by Adele Parks
I dash outside again and head for the gate. He’s still there, waiting for me. Smiling. Daryll Lainbridge.
‘Daisy, how are you?’ He asks the question as though it’s the most normal thing in the world that he’s suddenly turned up at my school gate, after all this time. His smile broadens, he’s hoping to be winning. If I could be dispassionate about this situation, I’d have to admit that he’s a handsome man. Charming. Still, even after everything. But I’m not dispassionate about this situation. I’m anything other.
‘What are you doing here?’ I demand.
‘I wanted to know if you received the tickets. Whether Millie was pleased.’
I have to keep one eye on the playground and I’m glad, it means I have a legitimate excuse for not looking at him. ‘Yes, we got the tickets. I didn’t know where to find you, so I could return them.’ This is a lie, since I ripped them up in a fury.
‘Return them?’ He looks surprised as though I’m not in my right mind. ‘Why would you want to return them?’
‘Millie doesn’t like the ballet anymore.’ This isn’t all of it, but I can’t bring myself to say the words that need to be said.
He looks crestfallen. ‘Oh, well that’s a shame.’
‘I realise they must have been expensive. I’ll pay you back.’ We haven’t got money to splash, paying Daryll back for a gift that we never wanted, but he is the last person I want to owe anything to.
‘It’s not about the money, Curly,’ he says sadly. I cringe, as I always have done, at the use of the nickname. I realise this is not about the money, but I’m trying to make it so because I don’t want it to be about anything else. It can’t be. ‘She doesn’t like ballet anymore, hey?’ He shakes his head, he looks distraught, almost as upset as I was when I first realised as much.
‘No. How did you hear she ever did?’ I ask.
‘I can’t remember. You pick these things up. I heard she was really something. I thought she had a future there.’
‘Yes, she did,’ I admit.
‘What changed?’ When I don’t reply, he guesses. ‘Her injuries?’ I nod. ‘Fuck. That fucking bastard.’ Daryll kicks the school gate. I look about, alarmed, I don’t want to draw any attention.
‘Daryll, please, don’t. Not here.’
He stares at me, his eyes bright and intense. The sounds of the children in the playground bounce around us. I find myself scanning for Millie. I mustn’t, not in front of him. The last thing I want to do is identify her to him. He breathes deeply, then seems to come to his senses. ‘Right, sorry.’ He pulls his hands through his hair. Not vanity, agitation. ‘Well, what would she like for her birthday?’
‘Nothing, she doesn’t need anything.’ I stop myself from adding, from you. She doesn’t need anything from you. Because that would be inflammatory. Instead I feel compelled to tread carefully, to be as conciliatory as possible. I try to change the subject. ‘So, you’re back from New York. Are you on holiday?’ I’m praying he’ll say yes.
‘No. It’s a permanent transfer. I’m back in London for good, Curly.’ He beams at me as though he’s delivering great news. ‘I would have written to let you know but I didn’t know where to find you.’
‘We moved,’ I mumbled.
‘You could have let me know.’
Why would I? But I swallow these words and instead say, ‘The thing is we moved in quite a hurry and there was a lot going on at the time. I don’t think I was as thorough with my admin as I should have been.’ He barks out a sound that is supposed to be near a laugh, but is anything other, shakes his head.
‘I’m admin, am I?’
I just want him gone from the school gate. Gone from my life but I daren’t create a scene. ‘I had to move. I couldn’t afford the mortgage on my own,’ I explain. I don’t know why I tell him this. I don’t want him to feel sorry for me. Is he likely to leave me alone if he pities me? No, probably not. He’ll see my vulnerability as his advantage. Rallying, trying to sound determined and in control I add, ‘I wanted a fresh start.’
I couldn’t risk giving up my job, how did I know I would get another one? At least moving to a house that wasn’t haunted with memories felt like a step in the right direction. After what happened I felt I was under constant scrutiny. First by the police, press and public, then my friends, my family. I know my friends and family were only looking out for my welfare, watching to see if I was coping on my own but it felt awful to be under constant surveillance. I felt like a child. A naughty child at that.
