jane was dismissed, the moment I was dreading had arrived. Maeve Doherty called my name. I walked down the aisle, entered the witness box, took the oath. I looked out at the courtroom and had that same sensation I had the one-and-only time I appeared onstage in a school play: the sheer terror of having all eyes upon you, even if the audience (in this case) was such a small one.

Maeve was brilliant. She stuck to the script. She didn't ooze sympathy ('That won't play with Traynor'), nor did she lead me by the nose. But, point-by-point, she got me to explain the whirlwind nature of my relationship with Tony, my feelings about falling pregnant in my late thirties, my difficult pregnancy, the horror of discovering that Jack was in intensive care after his birth, and the fact that I began to feel myself mentally slipping into a black swamp.

'You know, the expression, "In a dark wood"?' I said.

'Dante', Mr Justice Traynor interjected.

'Yes, Dante. And an apt description of where I found myself'.

'And in those moments of lucidity when you re-emerged from this "dark wood"', Maeve asked, 'how did you feel about shouting at doctors, or making those two unfortunate comments about your son, or accidentally breastfeeding him while on sleeping pills?'

'Horrible. Beyond horrible. And I still feel horrible about it. I know I was ill at the time, but that doesn't lessen my guilt or my shame'.

'Do you feel anger towards your husband about how he has behaved?'

'Yes, I do. I also feel that what's happened to me has been so desperately unfair, not to mention the most painful experience in my life... even more so than the death of my parents. Because Jack is my son. The centre of my life. And because he's been effectively taken away from me - and for reasons that haven't just struck me as unjust, but also trumped up'.

I gripped the rail of the witness stand as tightly as I could during this final statement. Because I knew that if I let go, the entire court would see my hands shaking.

'No further questions, My Lord', Maeve said.

Lucinda Fforde now looked at me and smiled. The smile of someone who wants to unnerve you, wants you to know they've got you in their sights and are about to pull the trigger.

'Ms Goodchild, after being told of your son's critical condition while at the Mattingly Hospital, did you say: "He is dying - and I don't care. You get that? I don't care"?'

I gripped the rail tighter.

'Yes, I did'.

'Did you, a few weeks later, call your husband's secretary at work and say: "Tell him if he's not home in the next sixty minutes, I'm going to kill our son"?'

'Yes, I did'.

'Did you breastfeed your son while taking sedatives after being specifically told not to do so by your GP?'

'Yes, I did'.

'Did your son end up in hospital after this incident?'

'Yes, he did'.

'Were you hospitalized for nearly two months in a psychiatric unit after this incident?'

'Yes, I was'.

'In 1988, did your father attend your commencement party at Mount Holyoke College in Massachusetts?'

'Yes, he did'.

'Did you give him a glass of wine at that party?'

'Yes, I did'.

'Did he tell you that he didn't want that glass of wine?'

'Yes, he did'.

'But you made the comment, "How middle aged," and he downed the wine. Was that the correct sequence of events?'

'Yes'.

'Did he then drive off later that evening, killing himself, your mother, and two innocent passengers in another car?'

'Yes, he did'.

'I thank you, Ms Goodchild, for confirming that all the major accusations against you are correct ones. No more questions, My Lord'.

'Re-examination, Ms Doherty?'

'Yes, My Lord. But before I begin, I would like to take issue with the fact that Counsel used the word "accusations" in the context of my client. It should be noted that Ms Goodchild is not on trial here'.

'Noted', Traynor said, with a bored sigh.

'Ms Goodchild, did you mean what you said when you said: "He is dying - and I don't care. You get that? I don't care"?'

'No, I didn't mean it at all. I was suffering from postoperative shock'.

'Did you mean what you said when you threatened the life of your child?'

'No - I was suffering from clinical depression'.

'Did you ever commit any violent act against your child?'

'Never'.

'Did you ever breastfeed him again while taking sedatives?'

'Never'.

'Are you now over your postnatal depression?'

'I am'.

'Did you give a glass of wine to your father on the fateful June night in 1988?'

'Yes, I did'.

'Now even though you didn't force it down his throat - and, in fact, made nothing more than a flippant comment - do you still feel guilty about giving him that glass of wine?'

'Yes, I do. I've always felt guilty about it. And I've lived with that guilt, day-in, day-out, for the last fifteen years'.

'But do you think you deserve that guilt?'

'Whether or not I deserve it, it is there'.

'I think that's called having a conscience. Thank you, Ms Goodchild, for so clearly stating the real facts of this case. No more questions'.

I stepped down from the bench. I walked down the aisle. I sat down next to Nigel Clapp. He touched my shoulder and said, 'Well done'.

High praise from Mr Clapp. But I still thought that Fforde had scored serious points against me - and had pointed up, for Traynor, the fact that I had validated all the accusations against me.

There was one more witness before lunch. Diane Dexter's former housekeeper - the Hispanic woman I had met on that day I had rushed to Dexter's house. Her name was Isabella Paz. A Mexican, resident in the United Kingdom for ten years. In Ms Dexter's employ until four months ago. And she confirmed that Mr Hobbs had been a regular guest to her residence since 1998... and no, they did not sleep in separate rooms during these occasional visits that occurred when he was back in London from assorted overseas postings. She confirmed that Ms Dexter had gone on holiday with him in 1999 and 2000, and that she had spent a month with him in Cairo in 2001. And yes, he had been regularly visiting Ms Dexter since then - and, in fact, all but moved into her house for around eight weeks this past year... which, as Maeve Doherty helpfully added, was the eight weeks when Jack and I were resident in the psychiatric unit of St Martin's.

'In other words, Mr Hobbs and Ms Dexter had been carrying on an occasional romance since 1999, and a rather steady romance since his return to London in 2002?'

'That was how I saw it, yes', she said.

During her cross-examination, Lucinda Fforde said, 'Weren't you fired by Ms Dexter for theft?'

'Yes - but then she took back what she said, and paid me money'.

'And before Ms Dexter, didn't you work for a Mr and Mrs Robert Reynolds of London SW5?'

'Yes, I did'.

'And weren't you fired from that job as well? For theft again?'

'Yes, but' -

'No further questions'.

'Re-examination?'

