I Thought I Knew You

by Penny Hancock

  ‘O . . . K. Have you told the police? Have you reported the assault to anyone?’

  ‘Saffie doesn’t want me to. The boy’s a friend’s son. He’s at her school. She’s afraid of her friends finding out.’

  Donna’s face revealed something, Jules wasn’t sure what. There was an almost imperceptible movement of the eyebrows. Was Donna guessing she must know the culprit too, if he was local?

  ‘But that’s not why I need to talk to you. As I said, she’s missed a period . . . and . . . we’ve done the test. It’s positive. I thought it best to know and . . . the truth is, I also wanted proof, which sounds awful, I know . . .’

  ‘That can be tricky, of course. Even with a pregnancy. Because of all the possible permutations. Who was it? Was it consensual? Was it done with both parties’ full consciousness, et cetera, et cetera? And with a child of Saffie’s age, it can be because they often feel guilty for having sex at all. Rape might be an excuse for something they feel they shouldn’t be doing.’

  Jules looked at the GP. Had she really just said, ‘Rape can be an excuse’? What would Holly have said to that before her son was accused? She’d have been incensed. ‘Only 0.5 per cent of all rape allegations are false,’ Jules remembered Holly quoting to her once. ‘Which means 99.5 per cent of reported rapes did indeed happen. And how many rapists are actually convicted? Hardly any. Because of the misogynistic culture we live in even today.’

  Look at Holly now, thought Jules. Look at how the mother in her reneged on all her years of campaigning for rape allegations to be believed.

  ‘I didn’t want proof because I doubted Saff,’ Jules said. ‘I believe her. She’s clearly been deeply unhappy about something. Traumatized even. Not eating. Exhausted all the time. Completely out of character. And anyway, why would she lie? No. I needed proof because the boy’s mother wouldn’t accept her son had done it. I had to have proof to make her take some responsibility.’

  ‘Of course, a positive test doesn’t prove who’s responsible,’ Donna said coolly. ‘It only proves Saffie’s had sex with someone.’

  Jules gritted her teeth. ‘Saffie’s never even had a boyfriend,’ she hissed. ‘Unlike some of the girls in her year.’

  Donna put her hand on Jules’s. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I was just pointing out—’

  ‘There’s no one else it could be. I want the mother to do something about her son. To stop Rowan taking it further and going to the police, which Saffie doesn’t want. And I have to sort out a termination for Saffie as soon as possible so she doesn’t have time to worry and we can focus on what to do about this whole nightmare scenario.’

  Jules wondered whether Donna was judging her for the way she was handling it all. But everything she was doing was for Saffie. To protect her. As if Donna could read Jules’s mind, the doctor said, ‘There are limits to what we can protect our children from. Limits to how much we can control their lives. When did it happen?’

  ‘Just over two weeks ago. Friday night.’

  ‘It’s too late for the morning-after pill. In case that’s what you were thinking.’

  ‘No, I know that.’

  ‘But if you’ve got the dates right and her period’s only a few days late, she’ll be in time for a medical abortion.’

  ‘I did do some research.’

  ‘So you’ll know it’s in the form of a pill. Three doses, actually, taken a few days apart. Very simple. She can take them and they’ll bring on a bleed.’

  ‘How soon can we do it?’

  Donna sat up straight. Shifted in the passenger seat. ‘In theory, straight away. But even if the pregnancy is a result of rape, you can’t simply decide for her. She’ll need counselling first. She’ll need someone to talk to about what is happening to her. She’ll have to agree to it.’

  ‘She will agree to it,’ Jules said. ‘I’ve already talked to her about it. But I don’t want her to worry about it for longer than she has to. Can’t you give me the medication now?’

  ‘I can imagine how awful it is to see your own child going through a trauma like this,’ Donna said. ‘And I think you’re right to minimize the time Saffie has to think about it. Even so, it’s her body. She has to have a say in it, however obvious it seems to you and me that it’s an unwanted, unplanned pregnancy. You have to give her time to assimilate what’s happened. To consider the consequences of whatever course of action she decides to take.’

