Opportunity

by Grimshaw, Charlotte

  'But I'm going to move it!'

  'It's out of my hands,' the warden said. 'The offence has been committed.'

  I went on arguing. Behind me, Gerald said, 'Take your medication.'

  I turned to him.

  'Why are you doing this?'

  'Take your medication,' he repeated. He rocked on his heels. He wouldn't look at me. He stared, enthralled, at the warden.

  The warden handed me the ticket. I dragged Sophie into the car. She was wailing. I drove away fast, screeching the wheels.

  I rang Scott. He said, 'The man's unbalanced. We'll have to be diplomatic. Don't take him on.'

  'I haven't taken him on. I haven't done anything to him.'

  'Let's just try to keep the heat out of things,' he said carefully.

  'I'm trying to deal with him. I'm not creating the problem.'

  'I'm sure we can approach it all in a rational way.'

  'Are you suggesting I'm not rational?'

  We argued. I thought he was making out it was my fault.

  ***

  It's a war zone, Scott said. Families: how they reverberate with crashes and screams. I was in a café, drinking coffee and thinking about the last few weeks. Sophie had been sick again. Sarah came home with another infestation of nits. Sophie recovered; Sarah got sick. They both cried in the night and needed to be soothed. Sophie insisted on coming into our bed. She screamed and kicked when I tried to give her her antibiotic. They fought with each other, and broke things. Scott was overworked, yet got up every night to one or other child. The lights were always on in our kitchen as we scurried to and fro, like ghosts . . .

  My cellphone rang. A woman said, 'Ms Davis? My name is Mary Michaels. I'm a social worker. I have to inform you there has been a notification about your children.'

  According to Gerald's complaint, the children were 'running wild'. They 'weren't provided with guidance or restraint'. He was concerned about the 'values' they were being taught. The household was a bedlam of 'swearing and noise'. The parents could be heard making 'frequent threats of violence'. The children were often 'locked in their rooms, pleading for release'. The mother was an 'abusive control freak'. Although he couldn't confirm it, he believed she was 'on medication'.

  We talked through the night while the children were asleep. We went over it again and again.

  'You could go and talk to him,' I said.

  'That might make it worse.'

  'We're just helpless, then.' I was knotted up with rage. 'I'll go and talk to him.'

  'No!'

  'Well, what then?'

  Scott rolled over. 'He's mad. They'll realise it. They'll do what they do, and then it will be over. We have to keep calm.'

  I paced around the room. 'I am calm.'

  I woke in the night wondering what was wrong. I remembered. I lay awake for a long time, then I slept and my dreams were edged with anxiety, with the fear that no one would listen or believe. Where there's smoke there's fire, people say. Mud sticks. And what about Scott's career?

  ***

  The social workers were coming to the house. We waited. I had tidied. Then untidied. Too much neatness, I thought, might signify a 'control freak'.

  I smoothed the children's hair. Scott squeezed my arm. 'Ready?' he said. 'Remember. Act natural!'

  They were knocking on the door. I laughed nervously. My throat closed over.

  There were two of them, the woman who had rung me, and a man. The children sat demurely on the floor, playing with Lego. I put Sarah's school report on the table.

  'Oh, we've rung the school and kindergarten,' Mary Michaels said.

  'You've told them?'

  'They both said your children were delightful. Intelligent. Happy. Well behaved. In fact, they couldn't believe I was ringing.'

  We both started talking at once. 'Well, of course. Gerald is mad. Seriously mad. None of what he says is true . . .'

  The man said, 'We hear all kinds of stories. From all sides.'

  Scott said, 'We are absolutely furious. We have instructed a lawyer. We intend to sue him. And we want you to prosecute him for making a false complaint.'

  The man held up one hand. 'We have a procedure to follow.'

  'You can see this is a malicious complaint.'

  'We get told all kinds of things.'

  There was a silence.

  The man leafed through a file. 'We're running police and domestic violence checks. I assume we won't find anything there?'

  'Jesus. Of course not!'

  I rushed in, 'You should investigate him. He had a book of photos. He wanted me to write an endorsement in it. He patrols the neighbourhood looking for burglars. He . . .'

