by Nicole Trope
That’s when I wake up, and I think about Mum and Mr Winslow and Rose and what I’m going to do.
Chapter Twelve
Eric has come to see me. ‘Things are looking good,’ he says. ‘I have a feeling that we’ll be granted a new trial.’
‘On what grounds?’
‘I’ve used the extensive media coverage as the main part of my brief. I’ve argued that the jury was prejudiced against you. There’s no way they wouldn’t have already formed an opinion about Simon, and about you for that matter. I think we’ll get the chance to tell the story again. If it’s only heard by a judge or judges we have a fair chance of getting a different outcome.’
‘Thank God. I was beginning to think I would be here for years.’
‘Is it very bad?’
‘No, it wouldn’t be fair to say that, but I miss my home and the girls, and of course I miss the grandchildren.’
I do not convey to Eric the true depth of my distress. I see no reason to burden him with it. He’s doing everything he can and there would be no benefit in him worrying about me being here.
When I say that I miss my children and grandchildren, what I mean is that I ache with longing for them. I miss Rosalind’s perfume and the way she runs her fingers through her hair, getting it out of her face. I miss Portia’s rants about the state of the world and her ability to drink a glass of wine with me and laugh at nothing.
I think about my grandchildren all day long. It had been my responsibility, before Simon died, to fetch Lottie from school on a Wednesday and take her to her ballet class so Rosalind could get Sam to his swimming lessons. I would wait at the school gate for her and feel my heart lift each time I watched her catch sight of me and jump on the spot with joy because she realised it was Wednesday. We would stop off at the local bakery for a treat before class. Lottie talks to everyone, delighting them with her chatter and energy. Every Wednesday since Simon died I have missed that time with my granddaughter. Last week Rosalind sent me a letter from Lottie with a drawing of me on the cruise, lying on a deck chair. She wrote Miss you, Nan, and drew hearts all over the place. I sat and cried over it for ages.
There was nothing from Sam, and I can almost feel him pulling further and further away from me. He used to hold my hand as trustingly as Lottie did, but after Simon died his serious blue eyes held too many questions for me. I don’t know if he will ever speak to me again. He has Simon’s eyes—such beautiful blue eyes. I long to take both of my grandchildren in my arms and hold them until they squeal to be let go.
‘Have you seen them?’ I ask Eric, blowing my nose, swallowing my tears.
I hate the way I’m becoming prone to tears lately. I cried for Simon until I thought I would never be able to shed another tear. Getting convicted started me off again, and now I don’t seem to be able to stop. All of us here, it seems, are walking an emotional tightrope. I’m not the only woman who aches. Perhaps it’s the temporary loss of our children or perhaps it’s because we’re all locked up here together with no way out and no way to take the edge off, but most of the women are on the verge of bursting into tears at any given moment. Small memories of backyard barbecues, kindergarten concerts or spring days will render everyone in a room quiet, eyes glowing with unshed tears. It is, I think, punishment enough for most women to remove them from their children. More than enough, really.
Yesterday I studied Lottie’s stick figure drawing and remembered her as a newborn, tightly wrapped with beautiful dark eyes. ‘Oh, Rosalind,’ was all I could say when I saw her. I had been waiting at home for Jack to call from the hospital, pacing up and down with the phone in my hand while Simon made me endless cups of tea and said, ‘I’m sure all will be well.’ Sam was asleep upstairs in the guest room with his hand curled tightly around his blanket. I had not been there for Sam’s birth, because he arrived early and Simon and I were in Greece. I was so grateful to be there, to be able to help out, when Lottie was born.
The love I have for my grandchildren surprised me. I thought that I would feel a little removed from them, able to see things more clearly and to help Rosalind by dealing with things logically, but I was as overwhelmed by them as I had been by my own children. After Sam was born and we dashed home from our holiday, Jack had to kindly tell me to give Rosalind some space. ‘If you’re over here all day, every day, how will she learn to do it alone?’ he said quietly.
‘I did drop by Rosalind’s house,’ says Eric, drawing me back to our conversation. ‘I had a drink with Jack. Sam knows what happened. Jack has tried to explain to him that it was an accident, but I gather that both he and Rosalind are having a hard time convincing him of that. Perhaps you should write yourself.’
‘Perhaps I should, but I have no idea what I would say.’
‘Well,’ says Eric, ‘it might be a good idea to write down what happened anyway.’
‘What for? I’ve repeated the story hundreds of times. It’s not going to change, is it?’
Eric doesn’t reply. He shuffles through his briefcase looking for nothing in particular.
‘Eric? Why do you want me to write it down?’
‘Perhaps some things have come back to you, some things that you may have forgotten because it was such an awful time. You were grieving and stressed.’
Eric’s impassive face doesn’t fool me. I look at him for a moment and notice his eyes do a quick dart sideways. There’s something else he wants to say. ‘What do you think I may have forgotten, Eric?’