'A very fast question, Ms Paz', Maeve said. 'Were you ever charged with theft by Mr and Mrs Reynolds. Officially charged, that is?'

'No'.

'So you don't have a criminal record?'

'No'.

'And if the court wanted proof of the dates of, say, the holidays Ms Dexter took with Mr Hobbs, how could they obtain proof?'

'She keeps a diary by the phone, writes everything in it. Where's she going, who with. Once the year is finished, she puts the diary in a cabinet under the phone. She must have ten years of diaries down there'.

'Thank you, Ms Paz'.

When we broke for lunch, I leaned forward and asked Maeve, 'Did she really get done for stealing in her first job?'

'Oh, yes', she whispered. 'A diamond necklace, which was fortunately recovered from the pawnbrokers where she sold it. And I think it was her mad plea for mercy that made her employers decide not to involve the police. And I'm pretty certain she did steal from Dexter - but, knowing that she was involved in this case, Paz decided to scream false accusation and raise the roof. Which is why Dexter paid up. So, if you're looking for a housekeeper, don't hire her. She's completely larcenous... but she certainly served our purpose'.

Then she gave me a little shrug of the shoulders, as if to say: I know it's not pleasant, but if you want to win, you have to engage in a little suspect play, just like the other side.

'You did well in the witness box', Maeve said.

Rose and Nigel shot off to retrieve our two last-minute witnesses. Maeve excused herself to prepare for her final two examinations in full. So Sandy and I took a walk by the Thames. We didn't say much - the pressure of the hearing and yesterday's revelations stifling any serious conversation. But my sister did suggest that the morning went well for me.

'But how well?'

'Tony and his rich bitch were caught out lying about the newness of their relationship, and about only being just friends until after he snatched Jack. And I thought you were impressive'.

'I hear a but coming on'.

'But... I did think that Tony's barrister nailed you in her cross-examination. Not that you did anything wrong. Just that all the question marks hanging over you were confirmed by you. But maybe I'm just being overly pessimistic'.

'No, you're completely spot-on. Maeve thought so too. I'm worried. Because I can't read the judge, and I don't know what line he's taking on the case... except wanting to get it over with as fast as possible'.

When we returned to the court after the two-hour recess, Maeve was sitting alone on our side of the court and told me that - in order to ensure that Tony and Co. didn't run into our surprise witnesses - Nigel and Rose were dawdling with them in two separate coffee bars nearby. And as soon as the other side were in place...

In they walked, Tony and I pretending that there was a Berlin Wall between us. Immediately, Maeve was dashing up the aisle, her mobile phone in her hand. She was back within a minute, breathless, just as the clerk was calling the court to order. Traynor came in, just as Nigel came rushing down the aisle to slide in next to me. Traynor didn't like this at all.

'A little late, are we, sir?' he asked.

Poor Nigel looked mortified. 'I'm... uhm... terribly sorry, My Lord'.

'So, Ms Doherty' Traynor said. 'We are going to finish up this afternoon, I hope?'

'Without question, My Lord. But I must inform the court that, like the applicant, we also have last-minute witnesses'.

Traynor's lips tightened. He didn't like this news at all.

'You said "witnesses", Miss Doherty', Traynor said. 'By which you mean how many?'

'Just two, My Lord'.

'And why are they so last minute?' Traynor asked.

'We were only able to obtain their statements in the past day - and these were still being proofed this morning'.

'Are the witnesses here now?'

'They are, My Lord'.

'May we know their names, please?'

Maeve turned herself slightly to aim her statement in the direction of Tony.

'Of course, My Lord. Their names are Elaine Kendall and Brenda Griffiths'.

Tony immediately started whispering into the ear of Lucinda Fforde. His instantaneous panic was evident.

'And do you have the statements from Ms Kendall and Ms Griffiths?' the judge asked.

Nigel opened his briefcase and handed a thick file to Maeve.

'We do, My Lord'.

'Well, let us take a look at them'.

She handed out copies of the two statements to the judge, to Lucinda Fforde, and to her accompanying solicitor. I watched as Tony immediately relieved the solicitor of his copies, and scanned them, becoming increasingly perturbed with each paragraph, then loudly saying, 'This is outrageous'.

Traynor peered at him over his half-moon specs and asked, 'Please refrain from disturbing this courtroom, Mr Hobbs'.

Lucinda Fforde put a steadying hand on his shoulder and said, 'My client apologises for that small outburst, My Lord. Might I have a minute to consult with him?'

'A minute is fine', he said.

There was a very fast, agitated huddle in Tony's corner. Maeve stood throughout the entire minute, looking on, impassive, resisting the temptation to smile or look smug.

'Well then', Traynor said when the minute was up. 'May we please proceed now, Ms Fforde?'

'My Lord, we do have a serious problem with these statements'.

'And what may that problem be, Miss Fforde?'

'Well, whereas Mr Ogilvy's statement only arrived here yesterday from the States, along with himself, we sense that the opposing counsel might have been sitting on these statements - from two UK residents - for a considerable amount of time'.

'Miss Doherty, how do you respond to this?'

'My Lord, I've already explained why they are so last minute'.

'So, Miss Fforde', Traynor said, 'do you object to these two last-minute witnesses?'

'I do, My Lord'.

'Well', he said, 'given that the Respondent's counsel accepted your last-minute witness yesterday - and given that none of us wants to have this case part-heard - I am going to allow these witnesses to be examined'.

'My Lord, I wish to speak with my client for a moment about whether he wishes me to lodge an objection, and also ask for a suspension of this hearing until such time as...'

'Yes, yes, we all know how that sentence finishes, Ms Fforde', Traynor said. 'And the ball is, as they say, firmly in your court. Either you accept Counsel's last-minute witnesses - as she accepted yours yesterday - or we all say goodbye until four months from now, as I am going on circuit after the summer recess. So, if you want proper time to study the statements of the respondent's new witnesses, then the case will be part-heard, and we'll all be called back here in the autumn time to agree what could have been agreed here-and-now. But the choice, of course, is entirely between yourself and your client. Perhaps you would like a moment to speak with him?'

'Thank you, My Lord'.