  The man held his hand up again. 'Our brief is to check on the welfare of the children. Not the adults' quarrels.'

  'But the background's important, surely. The reason for the complaint.'

  'We hear all sorts of things.'

  'Well, do you listen to them?'

  'We certainly do.' He gave me a long, pointed look.

  Scott put his hand on my arm.

  Mary Michaels said brightly to Scott, 'Sarah's school report is certainly excellent.'

  She had told me that once a notification was made, it could never be erased. I thought about this. We were 'on file'. All our middle-class conscientiousness — the ban on smacking, the minute control of diet and environment, the finger painting and nature walks and birthday parties, all our slavish, adoring love of our little girls had ended up here, in interrogation, humiliating inspection, a social worker saying 'violence' and 'police' and making notes on a file that would be kept forever.

  'The children are our whole life,' I said stupidly.

  Mary Michaels nodded, smiled.

  The man said heavily, 'When the grown-ups make complaints about each other, it's the children in need who suffer.'

  There was another silence.

  'He's the one who's made the complaint,' Scott pointed out.

  The man looked aggrieved. 'When I have to sort out between warring mums and dads, and find out who's telling the truth, it takes me away from my real job. Caring for the kids.'

  Scott sat forward impatiently. 'We'd rather not be here. He's got us here, by making a false complaint. Once you're satisfied about the children, I want you to prosecute him.'

  'We'll look into that,' the man said. 'Among other things.'

  Mary Michaels said, soothing, 'We'll speak to our manager. We can issue a warning to people who make false complaints.'

  The man said, 'You'll appreciate, we can't assume someone's a certain kind of person just because they've got a certain kind of job.' He looked meaningly at Mary Michaels. He was accusing her of sucking up to Scott. He wasn't going to be told what to do. The woman was freer, more flexible. But she was junior to him.

  I said to her, 'You talked to Gerald. I bet you could tell there's something wrong with him.'

  'You should stay away from him,' she said. 'Don't be tempted to get into an argument. It may be what he wants.'

  'We have a job to do,' the man broke in.

  He picked up Sarah's school report. He put on a pair of glasses. Sophie stood up, bored. She leaned on me and grumbled and I quietened her.

  The man said, 'It's a good report.'

  'And the social bits,' I said. 'Happy, friendly, co-operative.'

  The man looked over his glasses at the kids. His tone softened. 'We have a full schedule. A lot of people to see . . .'

  'Is that it?' I'd expected more. Some interrogation of the children.

  'I think we're finished,' the man said.

  We stood up. We shook hands all round.

  'Thank you for your time. We'll be in touch,' they said, as if we'd just tried to sell them something.

  ***

  I rang Rachel. I told her everything. 'Can you believe it?' I said.

  'What a creep,' she said. She sounded subdued. I could sense her shying away. She'd always been hypersensitive. She didn't like ugliness, unpleasantness. It m
ade me go on and on, trying to win her over. In the end she said she had to go, she had work to do. I was depressed afterwards. I thought about the taint Gerald had put on us.

  'Are you going to tell your parents?' I asked Scott.

  He hesitated.

  'Surely you're going to tell them?' I'd told mine. They were sympathetic, horrified.

  'Why aren't you going to?' I pressed him.

  'It doesn't matter, does it?'

  'You think they won't believe us?' I knew I should leave it but I couldn't. I was angry. His parents suddenly seemed stupid to me. Hostile simpletons. The sort of people who would go on about 'values' while letting themselves off all kinds of crimes.

  'I don't want to hear any crap about my family,' Scott said. He walked away.

  We went to a lawyer, who drew up defamation papers. As soon as our documents were served on him, Gerald rang the law firm to find out if they were genuine. He must have thought we were playing a trick on him, the kind of trick he'd played on us.

  Two weeks later a letter came from the social workers. The case had been investigated. No problems were found and no action would be taken. The department wished us well. The enquiry would be closed.

  But the file remained. It could never be erased.

  Scott came home. I showed him the letter.

