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 toward 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, straightaway, 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. Hobb’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, 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 . . .”
“Ms. Fforde,” Traynor said irritably, “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 behalf 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 proactive 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 my office. 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 cream 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 everywhe
re.
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 remembered 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 candor 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, amid 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 that 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 custody of the child?
“Ultimately, however, we turn, once again, to the heart of the matter: if the mother is granted sole or shared custody 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 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 custody 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 heat wave. 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 gray 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 stroller, grabbed my sunglasses and my hat, and headed off with her. By the time we reached the park, Jack had fallen asleep. After we parked 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 antidepressants 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 odors, 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 eighteen hundred 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.”
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