There was another frantic huddle on Tony's side of the court. Only this time, the Dexter woman was very much involved in this whispered debate - and from the vehement way she was gesturing, it was clear that she had a very forceful point of view on this subject. As they continued their hushed discussion, Maeve leaned over to me and whispered, 'Australia'.

Suddenly, I saw the brilliant stratagem behind Maeve's gamble. Knowing full well that Diane Dexter needed to be in Sydney as soon as possible to get her new office up and running, she wagered that Dexter would raise major objections when our side threatened a suspension of the hearing. Because that would mean Tony and Jack wouldn't be able to join her for at least four months - if, that is, Traynor ruled in their favour at that future time. Watching her now take charge of the discussion with Tony and their legal team, I guessed what she was telling them in her low, but insistent voice: How damaging can these witnesses be... ? We can't afford the delay... let's finish this now.

Or, at least, that's what I hoped she was telling them.

Their debate continued for another minute, during which time Tony tried to raise an objection, but was hissed down by Dexter. He looked rather defeated.

'So, Miss Fforde/Traynor said, interrupting this conclave. 'Have you and your client reached a decision?'

Fforde looked directly at Dexter - who nodded affirmatively at her. Then she turned to Traynor and said, 'With reluctance - but not wishing to delay the conclusion of these proceedings any further - we will accept the respondent's two new witnesses'.

Traynor looked most relieved. So too did Maeve Doherty, who afforded herself the most momentary of smiles. Traynor said, 'Please call your first witness, Ms Doherty. Who will it be?'

'Elaine Kendall, My Lord'.

Nigel went scurrying up the aisle and out the back door. A moment later, he returned, followed by Elaine Kendall. She was a small, rather tired-looking woman in her late forties, with a smoker's face and fatigued eyes. She entered the witness box and stared straight at Tony with a look of joyless disdain. She took the oath, she steadied herself, Maeve began.

'Ms Kendall, would you please tell the court how you know Mr Tony Hobbs?'

She started telling her story in a slow, hesitant voice. She had grown up in Amersham and at Christmas 1982, she was working at a local pub when in came 'that gentleman sitting over there'. They got chatting over the course of the evening ('I was serving him, you see'), and he explained he was back in Amersham visiting his parents, and that he was some big deal foreign correspondent for the Chronicle.

'Anyway, he was very charming, very sophisticated, and once I was finished work, he asked me out for a drink. We went to a club. We drank far too much. One thing led to another, and we woke up next to each other the following morning.

'After that, he vanished - and a couple of weeks later, I discovered I was pregnant. Now I tried to contact him through the newspaper - but got nowhere. And my dad and mum being real Irish Catholic and all... well, there was no way I was not keeping the baby. But... that man... he was in Egypt or somewhere at the time, and though we kept trying to get in touch with him, there was just silence from his side.

'Eventually, we had to hire a solicitor, make a fuss with his paper. Way I heard it, his bosses told him he had to settle this somehow, so he agreed to finally pay me some sort of child support'.

'What was that amount?'

'Fifty quid a month back in '83. We managed to get another solicitor on the job around '91. He got him up to £125 a month'.

'And Mr Hobbs never showed the slightest bit of interest in you or your son... ?'

'Jonathan. He was called Jonathan. And no, that man didn't want to know. Every year, I'd send him a picture of his boy, care of the Chronicle. Never a reply'.

'And - although I know the answer to this question already, and must apologize to you for raising such a painful subject - where is your son now?'

'He died in 1995. Leukaemia'.

'That must have been terrible'.

'It was', she said - but her voice was hard, and her gaze remained on Tony.

'Did you write to Mr Hobbs, informing him of his son's death?'

'I did. And I called the paper too, asking them to contact him. Never a word. I thought, at the very least, he could have called me then. It would have been such a small, decent gesture'.

Maeve Doherty said nothing for a moment, holding the silence. Then, 'No more questions'.

Lucinda Fforde had a frantic huddle with Tony. I looked over at Dexter. She was sitting there, cold, impassive.

'Ms Fforde?' Traynor asked. 'Do you wish to cross-examine?'

'Yes, My Lord', she said, but I could see that she was desperately trying to find an impromptu strategy, a damage limitation reaction. And God, was she fast on her feet. Because she said, 'Ms Kendall, as much as I appreciate the tragedy of your story... I must ask you this: do you really think a one-night fling constitutes a life-time commitment?'

'When the result is a son, yes, I do'.

'But didn't Mr Hobbs make an ongoing financial commitment to you and your son?'

'A measly commitment, which my solicitor had to fight for'.

'But hang on... I presume you were a sexually active woman at the time. After all, you did sleep with Mr Hobbs after just one night. Surely he could have demanded a paternity test'.

'I wasn't the local mattress. It was his baby. I'd slept with nobody before him for about a year'.

'But did he demand a paternity test?'

'No... he didn't'.

'You received a sum of money from the man who fathered your child. And surely £50 meant something in 1983. Just as £125 meant something in the early nineties. So he did meet his responsibilities to you. And in the matter of the death of your son... surely, you must recognize the fact that, as tragic as that death may have been for you, he had absolutely no connection with the boy. So...'

Suddenly, Elaine Kendall began to sob. She struggled to control it, but couldn't. It took her nearly a minute to bring herself under control, during which time everyone in the court could do nothing but watch hopelessly. And I felt appalling guilt. I'd talked her into this. Sat with her in her Crawley sitting room, she telling me how she moved to that godawful town after Jonathan died to get away from the place she so associated with him, how he was her only child, how she'd never married, worked bad jobs to keep them both afloat, but difficult as it was, Jonathan was the centre of her life. And then... out of nowhere... leukaemia. And...

The story was so painful to hear. Agony, in fact. Especially as I knew that this woman had lost the one thing in her life that mattered. Like any parent who had lost a child, she would never get over it. And yet - and this was a terrible admission - I also saw her story as a big opportunity for my case; a way of exposing Tony for the heartless shit that he was. I was direct with her about this. I told her - in very clear language - how her testimony might help me get my child back. I pleaded with her to help. And she agreed. And now... now she had been put through the most needless torment. And yes, I had gotten what I wanted from her. But watching her sob in the witness box, I felt nothing but shame.

