Pagan and her parents

by Michael Arditti

  Your own cure was far more substantive. But it was me whom you wanted as witness; you refused entry to your mother. So how dare my mother suggest that she should be trusted with Pagan now? She seizes the moment when I seem most ineffectual, emerging from bath-duty, my dripping sleeves the testament to my disciplinary defeat.

  ‘Look at you! I don’t know. You’re as wet as she is.’

  ‘Susan usually sees to Pagan’s baths. I’m much more the rub-down-with-a-towel, snug-as-a-bug-in-a-rug man later.’

  ‘It’s no job for a man.’

  ‘Most fathers bath their children these days; it’s not the 1950s.’

  ‘She isn’t your child.’

  ‘So what should I do? Put her in an orphanage and make a documentary about Dr Barnardo’s?’

  ‘I think you should think again about her grandparents’ offer.’

  ‘I didn’t hear that.’

  ‘They may not have gone about it the right way. But that’s because they care for Pagan.’

  ‘Logic has never been your strong point.’

  ‘A grandmother is the best of both worlds: a mother who’s learnt from experience.’

  ‘You haven’t met Muriel Mulliner.’

  ‘I know how she must feel, to be deprived of her grandchild.’

  Anger blinds me to the snare.

  ‘How? You don’t have one.’

  ‘Exactly … besides, it isn’t healthy.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The way you were kissing this afternoon; it frightened me.’

  I tell you this so that you don’t think that I am keeping anything from you. It transpires that she saw Pagan and me playing this afternoon … a game that she calls ‘slug sandwich’, where she darts her tongue at yours – mine – and then whisks it away. You must remember; you used to play yourself, until your mouth lost all sensation and I became the surrogate mother-tongue. So you can vouch for its innocence. It is simply a test of endurance, enabling her to relish her revulsion … like dipping her toes in a mossy stream, the texture midway between silk and slime.

  I am furious with my mother and her sordid imaginings. Do you recall the priest who was convicted of smuggling sex films in a consignment of bibles? She does that every day of her life. Where will it end? Must I think twice before stroking a dog? I decide against asking her for an affidavit. Whatever she says on paper may be overturned in court. Besides we have more than enough expert witnesses: from the school and doctor and ballet mistress, not to mention Susan, whose glowing testimonial moved me to tears.

  Max suggests that I bring Pagan with me to Brighton … just to prepare for every contingency; the word feels viscous on my flesh. She is furious that she cannot accompany me to court and tell them how much she hates her grandparents – when all this is over, I shall have to amend her vocabulary – but there have been some compensations. Last night her tooth fell out and I swapped it for a pound coin; I was too preoccupied to remember the previous rate. She was thrilled. ‘London fairies are mean. I want all my teeth to come out at the seaside … though it must hurt their wings more when they fly.’

  This morning, while Susan and I are otherwise engaged, she is going to the pier with Max’s assistant, Gemma, who has promised to take her on the ghost train. ‘Is it scary?’ she asks. ‘Not if you hold Gemma’s hand.’ Susan takes mine as we approach the court and a prospect that scares us both. We sit in the waiting room cum corridor among the peeling plastic chairs chewing-gummed to the floor and a family of restless East Europeans who take the opportunity to beg. I respond over-generously and wonder whether I am bribing fate or tempting it. We make desultory conversation, until Max calls me into the interview room. Susan gives me such a loving squeeze that tears spring more readily to my eyes than from the most bone-cracking wrestler’s grip.

  The air in the interview room is a foul mixture of stale sweat and tobacco, so foetid that, unlike the ashtrays, it cannot be cleaned overnight. I gulp and speculate on the reasons for such agitation. Max affects not to notice. He adopts a courtside manner to put me at my ease and then talks privately to Rebecca at a pitch designed to unnerve me. I feel like a problem pupil whose teacher is addressing his mother over his head. Turning to the wall, I read a poster from a pressure group for paternal rights. ‘Missing your child? Contact Families Need Fathers.’ It is clearly a sign … but of what?