  ‘She’s thirteen. She can’t have it.’

  ‘And I don’t suppose she wants to. But she has to have agency, Jules. You can’t take it all into your own hands. You aren’t the one to make this decision for her. And you know that we have to get another doctor’s consent. In addition to mine. If she does decide to terminate. It’s a legal requirement for any abortion. Bring her in the minute I’m back on Friday. There’ll still be time to take the medical route. And in the meantime, I’ll arrange some counselling for her.’

  Without knowing she was going to, Jules burst into tears. Donna let her weep.

  ‘I can see you’re trying to prevent her suffering any more than she has to.’

  ‘It’s not that,’ Jules said, looking up at Donna through her tears. ‘It’s the thought of the child Saffie’s carrying. Saul and Saffie’s child.’

  ‘Saul? Saul Seymore?’

  ‘Holly’s son.’

  Donna Browne blinked. She clearly hadn’t expected to be given the identity of the rapist, and Jules hadn’t meant to reveal it.

  ‘Holly and I always dreamed of sharing a grandchild,’ Jules said. ‘And now we do. And it couldn’t be more different to what we imagined.’

  *

  Work for Jules that morning might have been easier if it hadn’t involved unpacking hand-knitted Babygros, booties and pram blankets. When Jules had set up the business, it had been a purely practical venture. Or that’s what she told herself. She remembered how Holly had asked her if it was the right area for her to go into, given her history. But Jules had argued that Cambridge was missing a high-end children’s clothing outlet. She knew from the demographic that there were plenty of affluent parents who would be hungry for the kind of clothes she planned to sell. Her choice of business had nothing to do with any personal feelings about the children she had or hadn’t had herself. And they had all been taken aback by how successful the business had been.

  Now, after her conversation with Donna Browne, Jules tried to continue as normal. She checked orders, chased up invoices, did a stock count. The shop was quiet on a Monday morning and Jules had it to herself until lunchtime. Jules liked its view onto the little pedestrianized street outside, the autumn sun just lighting the cobbles and the stone walls of the colleges, a few people idling by heading for the cafes for their morning coffee. When Hetty arrived, Jules was able to get on with all the storeroom jobs while Hetty stayed at the counter.

  ‘I’m planning a seasonal window display,’ Jules told her assistant that afternoon. ‘I want to exhibit the new range. Look at these.’

  There were some hand-knitted dresses that Jules was going to display with opaque tights and tiny leather buckle shoes. ‘Thought I’d do a backdrop of pumpkins and some colourful autumn leaves.’

  ‘Adorable!’ Hetty said.

  But as Jules began on the window, lifting one of the baby vests to put on display, she suddenly felt light-headed and had to sit down. The vest was made of the softest cotton fabric, with poppers that did up underneath, and a tiny embroidered rabbit on its chest. She sat for some time holding the tiny piece of clothing between her hands. In a flash, she could feel the weight of the baby who might wear it, the exquisite flesh, the velvety head with its downy hair and soft, throbbing fontanel. She could picture the bright eyes, the rooting mouth and the button nose. It was years since she’d been assailed with this kind of yearning. She had to put out a hand to steady herself as she stood up again. This was precisely why it was best Saffie had the termination soon, Jules told herself, putting down the vest. If she had time to think of th
e life inside her as a baby, it would make getting rid of it all the more traumatic. But she wasn’t sure whether she meant for Saffie or for herself.

  After a while, Jules could bear arranging the little clothes no longer and went into the office at the back. She couldn’t concentrate on the invoices. She had hoped, she realized now, that a positive pregnancy-test result would bring her and Holly together. She had even imagined that Holly, faced with the evidence that Saffie had been telling the truth all the time, might apologize, offer to come with her to Donna Browne and to hold Saffie’s hand throughout the consultation. The reality was that it was likely to drive an even greater wedge between them. The test, as Donna had pointed out, did not prove categorically that it was Saul who had made Saffie pregnant. It had been easier in a way when there was no proof that Saffie had had sex at all. When there was still a chance that Saffie might confess she’d made the whole horror story up. Though why she would have done that was impossible to imagine. Holly and Jules – and Saul eventually – would have forgiven her, of course they would, and they would all have become friends again.

