by Delaney, JP
“And you have made it,” the judge says wryly. “Shall we move on?”
After that, the expected attack on my drinking seems tame by comparison. When I eventually go back to my chair, my cheeks are burning. Pete passes me a note. That was outrageous. Well done.
* * *
—
THERE’S A LONG BACK-AND-FORTH between the lawyers about the European Human Rights Act and whether the UN Convention on the Rights of the Child—“A child has the right to be cared for by his or her parents”—applies here. It’s a vital point, but I’m hardly listening. The barrister’s question is still spinning around in my head. Have you had affairs? How much do they actually know?
And most important, am I now going to have to tell Pete about my slipups before Miles does?
Eventually all the other evidence is heard, and Pete delivers a final statement on behalf of us both. Normally, Anita would do this, but we’ve decided that in this case it should be Pete. He’s Theo’s primary carer. He’s the one who needs to impress the judge.
He starts by describing how it felt, that day when Miles knocked on the door and blew our whole world apart with the news Theo wasn’t our son. He describes the efforts to compromise, the gradual realization that Miles would stop at nothing to get Theo back. In calm, measured language he describes the pain of having Theo taken away from us, and has to stop because he’s in tears. He describes how first the parenting classes, and then Harvey Taylor’s visit, have made him a better father to Theo—“So, if you do direct that he should continue to live with us, this whole horrible experience will still have been worthwhile. Because it will have been good for Theo. And in the end, that’s all that matters.” And finally, he looks directly at Lucy. “That offer still stands, by the way. Despite what you said earlier, despite everything that’s happened. We’d be happy to share them both between us. We would always have been happy to do that.”
“Thank you,” the judge says. “Unless anyone has any further points they wish to raise, I’m going to ask you all to step out while I consider what I’ve heard.”
99
MADDIE
“THANK YOU FOR YOUR patience. I am now ready to give my judgment.”
We waited in the crowded foyer for almost two hours—two agonizing hours that seemed to last an eternity. As the end of the day neared, other cases were reaching their conclusion, too—each courtroom spilling out into the foyer in two distinct groups, the elated and the despairing. Parents led away weeping by their lawyers, or punching the air in disinhibited delight.
Eventually the usher called us back and we took our places again. This is it, I think disbelievingly. This is really it. The moment seems both surreal and oddly mundane at the same time. I realize I’ve seen so many overwrought TV dramas in which judges bang gavels and lawyers shout “Objection!” that to have this calm, businesslike atmosphere, in which a judge is simply going to announce her decision as if she’s the chairperson at an under-attended board meeting, feels all wrong.
Judge Wakefield looks at each of us in turn. “Thank you for coming here today and explaining what it is you want and why. Thank you, too, for allowing your evidence to be tested by the other side’s legal representatives. You may have found some of their questioning intrusive, but it has allowed me to form a fuller picture of the options before the court. As you have heard, there is a strong presumption in UK law that children are best brought up within their natural families. However, there is also a duty to place the interests of the child above all else, and that means giving due consideration to such issues as continuity of care and what impact the disruption of existing bonds might have.” She goes on to talk about something called the seven-point welfare checklist, and sums up the evidence briefly on each point. It’s still impossible to tell which way she’s leaning.
Then she pauses. “The right of the child to be brought up by his or her parents is another very important legal principle. We have heard differing views today on how that might apply to this situation. Having considered the matter carefully, I am going to accept Ms. Chowdry’s argument that the word parent, in this context, should apply not only to the child’s biological mother and father, but also to the individuals whom the child regards as his parents, and to whom he is bonded by a million small daily acts of parenting—in short, by the bonds of love. We have heard evidence from Mr. Taylor to the effect that Theo would be better equipped than most two-year-olds are to break those bonds. But we have also heard that he may find it harder than other children to regrow those bonds within a new family. For that reason, I believe both families have a roughly equal potential to provide him with a safe and nurturing home.”
Again she pauses. “As you may know, the family courts operate on what is called the no order principle. That is, I have to be certain that whatever new arrangements I direct will be better for the child than those that already exist. Although the present case is a highly unusual one that undoubtedly calls for some clear resolution by the court, the underlying principle remains the same. If Theo were to move families, I have to be absolutely certain that the change will be in his best interests. And since the evidence is in fact finely balanced, I have decided that the previous arrangements should be allowed to stand, and that he should continue to live with the people he considered to be his parents for the first two years of his life.”
