A Special Relationship

by Douglas Kennedy

  I had just lost my son.

  I tried to fathom that – to reason it out in my head.

  I had just lost my son.

  I kept playing that phrase over and over again in my head. The enormity of its meaning was still impossible to grasp.

  After ten minutes, the court usher came in and told me I would have to leave. I stood up and walked out into the street.

  I made it to the Temple Underground station. When the train came hurling down the platform, I forced myself against a wall and clutched on to a waste bin – to ensure that I didn’t pitch myself under it. I don’t remember the journey south, or how I got back to the house. What I do remember is getting to the bedroom, closing all the blinds, unplugging the phone, stripping off my clothes, getting under the covers, and then realizing that, though I could try to block out the world, the world was still there, beyond the bedroom window, indifferent to my catastrophe.

  Not having a clue what to do next, I stayed in bed for hours, the covers pulled up over my head, wanting the escape of oblivion, yet being denied it. This time, however, I didn’t find myself hanging on to the mattress as if it was the sole ballast that was keeping me from going over the edge. This time, though I felt an intense, desperate grief, it wasn’t overshadowed by a feeling of imminent collapse or a downward plunge. I didn’t know if it was the cumulative effect of the anti-depressants, or some chink in the armour-like depressive veil. All I realized was that I wasn’t sinking any longer. My feet were on terra firma. My head was no longer fogged in. The view ahead was clear – and thoroughly dismal.

  So I forced myself out of bed, and forced myself to take a hot-and-cold shower, and forced myself to tidy the bedroom, which had become something of an uncharacteristic dump over the last few days. When I broke down – a wave of sobbing that hit me shortly after I finished hanging up the last pair of cast-aside jeans – I didn’t find myself falling into oblivion. I was simply convulsed by sadness.

  I plugged the phone back in around four. Immediately it rang. It was Sandy. From the sound of my voice, she knew the outcome. But when I detailed the findings of the judge – and the supervised access I would have to Jack – she was horrified.

  ‘Jesus Christ, it’s not like you’re an axe murderer.’

  ‘True – but they certainly gave their barrister enough ammunition to depict me as someone who was on the verge of catastrophe. And I certainly didn’t make life easier for myself by …’

  ‘Yeah?’

  And then I told her about my weekend trip down the country, apologizing for not informing her before now.

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ she said, ‘though you should know you can tell me anything … like anything, and I won’t freak. The thing is, surely the court must have been sympathetic to the idea that you just had to see your son – which isn’t exactly an abnormal instinct, now is it? And, like, it’s not as if you pounded on their door at three in the morning, wielding a twelve-gauge shotgun. You just stood at the gate and looked, right?’

  ‘Yes – but also the barrister representing me hadn’t been properly briefed.’

  ‘What the fuck do you mean by that?’

  I explained about the slapdash approach of my solicitor. Sandy went ballistic.

  ‘Who recommended this bitch to you?’

  ‘The husband of my friend Margaret Campbell …’

  ‘She was that American friend living in London, now back in the States, right?’

  Sandy certainly had a terrifying memory.

  ‘Yes, that’s her.’

  ‘Some friend.’

  ‘It’s not her fault, nor her husband’s. I should have researched things a little bit …’

  ‘Will you stop that,’ she said. ‘How the hell were you to know about divorce lawyers in London?’

  ‘Well, I certainly know a thing or two about them now.’

  Later that evening, the telephone rang and I found myself talking to Alexander Campbell.

  ‘Hope this isn’t a bad time,’ he said. ‘But your sister called Margaret at home today, and told her what happened, and how this woman —Virginia Ricks, right? – behaved. And I just want to say I am horrified. Truly horrified. And I plan to call Lawrence and Lambert myself tomorrow—’

  ‘I think the damage has been largely done, Alexander.’

  ‘Damage for which I feel responsible.’

  ‘How were you to know?’