  We are summoned into court. I may not endorse traditional values, but the decor offends me as much as the New English Bible. It is not the majesty of the law that I miss, so much as the history. It is all stripped pine walls and green and yellow carpets, as if humanising the judicial process were merely a matter of soft furnishings. Even on those terms it misfires. The vast metallic crest behind the Judge’s chair is far more oppressive than a straightforward sword and scales.

  With row upon row of padded green seats, my second shock is to see the room so empty: just your parents, their solicitor and barrister, Rebecca, her junior, Max, the Welfare Officer and me. I am accustomed to House Full signs outside the Greenwood Theatre and crowds queuing from lunchtime on the day that we record a show. For a moment I forget that we are in a closed court and wonder if my popularity is slipping. Then I catch myself and laugh. Max sobers me with a look as we rise for the Judge. He bows to the Court, which bows back, although I am convinced that your mother curtsies. I look at him, Judge Flower – the most unlikely personification – and try to prejudge his reactions; but he sits in stone-carved silence, the inscrutable face of the law.

  Counsel for your parents opens. I am uneasy when the Judge then describes the whole hearing as ‘your case’, for fear that he extend his proprietorial rights to Pagan. The procedures are frustrating and the procedural moves even more so. The real issues seem to disappear beneath the formalities and point-scoring; which might be reassuring if I had something to hide. I am sickened by the general toadying to the Judge. Even Rebecca is party to it, preceding every remark with somesuch tag as ‘May I thank Your Honour for the time you’ve given us’, as though he were giving it for free. Nevertheless, as the morning progresses, I feel confident that events are moving our way.

  Your parents enter the witness box, ladies first naturally. I worry that their two-head one-voice act might give them an undue advantage, but their manner gives them away. Sugaring their tones and buttering their smiles in an attempt at sweetness and light merely makes her seem saccharine and him slippery. Their Counsel establishes that what they are offering is a Christian home and family values; mine, while careful to denigrate neither, demolishes their case. She stresses their age and a medical history in which every varicose vein becomes a major disability … and did you know that your father has a replacement hip? She gently confronts them with their own mortality and the possibility that one – or both – of them might die and Pagan be orphaned again. She paints a picture of her boisterousness which, however much I appreciate, I have to say that I fail to recognise. And yet, seeing your parents’ discomfort, I would be happy for her to fill the house with frenzied five-year-olds every day of the week. She questions them on your own relationship – I wonder why they have not asked William to testify – and demonstrates that their real source of resentment is not me but you; which hardly bodes well for your daughter.

  Although I say so myself, I make a far better showing. I swear on the Bible in order to convince the Judge of my good faith and to prove that, despite your mother’s insinuations, there is nothing sinister in the name Pagan. My experience leaves me exposed. Answering questions in court is very different from asking them on TV; I even miss the autocue crackling in my ear. I am used to thinking on my feet, but standing in the witness box is daunting. It has the same effect on me as seeing a nun: all my past offences flash before my eyes. As your parents’ Counsel probes, I lose heart and think of the many reasons why I am not equipped to care for Pagan. Now, hold on … I hold on to the ledge, take a deep breath and smile.

  As I reply to Rebecca’s re-examination, I begin to relax.
My testament is my territory; I feel secure. I repeat my assurance that, if and when I marry, I shall be choosing a mother for Pagan as much as a wife for myself. Nevertheless, the primary issue is my own fitness as a father. And the consensus is undeniable, not only in the affidavits but in the Welfare Officer’s report. I am amazed at her perspicacity. She sets out your parents’ fears and confronts each in turn. Her style may be impenetrable – ‘She interacts with her peer group in an appropriate way … she has attained her normal percentiles’ – but her conclusions are clear. Pagan’s home situation, schooling and everyday care are all excellent; she has an estimable quality of life. And at its heart is her devotion to me.