It takes a moment for her words to sink in, to understand that Theo’s coming home. Unbelievably, we’ve won. Pete reaches for my hand and squeezes it. I squeeze back. But the judge is still talking. “We cannot really have a situation in which Theo is living with the respondents but the applicants still have parental responsibility for him. It follows therefore that the previous order granting the applicants parental responsibility should be revoked, and a new order issued, granting parental responsibility to the respondents…”
There’s more—the Lamberts are being offered contact visits, access to Theo’s future parents’ evenings. “I hope in time you may all of you rediscover the original spirit of cooperation with which you first approached this very difficult situation.” Miles’s face, which I can only see in profile, is a mask, his handsome jaw rigid with barely repressed fury. Clearly, he thought he had this sewn up. He probably did, too, until Lyn received that video. “This hearing has been about Theo, but I would like to remind both parties of the importance of the no order principle, and hope very much that a future hearing about David can be averted.” The judge is basically telling us that, having kept Theo, there’s little point pursuing our own claim for David, I realize. Everything’s going back to the way it was, as if Judge Wakefield is some kind of wizard who can just wave a magic wand and undo the last four months’ heartbreak. My gaze moves to Lucy, who’s wiping away tears of relief. She loves David, of course she does, and she must quietly have been as terrified of having him taken away from her as Pete and I were of losing Theo. Perhaps it was wrong of us to try to get David, after all. But the pull to rescue my biological offspring from Miles had been so very strong.
And then it’s over. The judge clicks something on her computer and nods. The lawyers stand up, followed by the rest of us. We’ve won, I think. We’ve won. I feel Pete’s arms reach for me, pulling me into a hug. “We’ve won,” he says. I can feel his body shaking with relief as he weeps into my shoulder. “Oh God. Theo. We’ve won.”
“Come on,” I say. “Let’s go and get our boy.”
100
MADDIE
WE BOTH GO TO pick him up from the Lamberts’. When Jill opens the front door he’s standing next to her, ready in his coat and shoes, his overnight bag beside him.
“Ouff!” he says when Pete sweeps him into a bear hug, lifting him off the ground and swinging him around and around. “Stop doing that!”
He has no idea, of course. No idea why we’re both laughing and crying and squeezing him like crazy people.
“Come on, Theo,” I
say at last, disentangling myself. “I feel an ice cream about to happen.”
We walk down the steps. At the bottom Theo looks back, then waves. “Bye Moles! See you tomorrow!”
We look around. Miles is standing at the open door, watching us. There’s no expression on his face, none at all. “We’ll talk about that in the car, Theo,” I say firmly, taking his hand.
Pete says suddenly, “I’m going to say something. After all, we’ve got to give them access. Like the judge said, we should try to put things back on a friendly footing.”
“Pete, don’t,” I say, but he’s already gone.
Seeing him approach, Miles comes forward. Pete puts out his hand and speaks—I’m too far away to catch all the words, but I think it’s, “You’ve got David and we’ve got Theo. It’s an honorable draw, yes? So let’s put this behind us. For their sake.” I see Miles take Pete’s hand and lean in close, that odd way he has of speaking to someone’s ear rather than their face. He keeps a tight hold of Pete’s hand and I can tell he’s crushing it, squeezing it with all his force. But I’m pretty sure it’s what he’s saying, not the pressure of his hand, that’s causing Pete’s face to turn white.
“What did he say?” I ask when Pete returns. He doesn’t meet my gaze.
“He said congratulations.” Pete gives a quick, tight smile. “He said the best man and woman won.”
101
Case no. 12675/PU78B65, Exhibit 53: Email from Harvey Taylor to Peter Riley, retrieved from Peter Riley’s iPhone.
Dear Pete,
Thank you for your email, and the link to the sad news about Judge Wakefield. As it happens, my bike is off the road for repairs, but I will in any case take note of your advice.
Many congratulations on winning your case. If I can be of any help in the future, please don’t hesitate to get in touch.
Kind regards,
Harvey Taylor DForenPsy, MBPsS
Registered Psychologist
https://www.lawgazette.com/obituary/tributes-pour-in-for-family-judge-Marion-Wakefield
102
PETE
AS THE DAYS AND weeks went by with no word from Miles, we slowly allowed ourselves to relax. Which isn’t to say we weren’t vigilant. I didn’t use my bike, for one thing. Cycling in London was dangerous enough already, without worrying that someone might drive up behind me and nudge my back wheel with their bumper.
Theo was still on the waiting list for the other nursery, but we managed to get him a temporary place with a childminder a few streets away. It wasn’t a long-term solution—the childminder, Rosie, couldn’t give him any one-to-one help for his CU—but at least it was away from the Lamberts.
But somehow it all felt like the lull before the storm. What Miles had said to me when we’d collected Theo after the hearing—the things he’d hissed into my ear about Maddie—had been childish and pathetic, but it also suggested he wasn’t going to accept the court’s judgment and move on. Not that I believed a word of what he’d said, of course. I remembered how, the very first time he’d come to our house, he’d let me think Theo was the result of an affair between him and Maddie. That had been entirely deliberate, I later realized—his first attempt at playing with me, seeing how I’d react. It had been Don Maguire who’d coughed and explained what had really happened. Miles just couldn’t resist seeing what made people squirm.
Once, I thought I saw him in his car as I was taking Theo to Rosie’s. Since her house was quite close, Theo was on his scooter—although I always made sure he stopped and waited for me before crossing any roads. On this occasion he’d gotten a little bit ahead, but he was safely on the pavement and there were no cars around, so I wasn’t too worried. An old lady was pushing a shopping basket on wheels, very slowly. Without stopping, Theo veered around her, wobbling off the pavement and onto the road. Just at that moment, a black BMW four-wheel-drive pulled out from a parking space and sped up the street toward us. “Theo!” I screamed. “Get back on the pavement!” Theo stopped dead, and instead of doing as I told him, looked over his shoulder, perplexed by the terror in my voice. He was wearing his helmet, but against the bulk of the BMW it would be useless. Then the BMW accelerated past us, and as the driver adjusted her mirror I saw it was a dark-haired woman wearing sunglasses, just another entitled north London mother driving her SUV too fast after dropping off her kids, in a hurry to get to the gym.
