Guilty

by Jane Bidder

  By 8.00 am, he was standing outside the Education Portakabin before anyone else had arrived. Across the way, he could hear someone singing a hymn from the chapel and on the other side were the grunts and groans from men working out in the Gym.

  Finally someone arrived to open up. Simon had seen the man before around camp but not realised until now, that he was in Education. Age-wise, he’d have put him at about 30 odd and he stood out by virtue of wearing a suit every day although the top button of his shirt was nearly always undone under a rather loud tie. Today it was peacock blue.

  ‘Give me a minute, can you?’ He nodded curtly at Simon as though he had no right to be early.

  He went inside and Simon heard the door locking behind him. It was another ten minutes before he heard it being unlocked and by then, there was a queue of men behind him, jostling awkwardly from foot to foot and rustling little bits of paper, like his, declaring them, all eligible for full-time Education.

  Someone behind him elbowed his way past. How rude. Irked, he followed. It took him a second to register his surroundings. There was a large table in the middle with chairs round it and, at the side, several small rooms with glass doors. The suit was already talking to the barger-in.

  ‘I wouldn’t make a fuss if I were you,’ warned Joanna. ‘ That one’s another lifer at the end of his sentence. Not someone to be messed with if you want my opinion.’

  For once, she had a point. Simon stood, waiting patiently for the door to open. Eventually, it was his turn. ‘Yes?’

  Simon gave him the suit his piece of paper. He almost felt as excited as he had done on the first day of his degree.

  ‘Got permission from Stores?’

  Simon nodded.

  ‘You can start in two weeks.’

  A wave of disappointment washed over him. ‘Not until then?’

  ‘No.’

  He was writing something on another form. ‘We’ve only got a vacancy on the numeracy class. Level Two.’

  ‘But I’ve got a degree in law!’ He tried to laugh. I was hoping to do one in Spanish.’

  Now it was the turn of the open-necked man to laugh. ‘Degree? You’ve been reading too many Jeffrey Archer books. Haven’t you heard of cut-backs? We don’t do degrees in prison any more – you’re lucky if you can get an A-level class and, besides, the Spanish teacher isn’t here any more.’ He glanced at the timetable on the wall. ‘You could do art, though if you want. It’s part-time. Wednesday and Thursday mornings.’

  Art? He’d always been hopeless at school but anything, anything, to relieve the monotony of handing out trainers.

  ‘But you’ll have to carry on at Stores or Kitchens for a bit. We’ll let you know. OK?’

  Simon sought out Spencer at lunch, aware he was becoming an unlikely confidante. ‘Yeah. Heard the Spanish woman had a nervous breakdown after one of the geezers messed around in her class.’

  ‘What kind of messing around?’

  Spencer’s eyes shifted from one side of the dining room to the other. ‘Trust me, mate. You don’t want to know.’

  ‘But isn’t there security if someone threatens the teachers?’

  ‘Who said nothing about threatening? There are other ways of getting to them, you know. Still, you did get lucky with the art teacher.’ Spencer gave a low whistle. ‘That one’s hot.’

  ‘I’ve always wanted to draw,’ Simon’s voice came out more primly than he had meant.

  ‘Yeah, well it ain’t life-drawing, mate. Me brother tried to do that and got thrown out. He put himself up as a model.’

  At that point, the man who had barged into the education office behind him took his seat at an adjoining table. ‘Go on,’ hissed Joanna. ‘Ask your friend what he’s in for.’

  ‘What’s that man over there in for?’ enquired Simon.

  Spencer barely lifted his head. ‘You mean that chap with muscles who always pushes his way to the front of queues.’ His voice was low. ‘I don’t even want to say his name, mate. But don’t let your stepson near him during Visits. He’s in for kiddy fiddling.’

  The following Friday was his stint as a Listener. Already, word seemed to have got around that he was ‘OK’ and a couple of men had come up to him to say he’d helped ‘sort their heads out’. It was a nice feeling.