  Devotion is the Welfare Officer’s word, not mine, and it sits strangely in the numbered paragraphs of socio-speak that constitute her report, a throwback to different values, from an age when Pagan and I were not threatened. She writes that it is apparent that we enjoy an exceptionally loving relationship, which the child affirms without prejudice or prompting. Were she to be removed from my care, it would be immensely disruptive and could well affect her entire emotional development. Rebecca, whose experience of such reports is unrivalled, says that it rates as one of the most positive that she has ever read. While most hover on the fence, this leaps straight off and into our camp.

  There is a postscript … to my account, not hers. I must beware of underestimating Pagan’s perception. The reality of Crierley was not lost on her; when I said abracadabra, she heard ashes to ashes. ‘There is one bad thing Leo did,’ she said in response to questioning. ‘He threw my mummy away like dust.’

  After a break for lunch and Counsel’s final speeches, the Judge declares that he will state his findings straightaway. I waver between gratitude that the suspense will end and fear of snap decisions. As his tombstone teeth fix in a sinister smile, I am already establishing grounds for appeal. He announces that he will ‘maintain the status quo.’ What’s that? My brain has turned to sludge and my legs to jelly … He lays great stress on the principles of psychological parenting … I think – I think that’s me … ‘One does not have to be a natural parent to be the best person to bring up a child.’ May I thank Your Honour for the time you’ve given us … ‘One does not have to be a parent at all.’

  He makes an Order dismissing your parents’ application and declaring that Pagan shall continue to reside with me. I have instructed Rebecca not to apply for costs, I can afford to be magnanimous … if I had only known. The true cost comes in his Order that Pagan is to ‘have contact with her grandparents on a monthly basis’. I want to protest, not on my behalf but on hers. I pass notes to Rebecca and Max, who studiously ignore them; suddenly, we are lucky to have done this well. The Court rises and Counsel retire to work out the practical arrangements. But who collects her and who brings her back are to me far less important than whether she wants to go.

  I decide to say nothing to Pagan; I refuse to sour the fruits of victory. Tomorrow we return to London and the rest of our lives; tonight we celebrate. As we sit in the candied dining room of the Grand Hotel, I order champagne and, for the first time, a glass for her.

  ‘You won’t put water in like wine?’

  ‘Unfortunately, I can’t; it would lose its fizz.’

  She drinks three half-glasses – ‘I like it’ – and grows a little tipsy. Bedtime beckons. We take her upstairs and Susan asks if she can walk in a straight line.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s a test of whether you’re drunk.’

  ‘I am not drunk,’ she insists, affronted, and falls headlong into a sofa.

  ‘Well you’re certainly tiddly,’ I say, and she smothers the word in giggles.

  ‘So am I,’ Susan says, as she disengages her charge from the cushions.

  ‘And me,’ I add from the respectability of the door.

  ‘If her grandparents could see us now …’ Susan says. And I suddenly feel sober.

  TWO

  Second Affidavit of Leonard Peter Young

  on behalf of the Respondent

  Sworn the 30th day of November 1992

  In the Brighton County Court

  Case No. 7296

  In the matter of Pagan Mulliner

  And in the matter of the Children’s Act 1989

  Between

  Muriel Ellen Mulliner &

  Edgar Atkins Mulliner

  APPLICANTS

  and

  Leonard Peter Young

  RESPONDENT

  I, LEONARD PETER YOUNG, Writer and Broadcaster of 64 Addison Avenue, London W11, MAKE OATH and say as follows:-

  1. I make this Affidavit further to my Affidavit sworn in these proceedings on the 25th day of March 1992 and in response to the various Affidavits so far filed by the other parties.

