Your Blue Eyed Boy

by Helen Dunmore

  Donald knows this. He must do, I’ve always talked to him about my cases. And he’s trying to borrow money. Maybe he thinks we’re immune.

  I’ve got a hearing today; Rossiter v. Delauney. About the children. He’s still fighting to see them, and she’s still frustrating him week after week. It’s been one of those cases that you know right from the beginning isn’t going to settle easily. They’ve gone through all the stages: Conciliation Appointment, Directions Appointment, they’ve filed all their statements, we had the pre-trial review that hot day when the usher sent the busker away. There’s a new statement from the health visitor. She thinks there’s something wrong. It’s hard to put a finger on it, but I can tell that guardedly, professionally, she is not at all happy about these children. The three-year-old has eating problems. He has learned how to make himself sick after eating, and he is now doing this two or three times a day, to his mother’s distress. The mother says that this began after a weekend with his father. The older children told her that Jamie cried all through suppertime, and went to bed still crying.

  However, in response to this report Mr Rossiter says that no such incident took place. His wife, Christine Delauney, formerly Christine Rossiter, is herself bulimic, and so it is possible that the child has observed her eating and then making herself sick. But there is no evidence of bulimia from Ms Delauney’s medical records. She has suffered from post-natal depression and anxiety, but she has never mentioned an eating disorder to her GP. Mr Rossiter submits that his former wife suffered from bulimia throughout their marriage, and that her eating disorder was one of the reasons for the collapse of the marriage. He further submits that it is a well-known feature of bulimia that sufferers go to great lengths to conceal their condition from doctors, dentists, etc.

  The case is listed for half a day, and just as well. I had an ambivalent recommendation from the welfare officer back at the pre-trial review. Let’s see if we can get things clear today. But I look at Christine Delauney and Graham Rossiter, and I don’t think it’s going to be easy. I’ve had cases like this before. There are two people here who are both fired by the strongest, most primitive emotions most of us ever feel. Passionate love for their children, and hatred and contempt for their former spouse. They cannot swerve. It’s the hardest thing in the world to believe that life won’t be easier if you can get the ugly, inconvenient past right out of your life, as Christine Delauney hopes to get her former husband out of hers. Why should she see him walking up her path, hear him ringing her bell, see her own children run past her with cries of ‘Daddy!’ Why should all that rage and pain get stripped bare two weekends out of four, a week at Christmas and Easter, and three weeks in the summer? When all she wants is to start a new life and put it all behind her …

  I’m putting words into her mouth. Maybe she doesn’t feel like that at all. But she feels something, so strongly that the room is thick with it, and so does he.

  By half-past ten I know what I’m up against. We’ve been through the health issues. There’s no clear evidence that the visits cause distress to the children. Yes, the little boy’s got a worrying eating problem, and the older boy wets his bed. But the older boy has stated clearly that he wants to see his father, and he’s old enough for that to be taken into account. To quote from the report: ‘I don’t wet my bed because of seeing Dad, if that’s what you think. And if anyone says I do she’s a liar.’

  If anyone says I do, she’s a liar. Hmm. Now that is worrying. These children know exactly what’s going on. The big one knows it in words, the little one vomits it up. The middle one, the girl, seven, is very close to her mother and to her mother’s new partner. According to Christine Delauney, this child asked if she could call Martin ‘Daddy’. Ms Delauney clearly thinks that’s a strong argument in her favour.

  ‘Can we come to the question of reliability, now, please. Ms Delauney, you’re saying that your husband fails to keep arrangements over collecting the children and bringing them back. You have given me some examples, and Mr Rossiter has responded to these in his statement. For example, on April 2nd 1997 it was your daughter Zoe’s seventh birthday. Mr Rossiter had arranged to collect her at 5 p.m., to take her to his flat for presents and birthday cake. This had been agreed between you. When he arrived at 5.23 you were not at home. You had taken all the children to McDonald’s, “because you didn’t want Zoe to be disappointed”. Mr Rossiter says he was delayed in traffic by an accident, and he tried to call you on his mobile phone, but could only get your answering machine.’

  ‘Yes. That’s what happened.’

  ‘Do you think it might he helpful to the success of the contact arrangements if you could both be a little more flexible over times?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand what you mean.’

  ‘Well, it’s not so very unusual to be twenty minutes late for an appointment, is it? People do get delayed.’

  ‘It seems to me that if people make arrangements then they ought to keep them. I can’t hang around all afternoon, every weekend.’

  ‘I see. And you also said in your statement that the visits to their father were preventing the children from seeing other members of your family.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. I mean, their grandparents want to see them, and my mother’s working all week. The children are always asking me when we’re going to see Nana and Grandad. They love them to bits.’

  ‘Yes. I see.’ Loved to bits is what these children are, all right.

  Graham Rossiter is staring straight at his former wife. The air between them is loaded with his anger. But she ignores it. She won’t look at him. She looks straight at me, and her fair, rather lovely features show simple concern and a desire to get things clear.

