A Special Relationship (47 page)

We lapsed into silence. I tried to make conversation.

‘Lived in Seaford long?’

‘Twenty-three years.’

‘That’s long. And before that?’

‘Amersham. Lived with my parents until they both died. Then felt like a change. Didn’t want to be rambling around their house without them. So I asked the building society to transfer me somewhere different. They offered Seaford. Kind of liked the idea of being near the water. Came here in 1980. Bought this place with my share of the Amersham house. Never moved anywhere since.’

‘Were you married or—’

‘No,’ she said, cutting me off. ‘Never did that.’

She stubbed out her cigarette. I had crossed the frontier into the personal, and the conversation was now closed.

She walked me to the station. When we reached the entrance, I said, ‘Thanks for putting me up again. Hope I wasn’t too much trouble.’

‘First time I’ve had anyone to stay in about seven years.’

I touched her arm. ‘Can I call you, tell you how things worked out?’

‘Rather you didn’t,’ she said. And with another curt nod of the head, she quickly said ‘Goodbye’ and headed off.

While waiting to board the train to Gatwick, I found myself studying a map of East Sussex on the wall of the station. As my eye moved slightly northeast of Seaford, I noticed the town of Litlington – scene of my infamous arrival at Diane Dexter’s gate. Using my index finger, I gauged the distance between the two towns, then held my finger up against the mileage indicator at the bottom of the map. Tony was now spending weekends just three miles from where his sister lived.

I changed trains at Brighton. At Gatwick I took a cab to a modern house on a modest estate in Crawley. The woman there granted me thirty minutes of her time, told me everything I wanted to hear, and said that, yes, she would agree to an additional interview by one of my legal team. Then I took a cab back to the railway station. While waiting for the train, I called Nigel Clapp, excitedly blurting out everything that had happened in the last twelve hours. He said nothing while I rambled on. And when I finally concluded with the comment ‘Not bad, eh?’, he said, ‘Yes, that is rather good news.’

Which, from Nigel Clapp, ranked as something approaching high optimism.

He also said he’d make arrangements to dispatch Rose Keating down to Crawley to take a witness statement.

Around noon the next day, I called him from Bristol with more good news: I had heard exactly what I wanted to hear from my second Pat Hobbs contact, and she too was ready to make a witness statement. Once again, he was enthusiasm itself: ‘You’ve done very well, Ms Goodchild.’

Maeve Doherty concurred, ringing me two days later to say how pleased she was with my detective work.

‘It is certainly very interesting testimony,’ she said, sounding cautious and guarded. ‘And if carefully positioned in the hearing, it might have an impact. I’m not saying it’s the smoking gun I’d like – but it is, without question, most compelling.’

Then she asked me if I was free to drop by her chambers for an hour, so we could go through how she was planning to examine me when I gave evidence at the hearing, and what I should expect from Tony’s barrister.

Though she only needed to see me for sixty minutes, the round-trip journey to Chancery Lane ate up two hours. Time was something of which I was in short supply right now – as I had lost over a full working day on my assorted expeditions to Sussex and Bristol, and as the
Film Guide
proofs had to be in before the hearing began. Once inside her chambers, I found myself kneading a piece of paper in my hands as we did a run-through of my testimony. She told me that kneading a piece of paper was something I must definitely
avoid
doing while being questioned, as it made me look hyper and terrified. Then she did a practice run of a potential cross-examination, terrorizing me completely, coldly haranguing me, attacking all my weaknesses, and undermining all my defences.

‘Now you have me scared to death,’ I said after she finished.

‘Don’t be,’ she said. ‘Because you actually did very well indeed. The thing to remember is that she will do more than her level best to trip you up, and to make you seem like a complete and utter liar. She will also try to make you angry. The one trick here is:
do not take the bait.
Keep your answers brief and concise. Avoid eye contact with her. Keep repeating the same thing, again and again. Do not deviate from your story and you’ll be just fine.’