  ‘Pity you can’t do the same for yourself!’ tinkled Joanna but he ignored her. That really annoyed her. He could tell because she would sulk for a few hours before making another of her irritating comments.

  That night, a new man came in, short and stocky with round glasses and a stomach that hung over his trousers. ‘How can I help you?’

  The man looked out of the window even though it was nearly dark. They often did this. It was as though looking somewhere else distanced them from what had really happened. ‘I’m not a criminal,’ the man began.

  This was another common opening.

  ‘But what would you do if you came home one day and found the missus in bed with another bloke?’

  Simon stiffened. Every now and then a horrible image came into this head of Claire with Charlie. Even before he had gone into prison, he’d been unable to get rid of his jealousy. They had shared so many years together. Had a child.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he answered truthfully.

  ‘He was my best mate and he was fucking my wife behind my back so I belted him. Then the bloody geezer presses charges against me and I get GBH. Unfucking believable, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Simon thoughtfully. ‘It is.’

  ‘So I’ve lost my home and I’ve lost my wife but do you know what I’m really upset about?’

  ‘The children?’ offered Simon. This again, was one of the common problems in the Listeners’ Hut.

  ‘The man made a gesture as though he was swatting a fly. ‘Don’t have any of those. It’s my dog, I’m talking about. Slasher. He’s a springer.’ He grinned. ‘I called him that ʼcos it scares people but he’s as soft as a baby really. The bitch doesn’t want him so now they say he has to go into one of those refuge places.’ The man’s eyes moistened. ‘Don’t know how I can cope if they put him down ʼcos that’s what will happen if no one has him. I don’t get out for another eighteen months. What am I going to do?’

  Simon’s mind drifted back to when Ben had first started asking for a dog. ‘One day,’ he and Claire had both said. One day.

  ‘It’s not a bad idea, you know,’ said Joanna quietly without her usual tinkle. ‘ Might make the boy like you more when you get out, which would go down well with Claire.’

  ‘If you really get stuck,’ he said quietly, ‘I know someone who might have him on a temporary basis.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I’m not promising.’ Simon tried to speak carefully. ‘But I’ll see what I can do. By the way, why is he called Slasher?’

  The man’s eyes shifted. ‘It’s a kind of joke. I used to do things with knives but I’ve changed now. Honest. All I want is to make sure that my dog has a good home.’ His face tightened. ‘You going to help me or not?’

  Chapter Twenty

  Claire was so cross that she could hardly think straight. What was Simon thinking of? It was all very well for him to be stuck in cloud cuckoo land in a place where he didn’t worry about how to pay the rent or where Ben was (he’d promised to be back by now) but she had to live the real life. And now he was suggesting they had a dog!

  Claire said as much – and more – to her husband when he rang that evening. He hadn’t called before, he’d said (a slightly apologetic tone to his voice), because the queues were so long. Am I not worth queuing for, she wanted to ask, but then he had launched into this sorry tale about a springer who was about to go into a home unless someone could look after him ‘just’ for eighteen months.

  ‘A dog?’ asked Ben who had chosen that moment to come back and overheard her on the mobile. His entire face lit up in a way she hadn’t seen for months. ‘We’re going to get a dog?’

  ‘No!’ She didn’t mean to snap so
sharply. ‘We’re not going to get a dog. Simon has met someone who needs someone to look after their springer. But it’s not happening.’

  Her son’s face creased with disappointment. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Listen,’ said Simon urgently over the terrible noise in the background. ’I’ve got to go. Someone’s hassling me for the phone. Don’t make up your mind right now. Think about it.’

  He was gone. ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ she said more softly to Ben who had put on his crestfallen look. ‘You’re not allowed to have dogs in rented accommodation. And, besides, who would look after it? I’m at work now four days a week.’

  ‘I could walk it. And you could come back during your lunch-hour.’

  This was all Simon’s fault. A dog on top of these voices he still heard. Maybe her husband really was losing his mind.