  The only good to look for here is the least bad. Graham Rossiter’s solicitor isn’t too happy with the welfare officer’s report, but he isn’t going to call her. And I don’t think it would do any good. She’s picked up the same as I’m picking up, and though her phrases are careful and professional, they breathe a lack of hope which I’m beginning to share. In the end, if Christine Delauney consistently and determinedly does her best to make it difficult for her former husband to see the children – and for the children to see their father – then there is not much the court can do. I can make orders. Contact can be supervised. But there’s no underestimating the power that their mother has. After all, she’s a perfectly adequate mother. A ‘good mother’. She cares passionately about her children, and they are the centre of her life. She provides them with a warm, comfortable home, food, toys, outings, clothes; she is better paid than their father, and then she has the family home, as well as the income of her partner. Graham Rossiter lives in a two-bedroom flat, with a mortgage he can just about manage, if interest rates don’t go up. When the children stay he sleeps on a pull-out sofa in the sitting-room, so that the little girl will not have to share a room with her brothers. He’s not going to risk that. Christine Delauney has parents living nearby, and a sister with three children, two of whom go to the same school as their cousins. They are a close, loving, supportive family, says the welfare officer.

  One weekend the children will have a bug. Fair enough, only the little one is actually ill, but she’ll be convinced that the older two are coming down with it, and anyway the little one will be miserable if his brother and sister go away without him. Another weekend there’ll be a big family gathering, at her parents. And then in two weeks’ time she wants to take the children to Legoland, and that means an overnight stay, and the special offer at the hotel ends before she’s due to have ‘her’ weekend with the children.

  The easiest one, and the hardest to fight, is when the children ‘don’t want to come’. They’re upset. They have all their own things at home, and their toys, and their friends calling round. Well of course they don’t want to pack up their little suitcases and trail off to a flat without a garden, with none of their own bits and bobs round them. They want to sleep in their own beds. It’s not that she’s aga
inst the children seeing their father, but little ones need to know where they are. This ‘two homes’ business is a pantomime. It doesn’t do anybody any good. It makes them feel as if they’re different.

  And Graham Rossiter had better be completely reliable. If a work trip takes him away, and he isn’t back until Saturday morning; well, that’s his weekend gone as far as she’s concerned. She builds her whole life around those kids, week in, week out. Too bad if he can’t tell his employer he’s got to be back on Friday night.

  The children have not seen their father regularly for over six months now. That is a sixth of the little boy’s life, so any order I make has got to take that into account. I make a defined contact order, beginning with 2 – 5 p.m. every Sunday. Get that going, and later on it can be stepped up. I explain to both parties that the aim is to build up the contact, to repair the children’s relationship with their father, and to work towards an arrangement where both parties can be flexible. I talk about advance notice. I suggest that Ms Delauney should discuss family gatherings in advance with Mr Rossiter and make sure that the children do not lose time with their father in order to attend them. I say that the situation will be reviewed in six months’ time.

  Nobody looks happy. Mr Rossiter’s solicitor glances at him, a quick assessing glance. He knows there’ll be trouble later. I’m tired, and frustrated too. There’s no better solution, but even as I make the order I am almost certain it is not going to work. And there’s the rest of the list to get through.

  By the time I leave it’s late into a warm, yellow afternoon. I’m the last to go out, apart from the usher.

  ‘Good night.’

  ‘Good night, Madam. I’ll come out and open the gate for you.’

  Of course, the new car-park gate. Even small courts like this have had to put in more security. A man in blue overalls goes by, carrying a tool-case. The usher frowns at his retreating back.

  ‘Suppose to come at 3.30, and didn’t get here till a quarter past four.’

  ‘Is that going to keep you late?’

  ‘Well, it will do, Madam. But the work’s got to be done.’

  He looks round proprietorially. The place will soon be his once more, empty of judges, parties, solicitors, clerical staff, catering staff. I bet he prefers it like that. I can see him walking down the corridors, peering into chambers, his solid, meaty face turning from side to side. He picks up everything, knows who’s had a bad day, who’s had a good day. The ushers always do.

  ‘I hope it doesn’t take too long,’ I say. Why am I always trying to placate this man? He moves forward and opens the door for me. I step out and warm air moves over me. A smell of roses drifts by, aching, captivating. I look to the left. On the fence there is a trellis with swags of small cream roses dripping down it. And they are still flowering, breathing out scent into the autumn afternoon. I have never noticed them before. I take half a step towards them, but the usher is standing there behind me, still holding the door, his face blank and observant. I turn to my right, shifting the weight of my briefcase, and walk towards the car.

  As I drive out the security gate swings up. I nose the car over the ramp and through the gate I see a man get out of a blue Sierra opposite. I don’t recognize him for a second, then I see his face. It’s Graham Rossiter. He hurries across the road and bends down to my window.

  ‘Could I have a word with you? Please. It’s very important.’

  I glance sideways and see the usher frowning, shifting his weight to come forward. I am still in his charge.

  ‘It’s all right,’ I say to the usher. I’ll park over the road and have a quick word with Mr Rossiter. You carry on, I’m fine.’