When she finally stopped crying, she turned to the judge and said, 'I must apologize, My Lord. Jonathan was my only child. And even now, it's hard to talk about it. So I am sorry...'

'Ms Kendall, you owe this court no apology. On the contrary, it is we who owe you an apology'.

Then, sending a dagger-like look in the direction of Ms Fforde, he asked, 'Have you any further cross-examination, Ms Fforde'.

'No, My Lord'.

He gave Maeve a similar withering look and asked, 'Re-examination, Ms Doherty?'

'No, My Lord'.

'Ms Kendall, you are free to leave'.

It took her a little effort to leave the witness stand. As she passed me by, I whispered, 'I'm so sorry...' But she moved on without saying a word.

Traynor said nothing for a few moments. It was clear that he had been affected by the sight of that poor woman sobbing in the witness box. And he too needed a moment to collect himself before returning to business.

'And now to your final witness, Ms Doherty'.

'Yes, My Lord. Ms Brenda Griffiths'.

Unlike Elaine Kendall, the woman who walked down the aisle of the court exuded assurance... indeed, the same sort of self-confidence as Diane Dexter. Though her clothes weren't designer - she wore a simple green suit - she carried herself with great elegance; a forty-year-old woman who wasn't bothered about being a forty-year-old woman. And when she got into the witness box, she favoured Tony with a little wry nod.

Maeve Doherty asked her to explain how she met Tony Hobbs.

'In 1990, when I was a journalist on the Chronicle, I was dispatched for three months to cover the Frankfurt financial scene. Tony was the head of the bureau there. We were a two person office. We were both unattached. We had a fling. We also had a less-than-sober evening towards the end of my stay there, when contraception was not considered. Upon my return to London, I discovered I was pregnant. Naturally I contacted Tony. He was most unhappy about the news, and he certainly didn't offer to "make me an honest woman" or anything like that... not that I wanted or expected that from him. Instead, he begged me to have an abortion... which, I told him, straight away, was not going to happen. "Well then," he said, "don't count on anything from me except financial support." Not a pleasant comment - and yes, I was very upset about it at the time. But, at the same time, I did strangely admire his honesty. He let me know, from the outset, that he wanted nothing to do with this child.

'Anyway, I'm originally from Avon - and I never really liked London, so after finding out I was pregnant, I started asking around about jobs in the Bristol area. Found an opening in BBC Bristol News. Took the job. Moved. Had the baby. Was fortunate enough to meet the most wonderful man around a year later. We married. Catherine, my daughter by Tony, considers Geoffrey to be her father. Geoff and I also have a child together - another daughter, Margaret. And that's about all there is to tell, really'.

'Except that Tony Hobbs has never met his daughter, Catherine - who is now nearly twelve years old?' Maeve asked.

'That's right. I have dropped him the very occasional note over the years, offering him the opportunity to meet her. But eventually, his lack of response said it all. So I haven't bothered contacting him for... god, it must be six years'.

'No further questions, My Lord'.

'Cross-examination, Ms Fforde?'

'Yes, My Lord. Ms Griffiths, why did you agree to testify today?'

'Because Ms Goodchild came to me, explained what Tony had done vis-à-vis their baby, and asked if I would inform the court about Mr Hobbs's lack of interest in his daughter. Given the extremity of Ms Goodchild's situation - and given that Tony was playing the "caring father" card - I felt compelled to "bear witness", so to speak, as to Tony's previous lack of paternal interest'.

'But could it be that, in the twelve years that have elapsed since the birth of your daughter, Mr Hobbs has changed his attitude about fatherhood? Especially when dealing with a woman who has physically threatened...'

'Miss Fforde', Traynor said tetchily, 'this witness cannot answer that question'.

'Apologies, My Lord. Did you bring your daughter here today, Ms Griffiths?'

'God no. I wouldn't expose her to something like this, let alone put her on show'.

'I congratulate you on your concern for the emotional concerns of others'.

'What did I just say to you, Ms Fforde?' Traynor asked.

'Apologies again, My Lord. And no further questions'.

As soon as Brenda Griffiths was out of court, Traynor glanced at his watch and said, 'As that was the last witness for the respondent, I would now like to hear closing submissions'.

But I didn't hear those two arguments, let alone the responses, or Lucinda Fforde exercising her legal right (as counsel for the applicant) to have the final word. Though I didn't move from my seat and was in clear hearing range of both barristers, something in me shut off. Perhaps it was my continued sense of shame at what I had visited upon Elaine Kendall. Maybe it was emotional exhaustion. Maybe I had reached that saturation point where I just couldn't bear to hear the two sides of the story argued out again. Whatever it was, I just sat there, staring at the floor, willing myself not to hear - and succeeding.

Then Nigel Clapp was nudging me. Traynor was speaking.

'As that concludes all evidence and submissions in this hearing, I am now going off to consider my judgment. And I shall return in two hours' time to deliver it'.

This snapped me back to the here and now. After Traynor took his leave, I leaned forward to Maeve and urgently asked, 'If he's giving his judgment in two hours, does it mean he's already written most of it?'

'Perhaps he has', she said, sounding deflated. 'Then again, he might just want to avoid coming to work tomorrow. I know that sounds prosaic, but it's the truth. He's noted for getting things done quickly'.

'Especially when he's already decided what the outcome will be'.

'I'm afraid so'.

Rose Keating had come down to us. She put a consoling hand on my shoulder.

'You all right, dear?'

'Just about. How's Elaine Kendall?'

'Bearing up. Just. I think I'll get her home to Crawley. Don't want to send her back on her own'.

'Good idea', Nigel said. 'And I'll get Ms Griffiths to Paddington'.

'You will be back for the decision?' I asked.

'Of course', he said. 'Will you be all right for the next two hours?'

I glanced across the court. There, opposite us, sat Diane Dexter. Immobile. Rigid. Her face reflecting a mixture of emotional concussion, fury, and sadness. There, next to her, was Tony, frantically whispering to her, trying to bring her around, their relationship suddenly gone haywire after the revelations just disclosed. Revelations that only came out because they had tried to rob me of my child. Which gave me no option but to lash out and find something to undermine them. Just as Maeve and Lucinda Fforde had worked so hard on our respective behalves to decimate the other's case. And now, here we were - in thrall to the forthcoming judgment of a third party - exhausted, spent, equally decimated. No one wins in a case like this one. Everyone comes out looking shabby and squalid.