I doubted that – but, thankfully, the terror of the hearing was briefly superseded by the more immediate terror of not making the deadline. I was actually grateful for the pressure, as it did block out the fear I had. It also forced me to work fourteen-hour days for the last week. Bar the occasional trip to the supermarket for food – and a fast thirty-minute canter along the tow path by the river – I didn’t leave the house ... except, of course, for my weekly visit with Jack. He was crawling now, and making a wide variety of sounds, and liked being tickled, and especially enjoyed a routine I did which involved holding him above me while I lay on the floor, and then going, ‘One, two, three,
boom’
and pulling him straight down on top of me. In fact, he thought this hilarious, and in his own monosyllabic way, kept indicating that he wanted me to repeat it, over and over again. Which, of course, I was only too willing to do. Until Clarice walked in and informed me that our hour was up.

As always, this was the hardest moment. The hand-over. There were days when I clutched Jack to me and fought tears. There were other days when he would look a little disconcerted and perturbed by having to end our fun together, and I fought tears. There were days when he’d fallen asleep or was having a crying jag or just generally feeling out of sorts, and I fought tears. Today was no different. I picked us both up off the floor. I put his head against mine. I kissed him. I said, ‘Next week, big guy’

Then I handed him to Clarice. She disappeared into the next room. I sat down in one of the moulded plastic chairs and – for the first time since our initial supervised visit – I broke down. Clarice came in. She sat down beside me, and put her arm around me, and allowed me to bury my head in her shoulder as I let go. To her infinite credit, she said nothing. I think she understood the pressure I had been under – both to behave correctly and calmly in her presence, and to withstand the enforced separation of the last months with a necessary equanimity, in order not to be judged a troublemaker. Just as she also understood what I was facing in just three days’ time. And how, if it didn’t go my way …

So she held me and let me cry. And when I finally subsided, she said, ‘I hope that, by this time next week, these supervised visits will just be a bad memory for you, and you’ll be back with your little boy.’

Meanwhile, I had a job to finish – and I was determined to have it done before the start of the hearing, in order to allow me a decent night’s sleep before heading to the High Court.

A few days before the hearing Sandy called me.

‘So, Tuesday morning’s the big day, right?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I wish I was a Catholic. I’d have Mass said for you.’

‘Divine intervention isn’t going to help me now.’

‘You never know. Anyway, promise you’ll call me Tuesday evening.’

‘You’ll definitely be hearing from me.’

I hung up. And worked that night until three, then fell into bed, and got up again at seven, and worked straight through (with an hour’s nap somewhere in the middle of the day) until seven next morning. At which time, I sat in a bath, and congratulated myself on finishing this endless proofreading job.

The manuscript went off by motorcycle courier at nine. I headed off to the public baths in Putney shortly thereafter and spent an hour doing laps in the pool. Then I went off and had my hair done, and took myself to lunch, then crossed the road to the local cinema and sat through some romantic drivel starring Meg Ryan, then collected my one suit from the dry cleaner’s, and was home by five, and received a phone call from Maeve Doherty – telling me that she had just been informed of the judge who would be hearing the case.

‘His name is Charles Traynor.’

‘Is he a reasonable judge?’ I asked her.

‘Well …’

‘In other words, he’s not reasonable.’

‘I would have preferred someone else besides him. Very old school. Very play it by the book. Very traditional …’

He sounded exactly like the last guy I faced. I asked, ‘Are you saying that he hates women?’

‘Now to call him a misogynist might be just a tad extreme. But he does have a rather orthodox viewpoint on family matters.’

‘Wonderful. Did you ever argue a case in front of this Traynor guy?’

‘Oh, yes. And I have to say that, when I came up against him five years ago, Charles Traynor struck me as the worst sort of Old Etonian: stuffy, conceited, and someone who clearly couldn’t stand everything I stood for. Yet, by the end of the hearing, I completely respected him. Because – whatever about his High Tory demeanour and his questionable attitudes towards women (especially those who work for a living) – he’s also scrupulously fair when it comes to the application of the law. So I certainly wouldn’t fear him.’

I decided to put all such fears on hold for the night – because I knew they would all come rushing in at daybreak. So I forced myself into bed by nine and slept straight through until the alarm went off at seven the next morning.