  He said, 'They won't prosecute Gerald. They say people have to feel free to notify.'

  'They think we're throwing our weight around. They're not going to be dictated to.'

  He said, 'We have to keep calm about it, remember.'

  'That mad bastard,' I said.

  'Don't talk like that. We have to be rational.'

  'I am bloody rational.'

  'And don't swear. That's what got us into trouble in the first place.'

  'What? You swear all the time. He got us into trouble. Because he's mad.'

  'We don't want anyone knowing about this. What'll he do next — go to the media? Do you realise what he could do to us? Don't provoke him.'

  'Why would I provoke him?'

  'Because you're fiery.'

  'What's that supposed to mean? I have never provoked him.'

  'Shut up!'

  He walked away, pressing his hands to his eyes.

  ***

  I was in my room, working. Scott rang, excited.

  'Gerald went to a lawyer. He's signed an apology, in exchange for us not suing him. Saying he shouldn't have made a notification.'

  I leaned my forehead against the doorframe. 'Oh, that's wonderful. Brilliant.'

  'We can get it put on the file,' he said.

  The file that lasts forever. I looked over at Gerald's house. 'One day he's going to pay.'

  'We'll just keep away from him,' Scott said. 'We will not get carried away.'

  'Let's go out to dinner.'

  'Good idea. Oh no, I can't. I've got the banquet.'

  'Oh yes. Well. It's good news. I'll see you. In the morning, I suppose.'

  I picked up the girls and took them to swimming. We bought pizza on the way home. I was so pleased about Gerald's apology that I let them have all kinds of treats. We had a festive little dinner.

  'Where's Daddy?' they clamoured.

  'At a do. A fancy banquet for work.'

  I read to them and put them to bed. I opened the window and looked out at the rainy dark. I went around the house locking up. Through the trees I saw Gerald pass his kitchen window. I went to bed. The rain was getting heavier; it drummed on the roof, overflowing the guttering and spouting into the garden.

  I got up. It was 3 a.m. I walked through the rooms. The house was dark and cool. I watched the silvery water coursing down the glass in the sitting room, the liquid shadows streaming down the walls. I looked out at the street. A taxi was driving away.

  Scott was standing in the rain, wearing his black and white dinner suit. He tilted his face to the heavy downpour, swaying a bit on his feet. He wiped the drops from his face, loosened his black bow tie. He turned.

  He took hold of Gerald's wooden letterbox, wrenching and ripping it back and forth until its pole came out of the ground. He put his whole body into it. He held it high and smashed it on the road. He kept smashing it until it broke into pieces. He threw the pieces over the hedge. He spat on the road.

  He leaned one hand against the lamppost. Rain streamed down through the light. He stood there, as if lost in thought.

  I went back to bed. He came in quietly and sat down on the side of the bed.

  I rolled over. 'How was it?'

  'Just the usual. Long speeches. Not too bad.'

  'Anything interesting?'

  'No.'

  I ran my hand over his back. 'How did you get so wet?'

  'I walked some of the way. I was thinking.'

  'About Gerald?'

  'No. Not about him.'

  He took his clothes off and got into bed. He put his arms around me. We lay in the dark, listening to the rain.

  free will

  We were on to the second course when the light changed in the room. Two long shafts of gold fell across the floor and the room was lit up; the bleached faces along the table looked exhausted already. Sandy's cheeks were dry, perspiration beading her upper lip; Dave was red-eyed, his face creased in a foolish smile. George had surrendered to a blank moment and was gazing out at the milky skin of the sea, the container ships out there with their toy colours, the gulls lined along the rusty railing. There had been a sudden shower; now the sun appeared like a white disc, slicing through the cloud. George sighed and gathered himself, and turned to Miranda. I saw him brace himself against her bright scrutiny, the amused malice of her gaze. She was intelligent; cleverness expressed itself in her tiny eyes, in her sensual, brutal mouth. Such fools she made of us.

  Before lunch George had given the usual reminders. Miranda is an important client. She must be shown a good time. Miranda can give us work — more work than you could ever imagine. She is courted by many firms. The competition is fierce. She must be wined and dined, until dawn if necessary. Calls had been made to spouses. Belts loosened. The afternoon, the evening, had been written off. Lunch with Miranda: you never knew when you'd get home.