  ‘I should have checked with other London colleagues about the best divorce firms.’

  ‘And I shouldn’t have accepted the first lawyer I spoke with. But … there it is.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now ... I think I’ve lost my son.’

  Margaret also called that night to commiserate, and to say how bad she felt.

  ‘Did they fleece you, those lawyers?’

  ‘Hey, you’re married to a lawyer – you know they always fleece you.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘It’s irrelevant now.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘A retainer of twenty-five hundred sterling. But I’m sure the final bill will come to more than that.’

  ‘And how will you cover it?’

  With my ever-diminishing funds, that’s how.

  In fact, the Lawrence and Lambert bill arrived the next morning. I was right about it running beyond the original retainer – a cool £1730.00 above the initial £2500.00 – every expense and charge laid out in fine detail. I also received a phone call from Deirdre Pepinster. She was as laconic as ever.

  ‘One thing I wanted to raise with you yesterday – but didn’t think you needed more bad news …’

  Oh, God, what fresh hell now?

  ‘I checked the Land Registry. The house is in both your names …’

  Well, that’s something I guess.

  ‘But before the hearing yesterday, we heard from your husband’s solicitors. Seems he wants to sell up straight away.’

  ‘Can he do that?’

  ‘According to the law, each party who co-owns a house can force a sale. But it takes time and the divorce courts can stop it. Now, if you’d had residence of your child, that would be a different matter altogether. No court would allow the house to be sold under you. But in this situation …’

  ‘I get it,’ I said.

  ‘They have made an offer – a settlement offer, I should say.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Uh … Ginny Ricks said we won’t be representing you from now on.’

  ‘That’s absolutely correct.’

  ‘Well, I’ll just fax it to you then.’

  It showed up a few minutes later – a lengthy letter from Tony’s solicitors, informing me that their client wanted to expedite the divorce, and to be as generous as possible under the circumstances. As their client ‘would be retaining residence of his son’, there were no child support issues to deal with. As I’d had an extensive journalistic career before moving to London, his client would argue that alimony was also not an issue here – as I was perfectly capable of earning a living for myself. And as their client had put 80% of the equity into the house, he could also expect to receive 80% of whatever profit the sale yielded (but given that we only owned the house for seven months, that profit wouldn’t be enormous). However, wanting to be generous in this instance, he was offering the following deal: as long as I didn’t contest residence, I would, upon the sale of the house, receive not just the £20,000 equity I had invested in it, but the £7000 for the loft conversion (as I had paid for this myself), plus an additional £10,000 sweetener, plus 50% of whatever profit the sale yielded. If, however, I didn’t accept this offer, they would have no choice but to take this matter to court, whereupon …

  I got the point. Settle fast or be prepared for shelling out even more money in legal fees. Money which I simply didn’t have right now.

  There was one small respite in this otherwise politely couched, but completely threatening letter: I had twenty-eight days to reply to this offer before legal
action ensued. Which meant that I could dodge dealing with it for a bit. Especially as I had more pressing concerns to confront right now. Like my severe lack of money. Though I was expecting an increased bill, there was a part of me which hoped that, given the negative outcome of the case, Lawrence and Lambert might have reduced their costs. What an absurd idea – and just to pour battery acid into the wound, their invoice for the additional £1730.00 was marked: To Be Settled Within Fourteen Days.

  Of course, I wanted to crumple up this invoice and dispatch it to the nearest circular file. Or find another lawyer and sue Ginny Ricks for complete professional incompetence. But I also knew that, if I dodged this bill, Lawrence and Lambert would not only come after me, but might let word get around that, not only was I an unfit mother, but a deadbeat to boot. So I went to the bank that afternoon and bought a £1730.00 sterling draft, and posted it to Lawrence and Lambert, and sat in a coffee bar on Putney High Street, pondering the fact that my net worth was now around £2500 – enough to see me through the next few months, as long as I didn’t employ another lawyer to fight the custody case.