  The following day – the last day of the summer holidays – Ben woke her up, a big grin on his face. ‘I’ve spoken to Mrs Johnson and she’s all right about it.’

  Sleepily, she turned over, checking the alarm clock. 7.30! She should have been up by now to finish that outline for her publishers, not to mention ringing the estate agents about the house going on the market. Money was getting really tight now without Simon’s salary.

  ‘All right about what?’ she mumbled, pulling on her dressing gown.

  ‘The dog!’ Ben’s face was shining. ‘She says she really misses her old Mungo and that it would be lovely to have the company again. She even said we could put his basket in the kitchen.’

  Claire was fully awake now. ‘Let’s get this straight. You asked our landlady, without my permission, if you could get a dog?’

  Ben nodded.

  ‘And even if she agreed, how do you think we’re going to pay for the food and the vet bills, and heaven knows what else?’

  His face fell. ‘I didn’t know it cost anything.’

  Why were teenagers so adult one minute and such kids the next? Simon was right! They had to choose between one or the other.

  ‘I’m sorry, darling. But it’s not on. I just can’t take on any more responsibilities after what’s happened. You do understand, don’t you?’

  He nodded. ‘S’pose so.’

  Claire managed to get hold of the estate agents on the way to work. Yes, they had got her paperwork now and it would go on the market today if she wanted it. Relief was mixed with agony at the thought of someone else living in Beech Cottage with its lovely beams and little paved garden.

  ‘Would you like to go on our mailing list so you can find somewhere else?’ the girl had asked.

  ‘Not yet, thanks.’ She didn’t want to say what she and Simon had already decided. Even when he was Out, they would have to rent because they might need the money from the house to live off until Simon found another job. She didn’t even want to think about that stage yet or tackle the nagging question in her head about how Simon was going to work now he’d been struck off.

  The phone call to the estate agent almost made her late for work. ‘Work!’ How odd it seemed to say that word. Claire hadn’t been out of the house to work for years; not since the days before Ben had been born. Even during those few years on her own as a single mother, she had managed to keep going with her earnings as a freelance artist and also with the maintenance that Charlie religiously paid. He was very good. She couldn’t fault him for that.

  Now, however, she was having do her own stuff as well as her art teacher role. Yet in the short time she’d been at the school, she’d been surprised at how nice it was to talk to others and share coffee breaks.

  Anything to block out the emptiness of not having Simon and the supposing I had stayed married to Charlie thoughts that wouldn’t leave her mind. Murder versus infidelity. Charlie’s crime now seemed the lesser of two evils.

  ‘Morning!’ Debbie, the cheery receptionist, beamed at her. ‘Just in time for a coffee.’

  ‘Great. Thanks.’ Claire took the seat opposite her.

  ‘How’s it going then?’

  ‘I love it here.’ Automatically, Claire glanced across the corridor towards the Art Room which had her name on it. CLAIRE MILLS. It made her feel as though she was someone else, with a clean slate.

  ‘Got everything you need?’

  This was one of the great things about private schools. Claire had friends who taught in the state sector who were always moaning about lack of funding which meant they didn’t have enough paints or canvasses. ‘I think so but if I don’t …’

  ‘Just ask!’ Debbie finished the sentence for her. Putting the coffee in front of Claire, she stretched out on her own chair and yawned. ‘Don’t know about you but I’m knackered! My hubby and I had a late night with friends and we went to bed far too late.’

  Claire thought of her own evening which had consisted of staying up until 2 a.m. to get on with the children’s book deadline after an unsettling conversation with Simon. ‘I’m on my own so it’s a bit different.’

  Debbie’s face softened even more. ‘Poor you. I hadn’t realised.’

  ‘My husband lives in Essex at the moment,’ Claire said carefully.

  Debbie’s eyes flickered. ‘That can’t be easy for you or your son.’

  ‘It’s not easy. In fact, it’s rather complicated.’ She sipped the coffee to give her time to think of something – anything – that would change the subject.