Eric sighs. ‘Now, I know it’s a dreadful thing to say, Rose, and please just hear me out, but if Simon was guilty of the things he was accused of it could sway things our way a little. You knew him better than anyone. You were closer to him than anyone. Perhaps there are things he said that you’ve forgotten, things that could tell us more about his state of mind. We’ve argued that it was his choice and that you were trying to stop him, but because the allegations will always remain just that, allegations, it’s harder to prove. I think the jury probably wondered why, if Simon and everyone close to him so strenuously denied everything, he would then have been driven to do such a thing. So what I want to ask you is what happened on that night that you haven’t told me yet?’
‘I’ve told you everything, Eric, everything that happened.’
Eric smiles his slight smile at me and waits. I’ve noticed that he uses this tactic when he’s dealing with someone he believes to be hiding something from him. He waits just long enough for the other person to begin to feel uncomfortable and to speak without meaning to.
I could tell him, I think. I could tell him right now. I try to imagine the look on his face if I revealed that everything that had been said about Simon was true, everything and more, in fact. Would he feel betrayed the way I felt betrayed? Would he question everything Simon had said and done over the years the way I now do? He and Simon were very close. They spoke on the phone every few days and often went out to lunch, just the boys. How would Eric feel if he found out that his friend was not the man he thought him to be? An important part of being a lawyer is, I’m sure, being a good judge of character. How would Eric feel if he knew how wrong he’d been about Simon? Would it lead him to question his whole life the way it has led me to question mine?
‘There’s nothing more to tell,’ I say, and Eric drops his gaze.
‘Visiting hours are over,’ says Natalie from the corner of the room where she’s sitting reading a magazine. Eric clears his throat and looks at me, and it suddenly occurs to me that he might know more than he has told me. It’s possible that Simon confessed his crimes to his lawyer; Eric would have been legally compelled to protect him. I swallow, feeling a little sick. What if Eric knew all along and didn’t say anything, and in keeping quiet allowed more and more little girls to be hurt?
‘Do you know something you’re not telling me, Eric?’ I say. My voice is strained, strangled as it makes its way out.
Eric shakes his head. ‘I only know what you’ve told me. I’ve gone over our conversa
tions again and again, all those years of conversation, trying to figure out if he said anything to me that would lead me to believe he was capable of such behaviour.’
‘And?’
‘And I’ve come up with nothing,’ he says. ‘Perhaps he was a much better actor than anyone ever gave him credit for, or perhaps he was truly innocent.’
‘I’m sorry, but it really is time,’ says Natalie.
‘Rose, please . . . just think about it, all right? If there’s something that could help us, anything at all that will further prove his state of mind at the time, you need to tell me.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ I say.
Eric nods and gets up to leave. ‘There are several magazines who would like an interview with you. If you’d like to speak to them, I can arrange for a journalist or two to come here and see you.’
I laugh out loud. I can’t help it.
‘Yes,’ says Eric, ‘that’s what I assumed your reaction would be. I told them so, but it’s my duty as your lawyer to inform you of everything that’s happening.’
‘How are Patricia and your children?’ I ask, holding onto Eric’s presence for a moment longer, holding onto my life at home as long as I can.
‘Doing well, doing well. Patricia’s going in for some routine tests, but we’re sure everything will be fine.’
‘Oh, Eric,’ I say, because at our age tests are never routine.
‘Now, don’t fret, Rose. She’s fine. I’ve called both your girls this week. Portia seems very taken with Robert. I believe they’re even speaking of moving in together—something I heard from Robert, because I’m sure Portia wouldn’t want me to know. For such a robust-looking man I’m afraid he tends to wear his heart on his sleeve. I think he referred to her as “Poppy” in conversation.’
The news doesn’t surprise me. Portia’s emails are peppered with Rob this and Rob that. She tries to make the emails long and chatty, perhaps fearing that I’m losing my mind. I know that she and Robert went to the symphony but that Robert fell asleep, which made her laugh. They went to the mountains and they’ve been to parties together. She sounds blissfully happy but is toning things down so as not to upset me. It does upset me. I’m missing something special. I like to see Portia in love. Her face softens and her body relaxes. I would have enjoyed watching the two of them together. Beautiful people are always lovely to watch.
‘Will there be a problem with them living together?’ I say to Eric. ‘I mean, is it a conflict of interest?’
‘Oh, I don’t think so. He’s your defence barrister, not part of the prosecution. And even if things somehow go awry I know that Robert is the consummate professional. He would never do anything to jeopardise the case. Winning is everything with barristers.’
‘I hope they’re happy, I hope they stay happy,’ I say.
‘That’s all we can hope,’ says Eric, and then it’s time for him to go.
At the door he stoops to give me a kiss on the cheek and then stops and straightens up, remembering the rule about not touching prisoners. ‘We’ll get through this,’ he says.
‘I know,’ I say. ‘And I will try to think if there’s anything else that could help. But you know that he didn’t discuss things that he didn’t want to. I think you probably knew more than I did, especially after that phone call.’
‘What phone call?’
‘Eric,’ I say, frowning, ‘you called him that night to tell him there would be an investigation. You said that the police were involved. How can you not remember such a thing? It was the phone call that . . . It was the call.’ An image from that night comes back to me, making me feel sick. Simon’s face, drained of colour, and his hand on his chest, covering his heart.