  I had to admire Tony’s solicitors: their offer was ferociously strategic. Accept our terms and you come out with a little money to get your life re-started again. Turn us down – and we will embroil you in a legal battle that you cannot afford, and which will end up having the same result: Jack stays with Tony and that woman.

  Of course, there was a significant part of me that wanted to simply agree to their shitty terms and be done with it – to take the money, and try to find a new place to live and a job, and attempt to negotiate, over time, a shared custody agreement. But that would mean Jack growing up, looking upon that woman as his mother – whereas I would be some damaged parental adjunct, whom he would eventually come to regard as the person who had failed him by being unable to cope with motherhood. Judging from their behaviour so far, I had no doubt that Tony and that woman would do their best to poison him against me. But even if, in due time, they became equitable and fair-minded, I would still have been legally blocked by them from raising my son. And that was something I simply couldn’t accept.

  ‘You don’t sound as shaky as I’d expect,’ Sandy said that night when she phoned me.

  ‘Oh, I’m shaky all right,’ I said. ‘And I find myself crying spontaneously. But this time I’m also angry.’

  Sandy laughed.

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ she said.

  But my anger was also tempered by the realpolitik of the situation. Legally and financially, I’d been trumped. For the moment, there wasn’t a great deal I could do about it … except attempt to present an exemplary face to the world.

  Which meant, from the outset, adopting a certain mind-set when it came to the social workers at the contact centre who were now dealing with me. I could not come across as arrogant or enraged, or someone who believed it was their inalienable right to raise their child. In their eyes, the Interim Hearing order said it all: I had been declared dangerous to my child’s well-being. It didn’t matter that facts had been manipulated against me by a very clever barrister, or that I had been suffering from a clinical condition. I couldn’t play the blame game here. Like it or not I had to somehow accept that I was at their mercy.

  So when a woman named Clarice Chambers phoned me from Wandsworth Social Services to suggest that my first supervised visit start in two days’ time, I agreed immediately to the time she suggested and showed up fifteen minutes ahead of schedule.

  The ‘contact centre’ was located in a grim, modern, breeze-block building, just off Garratt Lane in Wandsworth. It was situated near a squat ugly tower block called the Arndale Centre – which was known locally as one of the easiest places in the borough to score a vial of crack.

  Certainly, my fellow unfit mothers at the contact centre looked like they had all borne witness to assorted domestic horrors, not to mention the trauma of being legally cut-off from their children. There were four of us waiting on a bench in a hallway with scuffed linoleum and dirty concrete walls. My three bench mates were all young. One of them looked like she was no more than fifteen. Another had the sort of zombie eyes and shell-shocked demeanour that made me wonder what controlled substance she was on. The third woman was vastly overweight, and was about to burst into tears at any moment. We said nothing while waiting for our names to be called.

  After ten minutes, a woman appeared from a reception area, and said ‘Sally Goodchild’, then directed me to Room 4, straight down the corridor, second door on my right. Walking down towards the room, I felt fear. Because I didn’t know how I’d react to the sight of my son.

  But he wasn’t there when I went in. Rather, I found myself face-to-face with Clarice Chambers – a large, imposing Afro-Caribbean woman with a firm handshake and a firm smile. I noticed immediately that this room was set up as a nursery – with soft toys, and a playpen, and animal wallpaper that looked forlornly incongruous under the harsh fluorescent lighting and broken ceiling tiles.

  ‘Where’s Jack?’ I said, my nervousness showing.

  ‘He’ll be with us in just a minute,’ she said, motioning for me to sit down in a plastic chair opposite her own. ‘I just want to chat with you for a bit before you have your visit with your son, and to explain how this all works.’