As I snapped into consciousness, there was a moment or two of delicious befuddlement until the realization hit:

This is it.

I was at the High Court just after ten-fifteen. I didn’t want to get there too early as I knew I’d just loiter with intent outside the main Gothic archway, getting myself into an advanced stage of fear. As it was, I was clutching the
Independent
so tensely on the Underground journey to Temple that it had started to fray. The court was already in full swing by the time I arrived, with be-wigged barristers walking by, accompanied by solicitors lugging hefty document cases and anxious-looking civilians, who were either the plaintiffs or defendants in the legal dramas taking place within this vast edifice. Nigel Clapp appeared, pulling one of those airline pilot cases on wheels. Maeve Doherty was with him, dressed in a very conservative black suit – having explained to me during our meeting the previous week that, like the Interim Hearing, there would be no wigs, no robes. Just dark suits and (as she dryly noted) ‘the usual dour formalities’.

‘Uhm … good morning, Ms Goodchild,’ Nigel said.

I attempted a smile and tried to appear calm. Maeve immediately detected my anxiousness.

‘Just remember that it will be all over in a few days – and we stand a very good chance now of changing the situation. Especially as I spoke with those two witnesses yesterday on the phone. You did very well, Sally.’

A black cab pulled up in front of us. The door opened – and for the first time in over eight months, I found myself looking at the man who was still, legally speaking, my husband. Tony had put on a little weight in the interim, but he still looked damnably handsome, and had dressed well for the occasion in a black suit, a dark blue shirt, and a tie which I’d bought on impulse for him at Selfridges around a year ago. When he caught sight of me, his hand covered his tie for a moment, before he gave me the smallest of nods, then turned away. I couldn’t look at him either, and also deflected his glance. But in that moment, an image jumped into my brain: climbing aboard that Red Cross chopper in Somalia, and catching sight of Tony Hobbs seated opposite me on the floor, giving me the slightest of flirtatious smiles – one which I met in turn. That’s how our story started – and this is where it had now brought us: to the steps of a court of law, surrounded by our respective legal teams, unable to look each other in the eye.

Tony’s barrister, Lucinda Fforde, followed him, along with the same solicitor she used for the Interim Hearing. And then Diane Dexter emerged from the cab. Viewed up close, she did not contradict the image I had of her: tall, sleek, elegantly dressed in a smart business suit, tight black hair, a face that was wearing its fifty years with relative ease. I wouldn’t have described her as a beautiful woman, or even pretty. She was handsome in a quietly formidable way. Having caught sight of me on the steps of the High Court, she looked right through me. Then, en masse, the four of them walked by us into the building, the two barristers exchanging pleasantly formal greetings with each other. It then struck me that with the exception of Nigel Clapp, who was in his usual shade of mid-grey, all the other participants in this little drama were all dressed in black, as if we were all attending a funeral.

‘Well,’ Maeve said, ‘it looks like we’re all here. So …’

She nodded towards the door and we all walked in. Maeve led us through the High Court’s vast foyer. We turned left, crossed a courtyard, and entered The Thomas More Building, which, according to Maeve, was largely used for family law cases. Then, it was up two flights of stairs until we reached Court 43: a large chapel-like courtroom in bleached wood, much like the one in which the Interim Hearing was held. There were six rows of benches. The judge’s bench was positioned on a raised platform. The witness stand was to its immediate left. Beyond this was a doorway, which (I presumed) led to the judge’s chambers. As before, we were on the left side of the court; Tony and Company to the right. There was a court stenographer and a court clerk positioned at the front. Maeve had already explained to me that, as Tony was making ‘application’ to retain residence of Jack, he had been (legally speaking) cast in the role of
applicant …
and since I was being forced to ‘respond’ to this application, I would be known in court as the
respondent.
Tony’s team would be opening the case and presenting their evidence first. His barrister would have already submitted her skeleton argument to the judge (as Maeve had submitted hers). Witnesses would be called, largely to corroborate the statements they had made. After each ‘examination in chief’ Maeve would be permitted to cross-examine the witnesses, then Lucinda Fforde could re-examine, if she desired.