I put my hand on Maeve's shoulder.

'Whatever happens now, I cannot thank you enough'.

She shook her head. 'I'm going to be straight with you, Sally. I think it looks bad. I could tell that Traynor truly hated our final flourish. Especially poor Elaine Kendall'.

'That was my fault. My great pro-active move'.

'No - it was the right move. And what she said needed to be said. I should have briefed her myself, gauged her emotional state. That was my job - and I didn't do it properly'.

'What are you going to do for the next two hours?'

'Go back to Chambers. And you?'

I grabbed my sister from the back of the court. We walked across the bridge, and lined up for last-minute tickets to the London Eye. We managed to obtain two places. Up we went into the clouds, the city stretched out on all sides of us like one of those sixteenth century maps of the world, where you can begin to believe that the world is flat, and can actually see where the city ends, the precipice begins. Sandy peered out west - past the Palace, the Albert Hall, the green lushness of Kensington Gardens, the high residential grandness of Holland Park, into the endless suburban beyond.

'You say this town has got its great moments...' she said, 'but I bet most of the time, it's just grim'.

Which kind of sums up so much of life, doesn't it?

When we were released from that massive ferris wheel, we bought ice creams like a pair of tourists temporarily freed from the day-to-day demands of life. Then we crossed Waterloo Bridge back to The Strand, and entered the High Court for what I knew would be the last time.

En route back, we fell silent until we reached the court. At which point Sandy asked, 'Can I sit next to you for the judgment?'

'I'd like that'.

Tony and his team were already in place when we got back. But I noticed that Diane Dexter was now sitting next to their solicitor. Maeve was in the front row next to Nigel. No one greeted each other. No one said a thing. Sandy and I sat down. I took a few deep breaths, trying to stay calm. But no one in this room was calm. The aura of fear was everywhere.

Five minutes went by, then ten. Still, we all sat there in silence. Because what else could we do? Then the clerk entered. And we all stood up. Traynor walked slowly to the bench, a folder held between his long, elegant fingers. He bowed. He sat down. We bowed. We all sat down. He opened his file. He started reading. As he began his recitation, I remember what Maeve told me some days earlier.

'In the course of his judgment, he may make what he refers to as "findings". These are considered to be, in legal terms, irrefutable facts - which essentially means that, once made, they cannot be challenged'.

But from the outset, he let it be known that he wasn't pleased with the entire tone of the case.

'Let me say at the start that, in the two brief days of this Final Hearing, we have had much dirty linen washed in a most public way. We have learned that Mr Hobbs has had two children by two different women, and that he forged no relationship with these children. We've learned that Mr Hobbs's new partner, Ms Dexter, had a drug addiction problem, which she courageously overcame after it caused her to miscarry a child. And I must say, I found Ms Dexter's candour about her past addictions both courageous and exemplary. She was a most impressive witness...'

Oh, God...

'Since then, as we've also learned, Ms Dexter has gone to extreme lengths to have children... to the point where, if the respondent's counsel is to be believed, she was willing to conspire with her partner to snatch his son away from her mother, on allegedly trumped-up charges of threatened child abuse'.

Sandy glanced at me. Traynor had just hinted that he hadn't bought our case.

'We have learned that, over twenty years ago, Ms Goodchild handed her father a drink which may - or may not - have put him over the legal limit, and may, or may not, have contributed to the fatal accident in which he was killed along with his wife and two innocent people.

'And we've also learned that Ms Dexter and Mr Hobbs weren't particularly honest about the actual duration of their relationship... though, in truth, the court can't really see the importance of whether they were first intimate three years ago or just three months ago'.

Another nervous glance between Sandy and myself. I glanced around the court. Everyone had their heads lowered, as if we were at church.

'And I say that because, amidst all the evidence of the last two days, the central issue has been obscured: what is best for the child? That is the one and only issue here. Everything else, in the opinion of the court, is extraneous.

'Now, without question, the relationship between a mother and her child is the most pivotal one in life. One might go as far as to use the word "primordial" to describe this immense bond. The mother brings us into life, she suckles us, she nurtures us in the most critical early stages of our existence. For this reason, the law is most reluctant to disturb, let alone rupture, this primordial relationship - unless the trust which society places in a mother has been profoundly breached.

'Earlier today, counsel for the applicant outlined the "accusations" - as she called them - against the respondent. And it must be acknowledged that these accusations are most grave and serious. Just as it must also be acknowledged that the respondent was suffering from a severe clinical disorder that impaired her judgment, and also caused her to behave in a thoroughly irrational way.

'But while acknowledging said clinical condition, can the court risk jeopardizing the child's welfare? This is the central dilemma that the court has had to address. Just as it has also had to study whether the child's welfare will be better served by being placed in the care of its father and his new partner - a woman who may claim to be his surrogate mother, but who will never, in the eyes of this court, be considered so'.

He paused. He looked up over his glasses in my direction.

'Threatening a child's life - even in delusional anger - is a most serious matter...'

Sandy reached over and clasped my hand, as if to say: I'll be holding you as he sends you over the edge.

'Doing so twice is profoundly worrying. So too is poisoning a child with sleeping tablets - even though it was the result of a befuddled accident.

'But are these actions enough to break that primordial bond between mother and child? Especially when questions must be raised about the ulterior motives of the child's father, and the real reasons for the legal action he took eight months ago to gain residence of the child?

'Ultimately, however, we turn, once again, to the heart of the matter: if the mother is granted sole or shared residence of the child, will she act on the threats she made earlier? Shouldn't we be prudent in this case, and thus breach that primordial maternal bond, in order to serve the best interests of the child?'

Traynor paused and sipped at a glass of water. In front of me, Nigel Clapp put his hand to his face. Because that last sentence had given the game away. We'd lost.

Traynor put the water down and continued to read.

'These are the questions that the court has had to ponder. Large, taxing questions. And yet, when all the evidence is carefully studied, there is a clear answer to all these questions'.

I bowed my head. Here it was now. Finally. The judgment upon me.