  2. Before addressing myself to the above matters, I would like to acquaint the Court with what has occurred in the period between my first Affidavit and the present:–

  a. On the 17th day of July 1992, I appeared with my legal representatives before His Honour Judge Flower, who rejected the Applicants’ petition and ordered that the above-named minor, Pagan Mulliner (hereinafter referred to as Pagan), should remain with me.

  b. Since the granting of the residence order:–

  i. Pagan has celebrated her sixth birthday.

  ii. Pagan has completed her first year at primary school and commenced her second.

  iii. Pagan and I have taken a three-week holiday in Umbria.

  iv. Pagan has continued to discover and develop her interests: –

  a. Her riding instructor has promised that, if she maintains regular attendance, she can take part in the Own a pony for a week scheme next year.

  b. She has been cast as a rabbit in the school production of Toad of Toad Hall.

  c. She has started to learn the flute.

  v. Pagan has visited her grandparents every other weekend.

  c. Almost a year to the day since her mother’s death, Pagan’s progress remains a source of considerable encouragement to everyone concerned with her education and welfare and a particular joy to myself.

  3. By an application dated the 3rd day of November 1992, the Applicants have again sought a Residence Order in respect of Pagan. I have now read what purports to be a true copy of their Affidavit in support of the said application; and I would like to comment on the matters contained therein.

  4. With reference to paragraph 3 of the Applicants’ Affidavit, it is not right to say that I have attempted to destroy their relationship with Pagan or to ‘turn her against them’ in any way. On the contrary, I have always considered it my duty to reconcile Pagan to her grandparents, particularly in view of her manifest distress at the approach of every weekend visit.

  5. As to the incidents referred to in paragraph 4 of the Applicants’ Affidavit, I would say that the Applicants’ account of these matters is distorted; and I would give my own account of them as follows:-

  a. The delay referred to as occurring on September 18th was the result of a school visit to the Polka Theatre in Wimbledon, about which the Applicants were fully informed.

  b. The delay referred to as occurring on October 2nd was the result of Pagan being violently sick on the A23 and my having to stop at the Handcross Happy Eater café in order to clean her and change her clothes.

  c. As to the delay referred to as occurring on October 15th, I believe that this took place on October 16th. I deny the Applicants’ allegation that it was deliberate and would state that:–

  i. Owing to a tailback in Tooting, the journey out of London took two and a half hours.

  ii. In view of Pagan’s constant complaints of hunger, I decided to stop for a meal. On trying to telephone the Applicants, I found that I had left my address book at home. I contacted my housekeeper; but her limited English, together with static on the earphone, made communication impossible.

  iii. Shortly after the meal, Pagan was violently sick; and I had to stop once more at the Handcross Happy Eater café in order to clean her
and change her clothes. The waitresses were very helpful and, when they asked me to pose for a photograph, I felt unable to refuse … I did not foresee that ‘one quick picture’ would become a roll. Further delay occurred while they made Pagan a milkshake to settle her stomach.

  iv. Ten minutes later, Pagan was again violently sick; and I had to stop at a service station in order to clean her and change her clothes.

  v. Pagan’s inadequate wardrobe for the weekend was entirely due to the two above-mentioned changes, with which the Applicants showed very little sympathy.

  d. As to paragraph 4d of the Applicants’ Affidavit, I deny that the tiredness observed in Pagan on October 30th and 31st was due to my laxity over bedtimes and would state that it was the consequence of my giving her two Kwells on the evening of the 30th in order to avoid any further bouts of sickness, such as those described above, and the unpleasantness which ensued.

  6. As to paragraph 5 of the Applicants’ Affidavit, I would state that leave was given in the Order of the 17th day of July 1992 for me to take Pagan out of the Jurisdiction between the 3rd and the 25th of August.

  7. As to paragraph 6 of the Applicants’ Affidavit, I can only say that I find this paragraph very difficult to understand.

  8. As to paragraph 7 of the Applicants’ Affidavit, I would state that Raisa and Gorby are the names of two small teddy bears and that any other suggestion is risible. I would add that I consider the Applicants’ destruction of these toys to be indefensible.

  9. As to paragraph 8 of the Applicants’ Affidavit, I deeply resent this attempt to blacken Candida Mulliner’s name. I would like to ask whether they pursue a similar line with their granddaughter; if so, her aversion to them is easy to comprehend. I offer my own account as follows:–