Careful, He Might Hear You

by Sumner Locke Elliott

  Vanessa, to soothe herself, turned to look at the back of Mr Hood’s thick, muscular neck and drifted peacefully into a recurring fantasy.

  ‘Vanessa, for a long time since the case, I’ve wanted to say something to you.’

  ‘I know, Jonathan.’

  ‘What an intuitive woman you are.’

  ‘Jonathan, don’t—’

  ‘But, my dear, my dear—’

  ‘We’re both so hopelessly tied. You to your wife and I to PS.’

  ‘Ness, are you saying we can’t even meet again?’

  What?

  Damn. She’d missed something because the court was buzzing softly and Lila was getting up and going into the witness box.

  Vanessa watched her. Oh, that mincing walk and that sheepish devoted smile, crossing the courtroom as though she were taking a cup of tea to Mater. Years of butter not melting in her mouth. Poor old George. Married to that fake.

  Mr Gentle said, ‘Mrs Baines, have you ever tried to influence your ward in any way against the applicant, Miss Scott?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Did you advise him not to return to her?’

  ‘No. It was his decision. I tried to get him to go back at least for that week until we could get some legal advice.’

  ‘You tried to reason with him?’

  ‘Oh, yes. But he kept saying, “I won’t go back, I won’t go back,” and every time I tried to take hold of him, he hung on to the bedpost and screamed. So I finally told him that it was all right but that he must tell Vanessa himself.’

  ‘On the subsequent night when your sister came to your house with her lawyer, did you forcibly prevent the boy from getting into the car?’

  ‘Yes, because I saw the chauffeur had his hand on the door, ready to slam it.’

  ‘Did the child cry and struggle to get in?’

  ‘Absolutely not. He clung to me.’

  ‘Did you scream out to the neighbours?’

  Absolutely not, said Lila. Vanessa had behaved like a crazy thing. Her abuse of Lila had been so terrible, so loud, that naturally the neighbours had been attracted by the noise. It had brought on one of Lila’s rare asthmatic attacks. A doctor’s certificate verified that Mrs Baines’ attacks were induced by emotional stress.

  Guided and steered by Mr Gentle, Lila basked in a spotlight of flatulent goodwill-towards-men. Pursued by arrogant writs and threats, poor Logan Marriott had been forced to flee Sydney on a train to escape Vanessa. Her sister Agnes, a temporary lodger, did belong to a religious sect (here Lila paused uneasily) but she did not try to impress her beliefs on the child, knowing that Mr and Mrs Baines did not adhere to them.

  Here Mr Hood stood up and asked, with the judge’s permission, was Miss Agnes Scott in court?

  No, said Mr Gentle.

  ‘Not here?’ Mr Hood looked astounded.

  ‘Owing to the fact that Miss Agnes Scott has only been living in Respondent’s home for the last month or so and was not present during any of the incidents applicable to the case, her affidavit has not been requested.’

  ‘Not requested? I see.’

  Mr Hood sat down, eyebrows sky high, and Agnes’s absence in court was duly noted.

  Skipping lightly over the unfortunate picnic, aware of traps, Mr Gentle averred that Mrs Baines had been within her rights to take the ‘little’ boy to meet some of his ‘little’ mother’s friends. And hadn’t the mother herself been a writer?

  A ‘little’ writer, thought Vanessa. A short but wiry novelist.

  ‘I believe his mother would have wished him to go,’ said Lila on cue, and touched her eyes with a handkerchief.

  ‘Is it true, Mrs Baines, that during this picnic, it was implied in front of the boy that he’d been in some way responsible for his mother’s death?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not at any time?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Where did he get this idea?’

  ‘From his other guardian.’

  ‘From the Deponent!’ Mr Gentle’s turn to put on a look of horror. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘He told me that Vanessa had said he was late coming and so his mother had died.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘A long while before the writers’ picnic.’

  ‘Before?’

  ‘Yes. Vanessa had taken him up to see Dear One’s Little Garden—’

  The judge looked down crossly. ‘Dear who’s what?’

  Mr Gentle elucidated.