No one has nets hanging at their windows any more, so nets did not twitch as I walked down our old street, but I felt eyes upon me. The neighbours once waved cheerily from across the road and used to send Christmas cards, but I’d started to feel their collective cold shoulder some years back, when our recycling bins started to overflow with glass bottles.
‘Had a party?’ my next door neighbour once asked me when he caught me putting some of Simon’s empties in the bin.
‘Yes,’ I lied.
‘I didn’t get the invite,’ he muttered, snidely. Quickly walking away.
By having a drunk for a husband, I brought a dirty cloud into their respectable street. By having a criminal for a husband, I brought a huddle of noisy door-stepping journalists. Even when the journos went away, there was a lingering sense of disrepute. People crossed the street to avoid talking to me. They wouldn’t meet my eyes, but they never stopped watching me.
‘I’m making my mind up about where to settle,’ Daryll says conversationally. ‘I think it’s time for me to buy, put down roots. But, at the moment, I’m renting. Not far from here actually.’
My heart plummets. ‘Oh, I thought you were always a South London man.’
‘Well, I wanted to see what North London has to offer.’ He holds my gaze. It’s awkward. I make myself look away.
I spot the Head coming out of school, she has the bell in her hand. Breaktime is over. The bell will be rung, the children will line up, I’ll be seen with Daryll. I need to get him out of here before people spot him and start to talk.
‘Well, thank you for stopping by,’ I drop out the platitude that’s generally accepted to be a closer. He doesn’t react. More words spill out of my mouth, unchecked and untrue. ‘It’s been nice seeing you, but I need to be getting back to work now.’
‘So, Millie doesn’t like ballet any more.’ It’s as if I haven’t spoken. I hear the bell chime through the playground.
‘No.’
‘I’ll have a think about what I should get her instead.’
‘There’s really no need,’ I say firmly.
‘Oh, I think there is,’ he smiles slowly. ‘What sort of father doesn’t get his daughter a birthday gift?’
I freeze. The world shudders. Falls off its axis. Have I heard him correctly? I don’t know what to say.
‘Mrs Barnes are you joining us?’ The sharp question comes from the Head. The children are now filing past her, back towards the classrooms. I spot Millie. She throws me a quick nod. Daryll notices my eyes trained on her and leaps to the right conclusion. ‘Ah, there she is. Right? That’s her? She’s so pretty.’ He waves at her. Out of politeness, Millie gives him a little wave back.
‘I have to go,’ I mutter.
He smiles, shrugs and turns away. ‘I’ll see you, Curly. I’ll see you soon.’
30
Chapter 30, Simon
‘Barnes, visitor Connie Baker confirmed for 3 p.m. on Saturday,’ barked the guard at roll call.
A blink of something close to eagerness flickered in Simon’s belly. He always looked forward to seeing her. A tiny part of him wished he did not; maybe it would be better not to crave hers or anyone’s attention. It would be better not to know, or care, about what was going on outside and yet he couldn’t help himself.
For weeks, months when he’d first arrived, Simon hadn’t cared about visitors, he hadn’t even thought about them. After the trial and the sentencing, all he’d thought about was the collapse of the most important relatio
nship in his life. The one he had with drink. How would he survive years in this place without it? Then, eventually, he’d thought about Millie. How was she faring? Sporadically, his lawyer brought news from the hospital, cold factual reports. They didn’t get to the heart of how Millie was. And how was Daisy? Was she coping? Did she miss him? Was that an unreasonable hope? He was struck with self-loathing that it had taken him weeks to really care. When he did start to think about visitors, when he yearned for some news from the outside world, he realised no one had attempted to visit him. Not Luke, not Craig, not Rose. None of his colleagues or old college friends.
Not Daisy.
Friendships had been well and truly tested once he was on the inside, and it had turned out that his friends were mostly fair-weathered.