  No one could match her stamina. She and her deputy, Mark Venn, dined out on law firms, and always they drank the lawyers under the table. They watched, with spiteful amusement, as lawyers crashed and burned, trying to show them a good time. Midnight would find Miranda Hill sipping a cocktail, upright and smiling, amid the human wreckage of the group who had treated her to lunch. Lunch would have turned into dinner, dinner into cocktails, and finally the last ones standing would escort Ms Hill to some exclusive bar, where she and Venn would gossip languidly — usually on the subject of bungling lawyers — before stepping over the bodies of their hosts and strolling off to a cab. The next day, on receiving the shame-faced, hungover phone call — its gruesome jokes, its wincing joviality: 'So, feel like throwing a bit of something our way?' — Ms Hill might release one small snippet of work. Or not. It depended on whether you'd shown her a good time. If not, the following evening, she might let slip the odd detail of last night's 'debacle', her new companions writhing with sycophantic mirth over their rivals' embarrassing collapse.

  That's business.

  She was looking at me. George had seated me opposite her: she was said to like young men. There was a crease between her plump arm and her fleshy hand, as if a string had been tied tight around her wrist. Her eyes were deep-set. Beneath the mask of round cheeks, long lashes and the frame of glossy brown curls, her real nature — hard, alert and vigilant — was watching. I smiled vaguely and looked beyond her to the sea, so calm that it gave off an oily glow. A seagull turned against the bright sky, the reflection of the water rippled on the wall. There was the creak of ropes, of boats shifting against the wharf. Miranda broke the leg of her crayfish with a tiny crack and sucked out the flesh. The music CD had stuck, a tune had begun to repeat itself, now there was an unnatural hush as the waiters rushed to change it. San
dy laughed out loud and covered her mouth. Mark and Miranda exchanged a look over her head. I had not drunk much wine but already it was too much; I felt dazed in the heat and the bright light, at one remove from the company. This would not do: I had to last the distance. I looked around for the carafe of water, and resolved to drink no more. Miranda reached across and filled my wine glass.

  'Cheers,' she said.

  'Cheers,' I replied, and obediently drank, and looked at the golden bars of light lying across the table near us. Miranda and Mark had arrived an hour late. The afternoon shadows were lengthening on the wharf. Already the lunch crowd was emptying out.

  George clapped his hands and began an anecdote. He wasn't naturally jolly. I heard the strain in his voice. He was a tall, thin, mournful man, diligent, polite, often ridiculed for his awkwardness. Miranda watched him perform, unsmiling, cracking the legs of her crayfish. The waiters put on a fresh CD, and George was obliged to talk over music that was hectic, too loud.

  He finished his story. He gave a pained flourish with his big hands. Miranda and Mark looked not at him, but at each other. The waiter was sent for more wine.

  I excused myself. In the gents I splashed water on my face. My phone rang in my pocket. Its screen registered three missed calls. I answered.

  My secretary Cheryl said, 'Hi, Sean. How's it going?'

  'Yeah, good,' I said, leaning there, against the wall.

  'I've got a woman here wanting to see you. I told her you're busy. She says she'll wait.'

  'Who is she?'

  'She's not a client. She's . . .' There was a pause.

  'She's . . . ?'

  'She says she's a friend.'

  'Name?'

  'Frances Leigh?'

  'Don't know her.'

  'Well, she's plonked herself in reception. She's . . .'

  'She's what?'

  There was something Cheryl wanted to say. 'She's . . .'

  'Tell her to ring me tomorrow.'

  'She won't go away. She's . . .'

  'Put her on,' I said, irritated.

  A voice came on the line, husky, calm. 'Hello? It's Frances. I used to work at Penn's.'

  'Oh. Hi.' (You? Why?)

  'I need to see you now.'

  I wondered whether it was a prank dreamed up by Miranda Hill and Mark Venn, a trick they played on junior solicitors, that they would hoot over at future dinners.