  Now Jules was going to have to tell Holly about the pregnancy. Even if she still refused to believe Saul had raped Saffie, she would have no choice but to get him to tell her what went on that night in Jules’s house. Jules knew Holly’s world would be turned upside down when Saul confessed at last, as she assumed he’d have to now. Holly would be devastated to know her son was more mixed up than she’d even imagined. That she was going to have to get him some help that would possibly disrupt his schooling for a second time. Might – no, would – destroy his future.

  And so, instead of vindication at the result, Jules was thrown into greater turmoil. Even if they did as Jules had planned and kick-started the termination the minute Donna was back on Friday, Saffie was still going through something no thirteen-year-old girl should have to. And Saul would have to be dealt with, probably by the police, and then the justice system after all. And then Jules gave rein to feelings that were so confusing she hardly knew how to name them. Fury with Saul for bringing this upon them all clashed headlong with a wish to reverse the last few weeks. Not to have gone out drinking on Tess’s birthday. Not to have let Saul come round. Above all, Jules wished she could prevent her bond with Holly being broken by the rape, confirmed for her now by the word ‘pregnant’ on the little white stick.

  7

  HOLLY

  Early on Monday morning, a fair arrives on the green. Lorries and trailers pull up and people move about unpacking machinery and erecting stalls. A mini rollercoaster arrives. A dodgems rink in pieces. A truck carrying the seats for an ancient-looking waltzer. Signs appear. ‘Catch a duck. Prize every time.’ ‘Two-colour candyfloss.’ ‘Sugar dummies.’

  I watch through the sitting-room window with my coffee as the school kids re-navigate their groups, cowed by the way the fair has laid claim to the space they think of as their own. They move to the edge, pushed out by the rides and machinery.

  Saul says very little at breakfast but eats a huge amount, which I take as a good sign.

  ‘Saul, we’re going to sort this,’ I call as he goes out of the door. And, ‘Love you,’ as he closes it. As usual, I wish he didn’t have to go to school. Especially now there’s this accusation hanging over him. I trust that Jules and Rowan have honoured Saffie’s request not to report it. Because the last thing I want is for the name-calling and bullying to start up again. And this time, it could get worse. Much, much worse.

  I gather up my stuff and take my usual route through the village for the train to London.

  On the train, I check my Twitter feed. More tweets have come in from the Stag. The usual, telling me that I want raping but no one would have me and so on. I ignore them and lean my head against the window. At least the Stag can’t know my son’s been accused of the very thing he objects to me campaigning against.

  *

  This morning, I don’t go straight to the university but walk a different route from King’s Cross. Past Coram’s Fields, where children’s voices float from the playground, down the narrow, tree-lined Lamb’s Conduit Street, with its chic, independent shops, across High Holborn and along the north side of Lincoln’s Inn Fields. I arrive at the cafe where I’ve arranged to meet Archie’s old lawyer colleague.

  Philippa sits down opposite me, placing her purse on the table. ‘Are you OK?’ she asks with a wry smile. ‘How’s it going out in the sticks?’

  ‘It’s different. Taking a while to get used to.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ she says, looking about for a waitress.

  Queues of suited lawyers wait at the counter for takeaway paninis and frittatas. There’s the hum of conversation and the clatter of crockery, the hiss from the espresso machine.

  Philippa is older than me. She has sharply cut steel-grey hair, tortoiseshell designer glasses shielding intelligent brown eyes. She’s a lawyer who specializes in sex offences, with chambers in Lincoln’s Inn close to where Archie’s were. I haven’t seen her very often in the years since he died. I have wondered, from time to time, whether she had stronger feelings for him than professional ones. I wouldn’t blame her. As well as his good looks and his expertise as a lawyer, Archie had an old-fashioned kind of chivalry. Jules used to laugh at him: he’d stand up when anyone came into a room, hold doors open, take the tab at the end of a meal – things a lot of women, if they’d only admit it, find irresistible. I wonder now whether his sudden death was almost as hard for Philippa to take as it was for me. Whether this is the reason we’ve hardly seen each other.