He checked with the guards. Had anyone requested to visit him? They’d laughed. Which was no sort of answer at all. His sister had written, she’d said she was coming to the UK the following summer. She implied it was his fault that she had to make the momentous and costly journey from Vancouver because she had to check up on their mother. She said she’d stop by then, June or July. Those were the words she used. ‘Stop by.’ As though it was a matter of rocking up, ringing the bell and being asked in for a cup of tea. It wasn’t her fault. Initially, he too had imagined someone visiting him in prison would be a bit like someone visiting a person in hospital. He’d thought there’d be set hours, that people would turn up, maybe not with grapes and chocolates but with something cheering. He’d learnt that wasn’t how it worked.
There was no chance of a cheery surprise because the prisoners had to organise their visits in advance. Simon thought that there was a strange sense of justice about that, because on the outside he’d never got involved with admin, Daisy was the only one sober enough to manage their lives. He learnt that he was entitled to three visits a month, but if he wanted someone to visit, he had to apply via a visiting order. At the beginning of each month he was given three visiting order numbers. Then he had to telephone his prospective visitor and give them the VO number, so they could find a convenient time slot. However, even arranging the telephone call was tricky, as the number of anyone he might want to ring had to be cleared by the authorities in advance. When he’d first arrived, he’d been asked to recall those numbers from the top of his head. He didn’t have his phone and couldn’t remember the mobile numbers of anyone he knew. Eventually he’d remembered their home landline number. After a period of time, that number had been cleared for him to call. Maybe that took a few days, maybe a few weeks. It took time. Everything took time in prison. There were processes for the processes.
He could only make calls to prospective visitors, to relay the VO number, during the brief association periods. He had to wait for a phone to become free, which didn’t always happen. Only then could he call his wife’s home number. Not his home number. Not any more.
He did call it, over and over again.
He only ever spoke to the answering machine.
He left details of the VO numbers. He left instructions about how the system worked. He wondered whether Daisy was out or whether she was standing by, listening to his pleas, his apologies.
He’d sent his sister a long letter explaining this procedure. She’d replied a month later giving him some news about her children, never again did she mention visiting him.
He told himself that maybe it was a good thing no one came. This world he inhabited was hard and fragile. If someone from his old world crashed into it, he was sure he would shatter. But there were times when he’d wondered what the point of it was. When he’d wondered about what he’d done. Wouldn’t it be better just to end it all? Do everyone a favour? They made it hard for a prisoner to do so. Every suicide led to an inquiry and that was never good for the authorities, or ultimately government statistics. Still, some people managed it. They found a way. Simon had started to wonder what those ways might be. Why they didn’t just leave the occasional dressing gown cord lying around? No one wanted men like him. It would ease the problem of overcrowding somewhat if they could all just be honest about how fucking hopeless it was.
His sister continued to write. Once a month, then once every six weeks or so. He knew her handwriting, she used tissue-thin airmail envelopes that he thought had gone out of production in the 1980s. Then, when he’d been inside almost a year, he received a very different sort of envelope. It was not from his sister. The envelope was a heavy cream card. Expensive. He’d looked at it for a long while. Turning it over in his hand, considering the possibilities. He’d set it aside for thirty minutes, then – when he could wait no longer – he opened it. Carefully. Slowly. He didn’t do anything in a hurry. By that time, he’d learnt the value in eking out any sort of activity. It was from Connie Baker. Daisy’s friend. His friend too, yes, but Daisy’s friend really. Her letter was full of news of her kids, her work, her latest holiday. She asked him how he was, as though she cared. He was amazed. They lived in a world where most people couldn’t be bothered to type out full words in texts and instead resorted to a jumble of acronyms and numbers, yet Connie had sent him a carefully crafted, handwritten letter. It was generous, authentic.
She said she wanted to visit him. She gave him her mobile number, her home and studio numbers, and asked him to have them cleared. Said she’d like to visit soon. He hadn’t expected that. And she came. Week after week. Her coming to see him had most probably saved his life. That was not a dramatic exaggeration, it was the truth. On the outside someone might give you change for a tenner, so you can feed the parking meter and you might say, ‘Oh, you saved my life’, but you are talking bullshit. You have no idea. Simon meant it, he really did. Connie had saved his life.
