As she’d intended, she swayed the jury by focusing on fights the youth had caused at school, knowing when Keith stated that it was a predominantly white school, the jury would assume Edwin Smith was crying racism even though he was completely accurate.
She had also proven that his friends, black and white, did not have jobs and this again painted a picture of young thugs on street corners, causing trouble, getting into fights and intimidating the general public, regardless of the fact that only one in four youths were in work in Birmingham.
She had totally destroyed their witness, a white shopkeeper in her late forties who was only there under duress and had been totally intimidated by the official proceedings. It had taken just one question about the last time she’d had an eye test to throw her off guard. By the time Fran finished with her she didn’t even know what day it was.
Throughout the two-day trial Fran had been unable to look at the boy’s mother. The woman had sat beside her son with quiet dignity even though she’d been forced to look at her battered child every day until those horrific injuries had healed. A few days ago a mother’s pain might not have meant much to Fran, but today it did.
And what about me, she thought with a sickness that refused to be quelled. When will I face what I’ve done and what I continue to do every day? How long will the justification ‘It’s my job’ keep the screaming banshees inside my head quiet? She’d proven reasonable doubt, she’d destroyed a witness, she’d defended her client; she’d done her job. So why did she have the urge to approach the two figures that sat staring with shared disbelief as the police officer returned to work? She watched as Keith turned, placed his hand on the woman’s arm and spoke softly to them both. They nodded disinterestedly. Either they were out of strength or they knew as well as she did that this had been their last option. There was nowhere else for them to go: justice had been served.
She’d thought her next win would quench the cape of dissatisfaction that shrouded her. That another victory in the courtroom would give her back her life, her safe life. Externally she had always been able to function. She still did but the feelings inside her were becoming increasingly harder to ignore. She wanted control over that but somehow she just didn’t have it any more.
She grabbed her briefcase and almost ran out of the courtroom with an overwhelming urge to cry. Not a sniffle that could be demurely concealed behind a lace handkerchief but a loud, savage bawling session complete with unstifled aggression that would erode the breeze block in her stomach. She started the engine of her car in the hope that she would never see the inside of a courtroom again.
She returned to the office and half-hearted congratulatory gestures from her colleagues. But it was a game: her job was only a matter of who could win the round or produce the best party tricks. The people didn’t matter, the victims or the accused. Fran wasn’t sure which was which any more.
The sight of Martine waiting for her in front of the Chamberlain Clock in the centre of the Jewellery Quarter restored a little peace inside. The previous evening they’d spoken on the phone and arranged to meet for lunch. Fran had said nothing of her father’s visit. She’d mentioned it to no one. For the time being it was her secret. Her gift. A candle of warmth that had been lit inside her. She had the constant feeling that Christmas was coming tomorrow. The day she’d finally allow herself to tear off up to Selby to see her son. Her first instinct after her father left was to get in the car and drive to him immediately but for once her cool rationalisations did her a favour. At that time there was too much anger and hurt at her parents’ actions, which she did not want to take with her. It had taken every ounce of self-control not to ring her mother and scream obscenities into the mouthpiece. Again her logical mind told her that the receiver would be replaced at the first sign of anger. She knew that confrontation would come later, but not before she’d seen her son. Her son. The words sent a delicious shiver down her spine.
Fran raised her hand to wave to Martine and then felt the breath being knocked from her body as she fell to the ground.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said a low deep voice from above.
It took Fran a few seconds to realise that she had been knocked backwards and was half-sitting and half-lying on the ground.
‘Are you okay?’ the voice asked. Fran noticed a thick ethnic tinge.
‘I’m… er… I’m fine,’ she stuttered.
A large black hand reached down to help her up. She accepted the assistance and was back on her feet by the time Martine came to a halt beside her.
‘Are you all right?’
‘It was all my fault. I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.’
Fran realised that the man still had her hand encased in his own. Her gaze met his and he smiled apologetically, showing two gold teeth.
‘No, I was distracted also,’ she said gracefully, just wishing for the encounter to be over. She stepped back from the man before her, intimidated by the sheer size of him, but there was something else. Despite the concern in his voice, amusement danced behind his eyes.
‘Thank you for helping me up,’ she said, taking Martine’s arm and moving away. His gaze lingered on her for a moment before he turned and sauntered away.
Fran shuddered.
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’
Fran tore her eyes away from the retreating figure and told herself she was being silly. It had been a simple accident caused by distraction on both sides.
‘I’m fine, honestly,’ she said, realising how her own dark grey suit clashed with the loose cotton of Martine’s trousers and cheesecloth tunic. It was a glorious day and outside of her air-conditioned office she could feel the strengthening lunchtime sun burning through her jacket.
‘My, how very smart you look!’ smiled Martine. ‘Hmm, not exactly going to be able to sit on the grass in those, are you?’ she said, raising the picnic basket.
Fran banished all other thoughts from her mind. She’d been waiting what seemed like years for Martine to return. She had an incredible urge to embrace her. To take the picnic basket from her hands and pull her close to confirm that she was really here.