  ‘Fine, fine,’ I said, trying to steady myself. Clarice Chambers gave me another sympathetic smile, and then said that I should now consider this day and hour – Wednesday, eleven am – as my time with Jack. His father had been informed of this fact – and Jack’s nanny would be bringing him here every week. She would not be present during these visits – only myself and Clarice. However, if I wished, I could nominate a friend or family member as the supervisor for these visits – but, of course, this individual would first have to be vetted by Wandsworth social services to assess their suitability for this role.

  ‘I’m still new in London, so I don’t really know anybody who could …’

  I broke off, unable to continue.

  Clarice touched my hand. ‘That’s fine then. I’ll be your supervisor.’

  She continued, explaining how I could bring any toys or clothes I liked for Jack. I could play with him. I could hold him. I could simply watch him sleeping. I could also bottle feed him, and Clarice would act as liaison between the nanny and myself to find out what sort of formula he was drinking, and what his feeding routine was right now.

  ‘The only thing you cannot do is leave the room with him unaccompanied. Nor, I’m afraid, can you be left alone with him at any time. Supervised contact means just that.’

  Another firm, we’re going to get along just fine, aren’t we? smile.

  ‘I know that this is all rather artificial and difficult for you. But we can try to make the best of it. All right?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Right then,’ she said, standing up. ‘I’ll be back in a moment.’

  She disappeared into an adjoining room and returned a moment later, holding a familiar carry-chair.

  ‘Here he is,’ she said quietly, handing him over to me.

  I looked down. Jack was fast asleep. But what struck me immediately was just how much he’d grown in three weeks. He’d filled out a bit, his face had more definition, more character. Even his fingers seemed longer.

  ‘You can pick him up if you want,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t want to disturb him,’ I said. So I placed the carry-chair on the floor beside me, reached down and, using my right index finger, stroked his clenched fist. His hand unclenched, his fingers wrapped around mine, and he held on to me, still sleeping soundly.

  That’s when I lost the battle I’d been waging ever since I arrived here. I started to cry, putting a hand across my mouth to muffle the sobs and not wake him up. Once I glanced up at Clarice Chambers and saw her watching me with a cool professional eye.

  ‘I’m sorry’ I whispered. ‘This is all a bit …’

  ‘You don’t have to apologize,’ she said. ‘I know this is hard.’


  ‘It’s just so good to see him.’

  He didn’t wake for the entire hour … though his fist did unclutch after around ten minutes, so I simply sat by him, rocking him in his chair, stroking his face, thinking just how serene he was, and how desperate I was to be with him all the time.

  Clarice said nothing for the entire hour, though I was conscious of her watching me – seeing how I related to Jack, how I was handling the highly charged emotionalism of this situation, and whether I seemed like a stable, balanced individual. But I didn’t try to play to the gallery, or put on a big maternal show. I just sat by him, happy for the temporary contact.

  Then, before I knew it, Clarice quietly said, ‘It’s time, I’m afraid.’

  I gulped and felt tears sting my face.

  ‘All right,’ I said.

  She gave me another minute, then walked over to us. I touched his face with my hand, then leaned over and kissed his head, breathing in his talcum powder aroma. I stood up and walked to another corner of the room, staring out a grimy window at a trash-strewn courtyard as she picked up the carry-chair and left. When she came back, she approached me and asked, ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m trying to be.’

  ‘The first time is always the hardest.’

  No, I thought. Every time will be hard.

  ‘Remember – you can bring clothes and toys for him next week,’ she said.

  As if he’s a doll I can dress up and play with for an hour.

  I shut my eyes. I nodded. She touched my arm with her hand.

  ‘It will get easier.’

  I went home. I sat down on the bed and cried. This time, however, the crying wasn’t underscored by that physical sensation of plummeting which I so associated with the start of an extended depressive jag. This was simply another ferocious expression of grief – and one over which I had no control.

  They say there’s nothing like a good cry to expunge all the pent-up sorrow you carry with you. But when I finally brought myself under control, and faltered into the bathroom to splash some water on my face, I found myself thinking: That did me no good whatsoever.