He remembered her first time. She was late. He had felt panicked. Started to doubt that she would show, when in fact he ought to have recalled that she was always late everywhere. He’d tried to stay calm and distracted by looking around the room, watching the other women visiting other inmates. Some made such an effort. They dressed up, they chattered constantly, tried to appear bright and perky, clearly believing that it was their duty to entertain their wayward husbands. Others sat in silence. Worn down by shame, or betrayal, or fury. Connie came swanning into the visitors’ room, full of her usual panache and passion. It had taken her a fraction of a second to recognise him. He was thin and sallow. He must have appeared what he was: closed down. Done. His suspicions had been confirmed when he saw pity and shock swill in her eyes. Emotions she swiftly banished. She beamed widely, over-compensating, and dashed towards him, ‘Simon!’ Her arms held wide, she’d pulled him into one of her signature enormous hugs. Rocking from side to side in a jolly little dance. The guard had shaken his head at her, firmly asked her to separate. Connie had looked surprised but had followed instructions. Her manoeuvre did look suspicious at worst, incongruous at best. They’d probably thought she was passing drugs. She seemed high.
He had never been sure what had motivated her to visit him. Basic human kindness? Perhaps, but in that case, were all his friends lacking that quality? Did Connie have a bigger capacity to forgive? Was she just a little bit inquisitive, a ghoul? Born in a different era, Connie would most likely have been one of the women knitting by the guillotines during the French revolution, she had the stomach for it. She always put curiosity before sentimentality. She collected experiences. Maybe that’s what he was, one of her experiences. Coming here was not dissimilar to signing up for a life drawing class or riding a horse along a beach.
He’d blurted out the question. He phrased it tactlessly. ‘Was visiting a prison on your bucket list, Connie?’
‘What a macabre bucket list you must imagine I have,’ she’d replied, prettily side-stepping the matter.
‘Why are you here?’ he’d insisted.
‘To see you,’ she’d replied simply. He must have looked unconvinced because she sighed heavily. ‘I’m trying to do a good thing here, Simon. And it’s not easy. No one wanted me to come. Everyone is angry a
bout it. Don’t you want to see me?’
‘Yes, yes I do,’ he’d confessed. It was just easier to be honest.
Connie never avoided the fact that he was inside, a prisoner, a criminal. Sometimes he thought she almost relished it. She informed him that she’d travelled by train and then taken a cab from the station. ‘It was ghastly, Simon,’ she cried, almost excitedly. ‘As soon as I said where I wanted to go, the cabbie’s attitude was extremely difficult to manage. He kept glancing at me in the mirror. “Visiting someone are you, love?” he asked, eventually. What a dumb question! The prison is hardly a tourist attraction, it’s unlikely that I am just popping by for a selfie at the gate.’
Connie had spoken quickly, loudly and incessantly; she was uncomfortable but desperately trying not to show as much. Simon had looked about him, conscious that she was drawing a lot of eyes. He should have warned her to dress down. She had arrived wearing her usual uniform: skintight black jeans, a clingy black cashmere jumper, her hair swept back into a casual up do. It wasn’t that she’d made a particular effort but, even so, she was beautiful. She was attracting attention. Not the flattering sort, the menacing sort. He wanted to silence her but didn’t know how to. She continued, ‘The cabbie wanted to know if I was visiting my husband. He was very leery. I said I was.’
‘Why did you say that?’ Simon queried.
‘Oh, I don’t know. I think that’s what he wanted to hear,’ Connie had replied with a grin, waving her hand dismissively. ‘Then he wanted to know if he was likely to have heard of you – well – not you, really, my husband. Whether you’d made the papers. It was obvious he was dying to ask. A bank robber? A kidnapper? A serial killer? I just turned and looked out of the window, pretended to be all mysterious. Left him hanging.’
She’d laughed at this. As though his being inside was remotely funny. As if being inside with serial killers could be amusing. He had been offended but simultaneously aware that he no longer had the luxury of showing any offence. Before, on the outside, he’d perhaps have picked a fight, forced a row. Now he knew it was best to keep his own counsel.