They found a bench and set the picnic basket open between them. Fran peered inside. ‘What?’ she exclaimed. ‘Chicken sandwiches with mayonnaise, cheesy puffs and fruit. Not exactly a veritable feast!’ she laughed.
Martine leaned across and slapped her playfully. ‘Sorry, didn’t have the chance to pop down to Harrods Food Hall, you know. And don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. My chicken sandwiches are world famous!’
Fran gave her a doubtful look as she took a bite. ‘Actually you’re right, that’s delicious. What else is in this sandwich?’ she asked, catching a small piece of chicken before it landed on her skirt.
‘Well, I could tell you but then I’d have to kill you.’
Fran was relieved there was no discomfort between them, none of the awkwardness that had been present the last time they met. She wondered what passers-by thought of them. Were they just two friends sitting on a bench sharing lunch, or could they see the force that came from Martine like an electric current and touched her heart as though lighting a lamp? Could they see and what’s more, she wondered, how much did she care?
‘Where are you, Fran?’ asked Martine, with the radar of a bat. ‘I know you want to be here but there’s something on your mind.’
Fran was shocked at Martine’s perception. She thought she’d left the negativity in the office.
‘Just work,’ she replied.
‘Tell me.’
‘I’m not sure I know where to begin.’
‘It doesn’t matter as long as you do,’ said Martine
Fran tried as best she could to put her emotions into words. Once she started she couldn’t stop. She saw Martine glance away. ‘I’m sorry, I’m boring you,’ she apologised.
Martine shook her head. ‘Come with me,’ she ordered, closing the basket.
They walked past the Assay Office and into the old Smith a
nd Pepper works that was now the Discovery Centre. They passed a group of craftsmen who sat around one huge bench and passed pieces of gold between them for each to undertake a different process.
‘These used to be residential houses,’ whispered Martine. ‘They were converted into “pegs” for rent to artists.’
Martine guided her to where the lone jewellers worked with single-minded concentration as they sat at the old preserved benches of stone. Fran felt that they had entered a time warp, the only admission visible of the twenty-first century were the powerful lamps attached to the benches.
‘What are we doing?’ Fran asked.
‘Just watch,’ Martine ordered, her eyes already entranced by one jeweller in particular, who was in the process of preparing a gold ring of two separate stems, one smooth and the other already formed into a rope design.
The flame that he used to manipulate the source material danced in Fran’s eyes as she barely blinked, fascinated by the demonstration. He teased the gold until he expertly brought together the two thin lengths of metal and formed them into an intertwining knot.
Beads of sweat were forming on his forehead as the ring neared completion. The jeweller, aware of his audience, did not waver from his task. He leaned over, extinguished the shooting yellow flame and smiled.
Self-consciously Fran returned the smile. The man was in his late fifties, she guessed, with a deep furrowed brow from the years of head-bent concentration.
‘Hell of a job but someone has to do it!’ he joked, with a pronounced Birmingham accent.
‘You seem to enjoy it,’ Martine observed politely.
‘Wouldn’t be happy doing anything else.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ said Fran, nodding towards the ring.
‘Not one of my best. Doesn’t matter though. Before it was a piece of yellow metal, now it’s something.’
Fran was intrigued. ‘How long have you been doing this?’
He smiled good-naturedly. ‘Over thirty years.’
‘Do you still get satisfaction from it?’
He removed his glasses. ‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.’
‘That simple?’ asked Fran with a smile.
‘Look, love,’ he said as though talking to a child. ‘I start with a raw material and I form it into something that previously only existed ’ere.’ He tapped his temple. ‘There ain’t no greater satisfaction.’
Fran heard his words. ‘Thank you,’ she smiled as she moved away from the bench.
‘Err… Miss…’
Fran returned to the bench. He pushed the ring towards her. ‘There’s a slight imperfection,’ he admitted. ‘You won’t find it but I know it’s there.’
Fran shook her head to refuse.
‘Go on, love, take it! I can’t sell it with a good conscience knowing of the slight fault.’ He pushed it further towards her, in assurance that he was genuine. ‘Go on, I want you to have it. It ain’t perfect but it’s still beautiful.’
Fran thanked him warmly and left the building with the ring in her hand, the warmth of the flame still evident against her fingers.
The clarity of the day as they left was only partly due to the sunshine. That man had sat in that chair for more than thirty years and was still happy to do so. She wanted that.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured to Martine.
‘For what?’ asked Martine innocently. ‘All I did was get you a free ring.’
With regret, Fran realised that she would have to return to work. She wanted to give Martine some sort of sign of what she was feeling. She leaned over and stroked the soft flesh of her arm warmed by the sun. Why did almost anything seem possible on a midsummer day?
‘Martine, I—’
Martine put a finger to Fran’s lips to silence her. ‘Don’t rush anything, Fran. Just be my friend,’ she said softly before walking away.
Fran knew that she was deliberately forcing her to examine and re-examine her feelings until she was sure of what she wanted. And she was glad. She also knew it was for Martine’s benefit as well. She’d been hurt terribly in the past and although she was confident and at ease with her sexuality she did not want to court heartache. Fran knew that the move would have to come from her.