'And so, after due consideration, I find that the mother, Ms Goodchild, did not intend to harm her child, and was not responsible for her actions during this period, as she was suffering from a medically diagnosed depression.

'I also find that the father, Mr Hobbs, has done everything he can to sever the bond between the mother and the child. As such, I find that the motivations of Mr Hobbs - and of his partner, Ms Dexter - in claiming that the child was at risk were not wholly altruistic ones. And I also find that they manipulated the truth for their own gain'.

Sandy was now squeezing my hand so hard I was certain she was about to break several bones. But I didn't care.

'These are the reasons why it is the decision of this court that this child must see and spend substantial time with both parents...'

He stopped for just a second or two, but it felt like a minute:

'... but that I grant residence of the child to the mother'.

There was a long, shocked silence, broken by Traynor.

'As I also find that there was malice directed against the respondent, I order that the applicant pay the respondent's costs'.

Lucinda Fforde was instantly on her feet.

'I seek leave to appeal'.

Traynor peered down at her. And said, 'Leave refused'.

He gathered up his papers. He removed his half-moon glasses. He looked out at our stunned faces. He said, 'If there is no further business, I will rise'.

Fifteen

SIX WEEKS LATER, London had a heatwave. It lasted nearly a week. The mercury hovered in the early eighties, the sky was a cloudless hard dome of blue, and the sun remained an incandescent presence above the city.

'Isn't this extraordinary?' I said on the fifth day of high temperatures and no rain.

'It'll break any moment', Julia said. 'And then we'll be back to the grey norm'.

'True - but I'm not going to think about that right now'.

We were in Wandsworth Park. It was late afternoon. Around a half-hour earlier, Julia had knocked on my door and asked me if I was up for a walk. I pushed aside the new manuscript I was working on, moved Jack from his playpen to his pushchair, grabbed my sunglasses and my hat, and headed off with her. By the time we reached the park, Jack had fallen asleep. Parking ourselves on a grassy knoll by the river, Julia reached into her shoulder bag, and emerged with two wine glasses and a chilled bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.

'Figured we should celebrate the heat with a drop of drinkable wine... that is, if you can indulge just now?'

'I think I can get away with a glass', I said. 'I'm down to two anti-depressants a day now'.

'That is impressive', she said. 'It took me nearly a year to be weaned off them'.

'Well, Dr Rodale hasn't pronounced me "cured" yet'.

'But you're certainly getting there'.

She uncorked the wine. I lay back for a moment, and felt the sun on my face, and let the sour lemon aroma of the grass block out all the usual urban odours, and thought: this is rather pleasant.

'Here you go', Julia said, placing a glass beside me, then lighting a cigarette. I sat up. We clinked glasses.

'Here's to finished business', she said.

'Such as?'

'Finally wrapping up a fucking awful project'.

'The East Anglian history thing?'

'Yes, that beast', she said, mentioning some tome she'd been editing which had bored her senseless (or so she had kept telling me). 'Done and dusted last night. And anyone who's spent three months enveloped in East Anglian history deserves a few glasses of wine. You still working on the Jazz Guide?'

'Oh, yes - all 1800 pages of it. And I still haven't gotten beyond Sidney Bechet'.

'Watch out - Stanley will get worried'.

'I've got seven weeks before it's due. And given that Stanley just asked me out, I doubt he'll be hectoring me about' -

Julia nearly coughed on her cigarette.

'Stanley asked you out?'

'That's what I said'.

'My, my - I am surprised'.

'Over the course of my adult life, men have occasionally asked me out'.

'You know what I'm talking about. It's Stanley. Not exactly the most forward of men. And even since his divorce, he's maintained a pretty low profile on that front'.

'He's quite charming, in his own avuncular way. Or, at least, that's the impression I got when we had that lunch all those months ago'.

'And he's only in his early fifties. And he does look after himself. And he is a very good editor. And I hear he does have a rather nice maisonette in South Ken. And' -

'I'm certain he can hold a fork in his hand without drooling'.

'Sorry' she said with a laugh. 'I wasn't really trying to sell him to you'.

'Sell him as hard as you like. Because I've already told him I'm too busy for dinner right now'.

'But why? It's just dinner'.

'I know - but he is my sole source of income at the moment. And I don't want to jeopardize that by veering into situations non-professional. I need the work'.

'Have you reached a settlement with Tony's solicitors as yet?'

'Yes, we've just got there'.

Actually, it was Nigel Clapp who got us there, forcing their hand through his usual hesitant determination - a description which, if applied to anyone else, would sound oxymoronic, but made complete sense when portraying Nigel. A week after the hearing, the other side got in touch with him and made their first offer: continued shared ownership of the house, in return for 50 per cent payment of the ongoing mortgage, and an alimony/child support payment of £500 a month. Tony's solicitors explained that, given he was now no longer in full-time employment, asking him to pay the entire monthly mortgage, coupled with £500 for the upkeep of his son and ex-wife, was a tremendous stretch.

As Nigel explained to me at the time, 'I... uhm... did remind them that he did have a wealthy patroness, and that we could dig our heels in and force him to hand over ownership of the house to you. Not that we would have had much chance of winning that argument, but... uhm... I sensed that they didn't have the appetite for much of a fight'.

They settled rather quickly thereafter. We would still own the house jointly - and would split the proceeds when and if it was ever sold, but Tony would handle the full mortgage payment, in addition to £1000 maintenance per month - which would cover our basic running costs, but little more.

Still, I didn't want any more. In fact, in the immediate aftermath of the hearing, my one central thought (beyond the shock of winning the case, and getting Jack back) was the idea that, with any luck, I would not have to spend any time in the company of Tony Hobbs again. True, we had agreed joint custody terms: he'd have Jack every other weekend. Then again, the fact that he'd be spending all forthcoming weekends in Sydney ruled out much in the way of shared custody... though Nigel was assured, through Tony's solicitors, that their client would be returning to London on a regular basis to see his son.

Tony also assured me of this himself during our one conversation. This took place a week after the hearing - the day both our solicitors had agreed upon for Jack to be returned to me. 'The hand-over' as Nigel Clapp called it - an expression that had a certain Cold War spy novel ring to it, but was completely apt. Because, on the morning before, I received a phone call from Pickford Movers, informing me that they would be arriving tomorrow at nine am with a delivery of nursery furniture from an address on Albert Bridge Road. Later that day, Nigel rang to say he'd heard from Tony's solicitors, asking him if I'd be at home tomorrow around noon, 'as that's when the hand-over will take place'.