  Now she looks across at me, lines of concern furrowing her brow. ‘So what’s up?’ she asks.

  ‘I have a problem,’ I tell her. ‘Pete’s urged me to talk to you. To get advice. Just to be on the safe side.’

  The waitress puts our coffees in front of us.

  ‘It’s to do with Saul.’

  Philippa doesn’t speak, just stirs a little packet of brown sugar into her flat white.

  ‘He’s gone through quite a time of it since we moved. Anxiety, school phobia. He was bullied in year nine. The local kids found him a bit of an oddity when we first moved. They called him “emo”. Stuff he hated. He’s become quite a loner and I’m worried he’s been a touch depressed.’ I clear my throat. ‘He’s started reading Donne, the meditations, and—’

  Philippa laughs. ‘A writing lecturer who’s worried her son’s reading John Donne?’

  ‘It seems rather an introverted, depressive thing to do.’

  ‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’ she says.

  I push away my espresso and take a sip of water instead. ‘He . . . Well, he’s into photography, and at last he’s found a course he wants to apply to. For sixth form. Things are beginning to look up for him for the first time in years. And then, right in the middle of this – bam! Just like that. Someone at school has made an allegation against him. It’s awful. I’m mortified. I can’t understand why they would do such a thing.’

  Philippa sighs. Leans across and pats my wrist with cool fingers. ‘Anything you tell me will remain in strict confidence.’

  ‘He was with a friend’s thirteen-year-old . . .’ Something snags in my throat as I say, ‘In her house while her mother and I went out. She accused him . . .’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘. . . of raping her.’

  ‘Rape?’ Now even Philippa’s eyes widen.

  ‘It’s only an accusation. From a naive thirteen-year-old.’

  ‘Hang on,’ she says. ‘Were they sleeping together? Were they an item?’

  ‘No. They weren’t. Nothing happened between them. At all. I simply can’t work out the girl’s motivation for making the whole thing up.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘I mean it. It seems like another bit of bullying she’s been coerced into or—’

  ‘Slowly, Holly. Tell me the details. What kind of relationship do they have?’

  ‘They’re just friends. Well, not even friends the
se days. Saul and Saffie have known each other since they were kids. Her mum’s my friend. You met her once. Jules. Blonde, attractive. She is – was – my best friend. Always round at ours.’

  ‘I remember her. So you say they were in her house and you were out?’

  ‘Saul was at her house to use the internet.’ I pause. ‘Jules asked Saul to put his head round Saffie’s bedroom door. To check she’d gone to bed. According to Saffie, he looked in and caught her . . . semi-naked. She says he walked in. Grabbed her. And when she fought him off, he said she was “asking for it”.’ I choke over these words.

  ‘How far has she gone with this allegation?’

  ‘Saffie doesn’t want her mum to press charges. She asked her not to involve the police, not to tell anyone.’

  ‘OK. That’s fairly common. Girls are scared of . . .’

  ‘Not being believed.’

  ‘Yes, that, but also of being interviewed, or even examined. It’s humiliating, the procedure they have to go through, and often for nothing. It’s so hard to get a conviction for rape.’

  ‘I know that, Philippa. My God, I spend half my time getting women to recognize when they’re being silenced by spurious arguments. That they were drunk, or had dressed wrongly, or had asked for it. Urging them to press charges. Trying to make men understand what consent is. Women don’t lie about rape. I know! But in this case I simply don’t believe her.’

  ‘That wouldn’t have anything to do with the accused being your son, would it?’ Philippa puts down her cup. For the fraction of a second I feel irritated by her, with her expensive clothes and her composed face. What would she know? She doesn’t even have children. She has no idea how it feels to be a mother and to know your own child through and through.

  ‘What reason would the girl have to lie, if nothing happened?’ she persists.

  ‘That’s what I can’t understand.’

  ‘Were they maybe high? Were there drugs involved?’

  ‘No. Nor drink. Well, Saul may have had the odd beer.’ I remember now Jules commenting that bottles had gone from her fridge.