  The judge, writing, asked Lila, ‘This is what you call the grave?’

  ‘Yes, your honour,’ said Lila. ‘We think it’s nicer.’

  Mr Hay-Piggott regarded Lila fiercely. ‘What have you told the boy about his mother?’

  ‘Well—’ Lila seemed flustered. ‘That she’s with the angels.’

  ‘With the Rangers?’ The judge looked affronted.

  ‘Angels, your honour.’ Mr Gentle spluttered. ‘Now, Mrs Baines—’

  ‘Wait a minute.’ The judge waved a pen at Mr Gentle. ‘I don’t understand. If the boy thinks his mother is with the angels, how can he also believe that she is in some little garden?’

  ‘He didn’t,’ said Lila and Mr Gentle in chorus.

  ‘I’m asking the witness,’ said the Judge irritably.

  Lila said shakily, ‘He thought of the little garden as a sweet sort of—memorial where we leave flowers and things—’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘I mean, just flowers, your honour. We’ve always made it seem nice for him. Then my sister went and told him that Sinden was down there in a box.’

  ‘We can presume that that is the truth,’ said the judge. ‘I don’t understand the point of all this.’

  Mr Gentle said, ‘But, your honour, the point is that the Deponent wilfully undermined all the careful training—’

  ‘Careful poppycock,’ said the judge. ‘I must remind counsel we are not in session to hear a lot of emotional balderdash about gardens and angels. The point is that the boy learned that his mother died in childbirth.’

  ‘Yes, your honour.’

  ‘And that he learned this from the Deponent?’

  ‘Yes, your honour.’

  ‘That’s all we need to know. Good gracious, we don’t need to write a book about it. We’ve already taken up far too much time on unimportant points. Now, do you have any further questions?’

  Mr Gentle said quickly, ‘No, your honour,’ and sat down as Mr Hood approached Lila with a gleaming smile.

  ‘Did you go to the train to see Mr Marriott off to Melbourne?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Because he wouldn’t come to your home?’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Lila was indignant. ‘He was coming. I had dinner all ready and at the last minute he rang up—’

  ‘He didn’t come to your home?’

  ‘No, but he’d been—’

  ‘So you had to go to him.’

  ‘He was leaving that very night.’

  ‘Well, then, naturally he wouldn’t have been able to come to your home.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘What did you discuss with him?’

  ‘Nothing. There wasn’t any time.’

  ‘What would you have discussed with him?’

  ‘Well—about PS.’

  ‘What about your nephew?’

  ‘My husband and I wanted Logan’s approval to adopt PS.’

  ‘Ah, I see. But you weren’t able to bring this up?’

  ‘Only briefly.’

  ‘Oh, then you were able to discuss it. I thought you said nothing was discussed.’

  ‘Just as the train was leaving,’ Lila had begun wheezing.

  ‘And what did Mr Marriott say?’

  ‘He said he wanted us to have PS.’

  ‘Was anyone else present when he said this?’

  ‘My husband and my sister Vere.’

  ‘Oh, your husband. Naturally. Was Mr Marriott sober when he said this?’

  Lila swallowed several times,
seemed to be fighting for breath.

  ‘No. But he understood and he said to write to him.’

  ‘I’m sorry; I didn’t hear that.’

  ‘To write to him.’

  ‘Write to him where?’

  ‘We don’t know where he is. We—’

  ‘Aren’t you feeling well? Do you want a glass of water?’

  Lila shook her head, regained her voice with an effort. ‘We then wrote to him care of his sister.’

  ‘Was there any reply?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No. Knowing Mr Marriott’s talent for evasiveness you could hardly have expected a reply. Once he was safely on that train and off into the blue, did you honestly hope that Mr Marriott would give a decision in your favour?’

  ‘We thought that perhaps—since he was so angry with Vanessa—’

  ‘I know you are not feeling well but I must ask you to speak up.’

  ‘I’m sorry I—’

  ‘Did you expect an immediate reply in your favour?’

  ‘Well, no—’

  ‘No, of course not.’ Mr Hood’s tone was kindly and conciliatory. ‘Why should you? You had not seen him for over six years, so why should you not assume you would not hear from him for another six. Were you angry when the train left?’