She re-entered the office building with Martine’s face in her mind and the jeweller’s words ringing in her ears.
Her first instruction to Dawn was to make an urgent appointment with Geoffrey Windsor, immediately. Her second was to get Keith Milton on the phone.
‘Fran, so nice to hear from you! Thought you’d still be washing the blood off your hands,’ he said with enough ice in his voice to freeze her ear to the receiver.
‘Keith, I’m ringing as a friend.’ She ignored his sarcastic laugh. ‘Listen, I get the feeling that the force is getting a little fed up with Mr Harris. An internal inquiry and a civil case.’
‘So?’
Fran took a deep breath. ‘You said your clients only wanted to ensure he never got the opportunity to do this again.’
‘Yes,’ he replied, becoming more interested.
‘Well, think about it. If he beat that lad black and blue you’d probably be safe in assuming that he didn’t get his three square meals a day under the PACE guidelines.’
‘Wow, if a jury wouldn’t—’
‘I also think, quite strongly, that the force does not want any publicity about this case, especially since the particular station Mr Harris is from has just employed a community liaison officer.’
‘So you’re thinking, hypothetically of course, that any press coverage would seriously damage Mr Harris’s chances of keeping his job for much longer?’
‘Hypothetically nothing, I know it.’ She paused. ‘So, should I buy a newspaper tomorrow or not?’
‘Well, if you did, there might be something in there to interest you.’
‘That’s all I needed to know.’
‘What’s going on, Frances? If anyone found out about this conversation you’d be in serious trouble.’
‘I’m aware of that, Keith, but I saw those people in the courtroom for the first time today and it hurt,’ she said honestly. ‘I still had a job to do and I did it but now I have to live with what I won.’
‘There’s more going on here than this one case, Fran.’
She sighed long and hard as Dawn poked her head around the door to tell her that Geoffrey was ready to see her.
‘Let’s just say the turtle finally heard the snail,’ she murmured, replacing the receiver.
She took a deep breath and tried to find some doubt within herself about what she was about to do, but it was no use. Those four walls were no longer enough; their protection now stifled her.
The walk to the top floor she made slowly, savouring the experience of complete freedom. She could do and say anything she wanted to now that she was no longer bound by the shackles of this community and that made it all look so different.
Geoffrey’s expression was one of forced hospitality, which she knew was deliberate. Although he had agreed to the impromptu appointment he was less than happy about it.
He indicated for her to sit. She shook her head – she wanted to be out of this office as quickly as possible.
‘I won’t take much of your time, Geoffrey. I have come to tender my resignation in person with the assurance that written confirmation will follow.’ She paused as she analysed his flitting expressions and registered the brief display of relief. She wasn’t offended; it was too late for that. ‘I’d like it to be effective immediately. There is nothing on my desk that can’t easily be handed over to another lawyer…’
‘But why, I don’t understand. Please reconsider?’
Fran wondered if he realised how obviously his words did not carry the conviction they should have.
‘No, Geoffrey, you can’t change my mind.’ Her courtroom tone brooked no argument.
‘But you’ve always been so happy.’
Fran saw the game they were playing and dec
ided not to play along. It didn’t matter any more. This was exactly what she wanted to escape. Conversations where you had to listen just as carefully to what was not being said, conversations that should have been straightforward but operated on too many levels. It was too tiring; it was time to stop.
‘No, I haven’t been happy, Geoffrey. I’ve survived here. I’ve even used this place as a surrogate home but even parents can turn, can’t they?’ She couldn’t help the bitterness in her voice. She no longer wanted to be a part of this charade and wished they’d had the balls to sack her, but his regretful pretence was too much.
He averted his gaze, embarrassed. Fran knew he was from her mother’s camp. Bare emotions were embarrassing and should be kept locked in the family vault with the jewels and bonds and other things it was useful to have but not necessary on a daily basis.
‘And what will you do?’ he asked, clearing his throat.
‘What I should have done years ago: study art.’
She saw the amusement behind his eyes. Art was something you took an interest in when you weren’t at work. It was a mere distraction from the important, real things in life. It was a hobby. Fran had had the same argument with herself. She had defended her work. She’d struggled to find a time she’d been happy in what she did because she did it and not because she won. Unfortunately she had found that the reasons she was good at it were the reasons she was lacking in other areas. She knew there was a word, conditioning. She wondered how hospital workers, morticians, even care workers could witness such misery and sadness and not take it home with them. How was it possible that one could switch off with a timecard and forget the trauma they’d seen? Surely the steely resolution they had to acquire spilled over into other areas of their lives as it had with her?
She herself had entertained the thought of painting in her spare time, but it wasn’t enough. As long as she was forced to present this other person on a daily basis she would never find the emotional freedom to see past what she’d become. There was something inside her that wanted to escape; to find its way on to canvas. An expression, a scene, a memory, or emotion, which was something she’d only just realised she possessed.
The Forgotten Woman: A gripping, emotional rollercoaster read you’ll devour in one sitting Page 21