'Did they say who'll be bringing Jack over?' I asked.

'The nanny' he said.

Typical Tony, I thought. Leave it to a third party to do his dirty work for him.

'Tell them I'll be expecting Jack at noon', I said.

The next morning, the movers arrived an hour early ('Thought you wouldn't mind, luv', said the on-the-job foreman). Within sixty minutes, not only had they unloaded everything, but they'd also put Jack's crib, wardrobe, and chest of drawers back together again in the nursery. Accompanying the furniture were several boxes of clothes and baby paraphernalia. I spent the morning putting everything away, rehanging the mobile that had been suspended above his cot, setting up a diaper-changing area on top of the chest of drawers, repositioning the bottle sterilizer in the kitchen, and setting up a playpen in the living room. In the process, I started erasing all memories of a house without a child.

Then, at noon, the front door bell rang. Was I nervous? Of course I was. Not because I was worried about how I'd react, or whether the momentousness of the moment would overwhelm me. Rather, because I never believed this moment would happen. And when you are suddenly dealing with a longed-for reality - especially one that once seemed so far beyond the realm of possibility - well, who isn't nervous at a moment like that?

I went to the door, expecting some hired help to be standing there, holding my son. But when I swung it open, I found myself facing Tony. I blinked with shock - and then immediately looked down, making certain that he had Jack with him. He did. My son was comfortably ensconced in his carry-chair, a pacifier in his mouth, a foam duck clutched between his little hands.

'Hello', Tony said quietly.

I nodded back, noticing that he looked very tired. There was a long awkward moment where we stared at each other, and really didn't know what to say next.

'Well...' he finally said. 'I thought I should do this myself'.

'I see'.

'I bet you didn't think I'd be the one to bring him'.

'Tony', I said quietly, 'I now try to think about you as little as possible. But thank you for bringing Jack home'.

I held out my hand. He hesitated for just a moment, then slowly handed me the carry-chair. I took it. There was a brief moment when we both held on to him together. Then Tony let go. The shift in weight surprised me, but I didn't place the carry-chair on the ground. I didn't want to let go of Jack. I looked down at him. He was still sucking away on his pacifier, still hanging on to the bright yellow duck, oblivious to the fact that - with one simple act of exchange, one simple hand-over - the trajectory of his life had just changed. What that life would be - how it would turn out - was indeterminable. Just that it would now be different from the other life he might have had.

There was another moment of awkward silence.

'Well', I finally said, 'I gather the one thing our solicitors have agreed upon is that you're to have contact with Jack every other weekend. So I suppose I'll expect you a week from Friday'.

'Actually' he said, avoiding my gaze, 'we're making the move to Australia next Wednesday'.

He paused - as if he almost expected me to ask about whether he'd managed to work things out with Diane after all the courtroom revelations about his past bad behaviour. Or where they'd be living in Sydney. Or how his damn novel was shaping up. But I wasn't going to ask him anything. I just wanted him to go away. So I said, 'Then I suppose I won't expect you a week from Friday'.

'No, I suppose not'.

Another cumbersome silence. I said, 'Well, when you're next in London, you know where to find us'.

'Are you going to remain in England?' he asked.

'At the moment, I haven't decided anything. But as you and I have joint parental responsibility for our son, you will be among the first to know'.

Tony looked down at Jack. He blinked hard several times, as if he was about to cry. But his eyes remained dry, his face impassive. I could see him eyeing my hand holding the carrying chair.

'I suppose I should go', he said without looking up at me.

'Yes', I said. 'I suppose you should'.

'Goodbye then'.

'Goodbye'.

He gazed at Jack, then back at me. And said, 'I'm sorry'.

His delivery was flat, toneless, almost strangely matter of fact. Was it an admission of guilt or remorse? A statement of regret at having done what he'd done? Or just the fatigued apology of a man who'd lost so much by trying to win? Damn him, it was such a classic Tony Hobbs moment. Enigmatic, obtuse, emotionally constipated, yet hinting at the wound within. An apology that wasn't an apology that was an apology. Just what I expected from a man I knew so well... and didn't know at all.

I turned and brought Jack inside. I closed the door behind us. As if on cue, my son began to cry. I leaned down. I undid the straps that held him in the carry-chair. I lifted him up. But I didn't instantly clutch him to me and burst into tears of gratitude. Because as I elevated him out of the chair - lifting him higher - to the point where he was level with my nose, I smelled a telltale smell. A full load.

'Welcome back', I said, kissing him on the head. But he wasn't soothed by my maternal cuddle. He just wanted his diaper changed.

Half an hour later, as I was feeding him downstairs, the phone rang. It was Sandy in Boston, just checking in to make certain that the hand-over had happened. She was at a loss for words (something of a serious rarity for Sandy) when I told her that it was Tony who had shown up with Jack.

'And he actually said sorry?' she asked, sounding downright shocked.

'In his own awkward way'.

'You don't think he was trying to wheedle his way back into your life, do you?'

'He's off to Sydney with his fancy lady in a couple of days, so no - I don't think that's on the cards. The fact is, I don't know what to think about why he was there, why he apologized, what his actual "agenda" was... if, that is, there was any agenda at all. All I know is: I won't be seeing him for a while, and that's a very good thing'.

'He can't expect you to forgive him'.

'No - but he can certainly want to be forgiven. Because we all want that, don't we?'

'Do I detect your absurd lingering guilt about Dad?'

'Yes, you most certainly do'.

'Well, you don't have to ask for my forgiveness here. Because what I told you back in London still holds: I don't blame you. The big question here is: can you forgive yourself? You didn't do anything wrong. But only you can decide that. Just as only Tony can decide that he did do something profoundly wrong. And once he decides that, maybe...'

'What? A Pauline conversion? An open confession of transgression? He's English, for God's sake'.

And I could have added: like certain self-loathing Brits, he hates our American belief that, with openness, honesty and a song in our heart, we can reinvent ourselves and do good. Over here, life's a tragic muddle which you somehow negotiate. Back home, life's also a tragic muddle, but we want to convince ourselves that we're all still an unfinished project - and that, in time, we will make things right.