My heart pounding, I caught up with Theo. “Don’t ever go off the pavement again,” I snapped. “Or I’m confiscating your scooter.”
Theo only sagged his shoulders comically, as if to say I was overreacting. Which, from his perspective, of course I was.
I’d read how some parents react to traumatic events by catastrophizing—becoming hyper-fearful and protective, seeing imaginary disasters around every corner. Over time, their children soak up those fears, becoming insecure and timid. I couldn’t do that to Theo, whose sunny confidence was one of his most endearing characteristics. I mustn’t.
I resolved that, whatever terrors still lurked in my own mind, I wasn’t going to let Theo be aware of them. We were going to live a normal life.
103
PETE
SO WHEN I LOST him in Sainsbury’s, at first I tried not to overreact.
We got most of the big shopping delivered, but once a week Theo and I sat down, planned our meals for the next seven days, then went to the supermarket to buy what we’d need. He loved it, as did I. It was free entertainment that got him out of the house and taught him the rudiments of healthy eating at the same time. I even tried to build in some educational games, such as seeing how quickly he could find, say, a tin of baked beans and bring it back to the trolley, even though I’d probably have to go and swap the tin he’d just grabbed with the correct reduced-sugar-and-salt version while he was doing his next errand.
“Thanks, Theo,” I said as he proudly handed me a carton of milk. “Next is melon. We need one of the small yellow ones, okay?”
He nodded and sped off. I used the breathing space to load some frozen stuff into the trolley. Fish fingers, made with pollack not cod. Peas, no added sugar. Prawns, sustainably sourced. Or were they? That’s what it said in big letters on the front of the packet, but that could mean anything. When I checked on the back, there was no MSC certification.
I suddenly realized I’d been able to read the whole of the back of a packet of prawns undisturbed. Theo never took that long finding something. I looked over at the fruit section, concerned but not alarmed. Perhaps he’d gotten distracted. Or started talking to one of the staff.
The store was a sensibly sized one, not one of those vast behemoths that stock everything from saucepans to tracksuits. The fruit section was literally seconds away, in full view of where I was standing with the trolley.
And Theo wasn’t there.
I stared at the space where he should be, uncomprehending. That time I’d lost him before on a shopping trip flashed into my mind—the horror of not knowing where your child is, even for a minute.
Beyond the fruit section were the doors to the car park. Automatic doors, that might temptingly open and close if you played grandmother’s footsteps with them. But if Theo was doing that, I’d see him.
Wouldn’t I? I had a sudden vision of him dropping a melon onto the floor. The melon rolling toward the door. Theo following it…
And then what? Going into the car park? Why on earth would he do that? But cars drove around the car park stupidly fast sometimes, and a little boy focusing on a rolling melon might not see one coming—
Stay calm, I told myself. He’d probably just decided to come back to the trolley the long way around, past the checkouts, hoping to grab something interesting from the shelves on the way. It was still less than twenty seconds since I’d realized he was missing, and no more than a minute since I’d last seen him. But I could feel the panic starting to build in my c
hest. I pushed the trolley rapidly along the row of checkouts, peering down each aisle. Not there, either. But could he now be behind me, given that I’d moved the trolley from where he was expecting it to be? I turned and headed back the other way. Someone blocked me in as they stopped to reach for a packet of cereal. Cursing, I abandoned my trolley so I could move more quickly.
“Theo!” I called at the top of my lungs, all British reserve abandoned. “Theo!”
Still nothing. Frantically I ran to the customer service desk, where they did the PA announcements. But there was no one around.
“Excuse me,” I said, butting into the queue for the nearest till and speaking to the youth operating it. “I need to make an announcement. I’ve lost my son. He’s two and a half. Wearing a red hoodie and jeans.”
The young man didn’t stop scanning his customer’s shopping. “I dunno how to use it.”
“Oh for God’s sake. I’ll do it myself.”
I ran behind the desk, searching for the microphone, just as the woman whose shopping was being scanned looked up and called, “A red hoodie, did you say?”
“Yes. Have you seen him?”
She pointed. “A little boy in a hoodie just went out with a man in a suit. They looked like they knew each other. I think they were holding hands.”
I looked again at the doors. In the magazine racks by the entrance, someone had placed a small yellow melon.
* * *
—
I RAN OUTSIDE, STILL shouting Theo’s name. I knew it was probably hopeless, but I pelted down the rows of parked cars anyway, yelling and looking between each one.
Then I caught sight of a black BMW four-wheel-drive pulling out of a space in the far corner. I turned and ran straight toward the exit. Perhaps if I was fast enough, I’d be able to cut them off. Perhaps he’d stop. Perhaps anything.