  The usher retreats slowly, his heavy black shoes crunching the car-park gravel. I park the car on the other side of the road and get out. Mr Rossiter clears his throat with a dry sharp sound. ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ he says. He is paler than he was this morning. His rough brown hair isn’t lying down flat any more. He has loosened his tie, and undone the top button of his shirt. There is something pitiful about his pale, sweaty face, his dry lips. He’s only thirty-two, years younger than me.

  ‘The thing is,’ he says, ‘I know I probably shouldn’t be here, but I went back to the flat and it all just kept going through my mind and I knew I had to try and catch you. I mean, I don’t know if it’s illegal.’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘It’s not illegal. It doesn’t often happen, though. I can’t discuss your case with you, I have to tell you that.’

  ‘I know,’ he says quickly. ‘I know. I didn’t expect you’d be able to. It’s just that –’ He raises his hand again, and flattens his springing hair. There’s a wide patch of sweat under his arm. But he smells clean. ‘I was back at the flat and I had this delivery. A new bed for Zoe. She said she couldn’t sleep properly at the flat because her bed smelled. Well, it was secondhand. I got it from this woman I know at work. It was her daughter’s. It didn’t smell, but there was no use telling Zoe that once she’d made up her mind.

  ‘After the delivery blokes had gone I took all the plastic wrapping off the new bed. And I was just looking at it, then I suddenly thought, “What’s the point? Zoe won’t be sleeping in it.” It wasn’t really like it was me thinking it. It was like I was being told, clear as daylight. Zoe won’t be sleeping in that bed. It’s not going to happen. And that order you made, well I just had to tell you it’s not going to make any difference. There’s nothing she won’t do, to make sure of that. And there’s nothing I can do. You know that, don’t you?’

  He has put one hand on the side of my car. His wrist is shaking as if small shocks are going through it. His voice is dead level.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

  ‘But you do know it, don’t you? You do know that it doesn’t matter what you do or what you say, or what anybody else does or says. She’s just going to keep on and on till they don’t even want to see me any more. I know her. Only she won’t ever say it. She’s too clever for that.’

  I reach out. I put my hand on his white shirt, just above his elbow, and squeeze his arm, quickly, then take my hand away. His flesh under the thin material is hot and dry. If he were one of my children I’d say he had a fever. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say again.

  ‘So that’s why I came back. I didn’t know what to do. I can’t get violent or anything, I’m not that sort of bloke.’

  I can still smell the roses. He leans forward, places the palms of both hands against my car, and bows his head. He remains there, quite still. I think of the plastic sheeting from the new bed, slowly expanding in his rubbish bin, like something breathing.

  EIGHTEEN

  Dear Michael

  Maybe you’re right. I’m not much of a judge . Just a couple of years ago I saw the old black-and-white footage taken when they bombed the American Embassy in Saigon. Some TV retrospective: yet another look at the roots of the war. And then on through until it hit scenes I was sure I remembered. Not that I’d experienced them, but they’d been part of the blue and white light I’d lived in, newslight, playing over me while I did my homework or drew with my Lakeland pencils . The TV was always on. I was in history, without knowing it. Every night they came on our screen, men jumping out of helicopters, heads down and doubled over as they cleared the whirlwind of rotor-blades . Then the map swallowed them up. All those young American faces under helmets that made them look the same . Even before they’d been in action and got that dazed, bleached look on them, as if the colour had been scooped out. It all happened in black-and-white for me . And something else was always going on at the same time.

  But they weren’t all the same. They were you and Calvin and all those other boys who are men now, heavy in middle age. Or they lie changed in death and whatever they may have wanted their future stays the same. You can’t get away from the dead, and I know you didn’t. They’ re young all the time now, the men you called ‘Sir’ because they knew more than you did. You hoped they knew enough to keep you alive. They grow younger and y
ounger, as you sag and seam and grow old.

  I wonder if I ever saw you? Maybe I was lying on the floor doing my homework while the news was on and I looked up because I was trying to do subtraction in my head, and I stared straight into your eyes on the TV screen. But if I’d been asked five minutes later I wouldn’t have been able to tell you what I’d seen. The television talked to itself, full of troubles. My mother used to say that if you let yourself worry about what was going on in the rest of the world, you’d go mad. You had enough to do worrying about your own life. She spoke with feeling. The news was a throwaway kind of truth. Nothing like the truths you learn for yourself.

  I wouldn’t have been listening to my mother then. I wasn’t interested in her judgments . I flicked the button and the channel jumped. One, two, three. The war in Vietnam, the first moon launch, an anti-apartheid march. Sometimes the camera went up so close you could see the spit in their mouths . They were close but distant, beautifully distant. They could all be switched off. When it came to something about war my mother would perch on the side of the armchair, a lighted cigarette in her mouth, and drag in smoke with a look on her face that I didn’t understand then, and only partly understand now. Watchful, wary, faintly mocking. ‘There they are, at it again, just as I thought,’ her look might have said. ‘As if they haven’t learned anything.’

  You and my mother would have had plenty to say to one another, if you’d ever met, Michael. I think you would have got on. She would have understood you. She would have known what not to say. She was good at being quiet. Good at smoking, too. That was the one thing she wouldn’t give up for us .