  ‘Tell you what!’ Debbie’s face was gleaming now. ‘Some of the staff are going out for an Indian in a couple of weeks. Why don’t you come with us?’

  Claire was taken by surprise. ‘I’m not sure. That is, I don’t think I can.’ Desperately she tried to think of a plausible excuse. ‘I like to stay in to make sure my son is back. He’s only 15. It’s a tricky age.’

  Debbie’s face was disappointed. ‘Pity. Let me know if you change your mind.’

  Claire stood up. ‘Thanks for the offer anyway. I’d better get on now.’

  ‘You’re so conscientious! We’re all very excited about having you here, you know. We’ve had loads of teachers before but never a real artist who illustrates proper books! Some of the parents are really impressed!’

  Claire found herself humming as she checked the handouts she’d prepared for their new topic this week. They were going to start with the colours of the rainbow and then she was going to show her class of eight year olds how to make a wash and let the colours soak into each other.

  There had been a lot of work recently in the academic press about the power of colour as a healer and it was true. When she looked at the green arcs, she instantly felt calmer inside. And the red one made her feel energetic.

  As she walked back to Mrs Johnson’s, Claire was surprised to find she had a spring in her step. Maybe she was finally beginning to adjust to the situation. She had a job. She and Ben had a home. Simon would be out in a few months, provided he behaved himself. (How odd that a prison sentence could so easily be cut in two!) Meanwhile there was this all around them …

  Claire was continually surprised to find how refreshing it was to live so close to the sea. It almost seemed like a guilty luxury to be able to walk briskly down the high street and find that the shops ended suddenly with an expanse of water that went on and on for ever. It was almost like falling off the end of the earth which seemed fitting, given that her real world had disintegrated.

  Yet at the same time, the sea gave her a strength that was much more effective than the tablets the doctor had given her to ‘help you through this’. Just watching the waves (which could be furiously violent one day, hitting her with force as she walked down the esplanade and yet deceptively peaceful at others), made her feel that her own situation was more bearable than she had previously thought. If the sea could go in and out with regularity, despite its mood swings, then so could she.

  Claire also loved the little seaside shops with their jaunty picture postcards and sculptures and art. The town was clearly a magnet for local artists and this seemed to brush off on people’s natures. There w
as a generally more relaxed air and a general bonhomie which made her feel that maybe everything was going to be all right after all. Then a heavy feeling seemed to cloud over the rest of her body. Joanna was dead. Nothing would bring her back.

  ‘Hello!’ The front door was already being opened and Mrs Johnson was welcoming her in, wearing a different pinny from the morning. ‘How was your day at work, dear?’ Without pausing for an answer, she added, ‘Fancy a bite of quiche? Your Ben’s back and he’s tucking in already.’

  Slightly taken aback, Claire followed Mrs Johnson into her kitchen to find her son working his way through a large plate of quiche and broccoli which he had always refused to eat at home. ‘That was my Derek’s favourite,’ said Mrs Johnson fondly. ‘I dug out the recipe again – haven’t made it for years.’

  ‘’Slovely,’ said Ben, his mouth half-full. Claire shot him a look to say, ‘Don’t eat with your mouth open.’

  ‘Here you are, dear.’ Mrs Johnson passed her an over-large portion. ‘That should fatten you up a bit.’ She passed her eye over Claire’s slender frame. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, you need building up. Now, before you say anything, please hear me out.’

  By this time, Claire already had a mouthful of quiche so was unable to say anything anyway but she had a feeling she knew what was coming.

  ‘Ben’s talked to me about this dog that your husband wants you to have. It’s only for a year or so, I gather, while his friend works abroad.’

  Ben’s face turned away from hers.

  ‘I love dogs! I must have told you about Mungo. Like I said to your boy, he can have a corner in the kitchen for his basket and we can all take turns in walking him. He’ll be great company for all of us and, besides,’ her eyes misted, ‘I don’t like to think of a poor little dog being put into a home. Do you?’

  This wasn’t fair. They were ganging up on her. ‘We can’t afford it,’ she began.