Eric is shaking his head. ‘I don’t remember it, because I never called him. The police weren’t yet involved. The allegations wouldn’t have gone away so easily if they had been. Is that what he told you? That the police were coming for him? Is that why he . . .?’
I feel the full force of his words and sag into a chair by the door.
‘Are you okay?’ says Natalie, and I hold up my hand to let her know that I’m fine, although I’m so very far from it.
‘You didn’t call him?’ I say.
‘I didn’t call him,’ Eric confirms.
‘Why would he have lied to me about that?’
‘I have no idea,’ says Eric, ‘but it may be that he heard the information from someone else. Let me look into it.’
I walk slowly back to my unit. It’s too much to think about. I don’t know why he lied to me about there being an investigation. If he hadn’t said anything, if he’d just shown me the pictures—those awful, sad pictures—then I might have been able to talk him round. He didn’t want to be talked round. He wanted to make sure. He made sure.
It’s nearly time for dinner, but I don’t feel like eating. Allison is beginning to worry about my weight loss, but chewing and swallowing seems like it would take a great deal more energy than I have at the moment. ‘You need to take care of yourself,’ she said when she last saw me. ‘If your appeal comes through you will need to be strong to go through the whole trial process again.’
Allison is very different from what I expected the governor of a prison to be. Her attitude to her prisoners is very maternal. She’s surrounded by women who have failed to live up to the expectations of society, and yet she treats us all like we’re capable of doing great things and living rewarding lives. She greets everyone by name, even new arrivals, and soon knows everything about them. She knows the names of all the children who visit once a month, and Jess told me that she sometimes stops by the mother and child unit for an afternoon of craft. ‘There’s not many in the system like her,’ said Jess. ‘She’s one of the few who haven’t given up on making a difference.’
Allison keeps encouraging me to take a class. ‘It will make the time go faster,’ she says. I’ve been thinking about doing something with computers, but I’m very tired. It feels as though the last eighteen months have suddenly taken their toll on my mind and body. I feel like I have lost the art of concentration.
Perhaps because I’m surrounded by women who have led such difficult lives, perhaps because I haven’t seen my daughters for so long, or perhaps it’s just age, but I find myself drifting back through the years, trying to solve the riddle of how a life that was so incredibly happy and joyous has landed me here. While we were dealing with the allegations, and then when Simon was gone and I had to deal with the police and the trial, I focused all my energy on just getting through the days. I fixated on what had happened and on what my future might be, but I didn’t think much about the past.
At the Farm my hands are busy all the time but conversation is limited. I keep swallowing questions, mindful of touching on subjects that no one wants to discuss. I drift back into the past all the time, questioning my life, questioning everything.
I understand that I missed things, that I was blind to things, but I thought I knew Simon. I felt that I knew him. He was a wonderful man, a wonderful husband and father—and yet and yet and yet . . .
I could tell Eric what happened that night, I could tell him about the evidence that I’ve hidden, and I’m sure that a judge would be swayed. It’s not concrete proof but it’s close enough. I understood as soon as I saw it what I was looking at. But if I tell Eric and Eric tells the world, then the man that I was married to, the father of my children, will be gone forever. All those years he spent on television making people laugh, entertaining them, will be gone. All his charity work and the causes he donated his time to—just gone.
I have seen what happens when a celebrity falls from grace. Simon and I had once been friends with a couple in the industry. He was a newsreader and she reported the entertainment news. They had been happily married until he cheated with the woman who read the weather. It was a tawdry affair, exposed by the press and then chewed over by the magazines, and eventually it became too much for all concerned. He resigned from his role as news a
nchor, and his wife left her job as well. Only the woman who read the weather remained on television, and I watched her over the months become thinner and more brittle as accusations of being a ‘home wrecker’ were flung at her. Today I’m sure such a thing would pass almost unnoticed, but back then, in the early eighties, it was a huge scandal. When Simon and I woke to the news of the suicide of the young woman who had remained on television, we were not surprised. They wore her down, and then when she was gone everyone lamented her loss.
Fame is fickle. Simon loved the spotlight until it shone too brightly on him, potentially exposing his flaws for all to see. If I let Eric know what I know, Simon will be forever exposed and forever damned. And in exposing him I expose myself, the stupid woman who found herself married to a monster. I will be held up for ridicule and scorn, because who better to blame than his wife? He is gone and cannot give any answers, so why not look to me? I am damned either way so perhaps it is better to let the man rest in peace, better to leave his memory untarnished so that my children and I can also have peace.
I don’t think the time at the Farm will be so arduous as to be unbearable. The years will pass quickly enough once I have adjusted to this way of living. I have already sacrificed a lot being married to Simon, a man who lived his life in front of the camera, a man a great deal older than me, a man who was so certain about the way we should live our lives. I turned myself into the kind of woman he was proud to be seen with and I never asked myself what I really wanted. I gave up any ambitions I might have had for myself so I could stand by his side and raise his children. Isn’t protecting his reputation just one last sacrifice?