'Well, in just a little while, you won't have to deal with Englishness again', she said.

This was Sandy's great hope - and one that she had articulated to me five weeks earlier as we waited for her flight at Heathrow. The hearing had just ended. Tony and Company had left hurriedly - Diane Dexter having all but dashed alone up the aisle of the court as soon as Traynor had finished reading his decision. Tony followed in close pursuit, with Lucinda Fforde and the solicitor finding a moment to shake hands with Maeve and Nigel before heading off themselves. Which left the four of us sitting by ourselves in the court, still in shock, still trying to absorb the fact that it had gone our way. Maeve eventually broke the silence. Gathering up her papers, she said, 'I'm not much of a gambler - but I certainly wouldn't have put money on that outcome. My word...'

She shook her head and allowed herself a little smile.

Nigel was also suitably preoccupied and subdued as he repacked his roll-on case with thick files. I stood up and said, 'I can't thank you both enough. You really saved me from...'

Nigel put up his hand, as if to say: 'No emotionalism, please'. But then he spoke. 'I am pleased for you, Sally. Very pleased'.

Meanwhile, Sandy just sat there with tears running down her face - my large, wonderful, far too gushy sister, emoting for the rest of us. Nigel seemed both touched and embarrassed by such raw sentiment. Maeve touched my arm and said, 'You're lucky in your sister'.

'I know', I said, still too numb by the decision to know how to react. 'And I think what we all need now is a celebratory drink'.

'I'd love to', Maeve said, 'but I'm back in court tomorrow, and I'm really behind in preparation. So...'

'Understood. Mr Clapp?'

'I've got a house closing at five', he said.

So I simply shook hands with them both, thanked Maeve again, and told Nigel I'd await his call once Tony's people wanted to start negotiating terms and conditions for the divorce.

'So you want to keep using me?' he asked.

'Who else would I use?' I asked. And for the first time ever in my presence, Nigel Clapp smiled.

When he left, Sandy said we should definitely down a celebratory drink... but at the airport, as she had a plane to catch. So we hopped the tube out to Heathrow, and got her checked in, and then drank a foul glass of red plonk in some departure lounge bar. That's when she asked me, 'So when are you and Jack moving to Boston?' One thing at a time, I told her then. And now - as she raised this question again on this first afternoon at home with my son - my answer was even more ambiguous. 'I haven't decided anything yet'.

'Surely, after all they did to you, you're not going to stay'.

I felt like telling her that the 'they' she spoke of wasn't England or the English. Just two people who caused damage by wanting something they couldn't have.

'Like I said, I'm making no big choices right now'.

'But you belong back in the States', she said.

'I belong nowhere. Which - I've come to the conclusion - is no bad thing'.

'You'll never survive another damp winter over there', she said.

'I've survived a little more than that recently'.

'You know what I'm saying here - I want you back in Boston'.

'And all I'm saying to you is: all options are open. But, for the moment, all I want to do is spend time with my son and experience something that's been eluding me for around a year: normal life'.

After a moment she said, 'There is no such thing as normal life'.

That was several weeks ago. And though I do agree with Sandy that normal life doesn't exist, since then I have certainly been trying to lead something approaching a quiet, ordinary existence. I get up when Jack wakes me. I tend to his needs. We hang out. He sits in his carry-chair or his playpen while I work. We go to the supermarket, the High Street. Twice since he's come home, I've entrusted him to a baby sitter for the evening, allowing me to sneak off to a movie with Julia. Other than that, we've been in each other's company nonstop. And I like it that way - not just because it's making up for a lot of lost time over the past few months, but also because it locks us into a routine together. No doubt, there will come a point when such a routine needs to be altered. But that's the future. For the moment, however, the everydayness of our life strikes me as no bad thing.

Especially since the sun has come out.

'Five pounds says it won't rain tomorrow', I told Julia as she poured herself another glass of wine.

'You're on', she said. 'But you will lose'.

'You mean, you've heard the weather forecast for tomorrow?'

'No, I haven't'.

'Then how can you be so sure it will rain?'

'Innate pessimism... as opposed to your all-American positive attitude'.

'I'm just a moderately hopeful type, that's all'.

'In England, that makes you an incurable optimist'.

'Guilty as charged', I said. 'You never really lose what you are'.

And, of course, late that night, it did start to rain. I was up at the time with my sleep terrorist son, feeding him a bottle in the kitchen. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a large heaving clap of summer thunder announced that the heavens were about to open. Then, around five minutes later, they did just that. A real tropical downpour, which hammered at the windows with such percussive force that Jack pushed away the bottle and looked wide-eyed at the wet, black panes of glass.

'It's all right, it's all right', I said, pulling him close to me. 'It's just the rain. And we better get used to it'.

Acknowledgements

I OWE AN enormous debt of thanks to Frances Hughes of Hughes Fowler Carruthers, Chancery Lane, London WC2A. Not only did Frances give me a crash course in the complexities of the English legal system, but she also vetted two early versions of the manuscript. I hope I never need her professional services.

Dr Alan Campion made certain that all the medical terminology and procedure in the novel was appropriate. And a remarkable woman I will simply refer to as 'Kate' was invaluable to me when it came to detailing - with arresting honesty - her own nightmarish descent into the dark room that is postnatal depression.

Any errors of legal or medical fact are my own.

Two friends on opposite sides of the Atlantic - Christy Macintosh in Banff and Noeleen Dowling in Dublin - read different drafts of the book. They are my 'constant readers' - and never pull punches when it comes to telling me whether the narrative is on-or-off track.

This novel was started in one of the Leighton Studios of the Banff Centre for the Arts, amidst the epic grandeur that is the Canadian Rockies. It is the best writing hideout imaginable.

My editor, Sue Freestone, is one tough operator - and I am very grateful to have her in my corner. Just as my agent, Antony Harwood, is about the best friend this novelist could have.

Finally, twenty years after we first met, I would like to thank Grace Carley for still being Grace Carley.

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2003 by Douglas Kennedy

Originally published in Great Britain in 2003 by Hutchinson

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