  ‘Somewhat.’

  Mr Hood cupped an ear in pantomime.

  ‘Somewhat.’ Lila gasped.

  ‘Somewhat angry. Yes, I should think so. I should think you went home very angry indeed. Was it the next Sunday that the boy refused to go back to Miss Scott?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It was the very next Sunday, a few days, in fact, after you had been frustrated in your attempts to get the father to agree to your taking the boy away from Miss Scott, that the boy refused to go back?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you still maintain it was solely the boy’s decision?’

  ‘Yes. Yes.’

  ‘You are asking the court to believe that, out of the blue, a six-year-old child suddenly made up his own mind not to return to his other guardian? You maintain that this extraordinary timing was merely coincidence?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Mr Hood remained silent while Lila exploded into a fit of wheezes and gasps, struggled for breath, flopped and wriggled in his fishing net. More than enough time to present a lying witness caught in her own asthmatic floundering. Then he bestowed on her a pitying smile and said, ‘Perhaps you had better stand down,’ putting out a hand to help Lila step from the witness box into the grave he had dug for her.

  Mr Gentle was up, waving little black wings and squawking that it was being implied the witness was in bad health; the witness had never been in bad health, was perfectly capable and willing to stand there all day and answer questions, provided they were put to her in a reasonable manner.

  The judge maintained that the questions had been put in a reasonable manner and asked Mr Hood if he wanted to ask anything more.

  Mr Hood said agreeably that there was no point in further questioning Mrs Baines. Mr Hay-Piggott cast a look of malignant dislike on both lawyers; warned them in his most leather-bound voice that it was to be hoped that proceedings would be wound up that day, and adjourned for lunch.

  Mr Hood hooked an arm around Vanessa coming through the swinging doors into the corridor, and said, ‘So far, so good, but we may have a difficult time with that housemaid. Might have to recall you to the stand if she gets tough.’

  At the same time Mr Gentle was reassuring Lila that once he got Diana on the stand things would really swing their way. Not that they needed it. If ever there was an open-and-shut case, Mr Gentle added, this was it. And by the way, the judge had asked to interview PS in chambers tomorrow afternoon. Ettie, blundering out of the seedy ladies’ room, came face to face with Lila going in and in a reflex action they clutched each other.

  ‘Lila! Ah, you poor, poor lamb. How are you?’

  ‘Ettie. Oh, my dear, your hands are icy cold. Haven’t you got your gloves?’

  ‘Ah, dear thing—so kind of you—got my muff but it’s freezing in the—er—courtroom.’

  ‘Yes, isn’t it? Someone ought to complain. Not even a radiator in the middle of August.’

  ‘How’s the little—’

  ‘He’s fine, Ettie. Oh, Ettie, who would ever have thought that this—We didn’t want this.’

  ‘Ah, I know you didn’t, you poor dears. Neither did Ness.’

  ‘Well—’

  ‘Poor you. Poor Ness.’

  Vanessa, spiralling like smoke around a corner, caught them red-handed. ‘Ettie!’

  Ettie’s little diamond hands moved uselessly in the air, made feeble protests at being drawn away, signalling that they were all lovely people at heart. Blood, said her fluttering hands, was thicker than water. Couldn’t everyone-kiss and make up now, before more damage was done to the soul?

  ‘After all,’ she said to Vanessa’s knotted face, ‘her mother was my first cousin.’

  ‘Of course that excuses everything.’

  ‘Ah, Ness—’

  ‘Please. I’m very nervous today.’

  Vanessa felt her nervousness grow during the waning afternoon. George Mason Baines, with no issue of his own, loved the boy and a boy needs a father. Mr Baines had provided an adequate home through thick and thin for more than six years. Mr Baines had had vicissitudes but they were not overwhelming. In fact, the prospects for improvement, for quick reinstatement in the Trades Hall, were so blinding that it seemed an inopportune moment to turn on the dusty green-glass courtroom lamps. Mr Hood asked in a respectful tone for what party had Mr Baines been a candidate in the 1926 election? Ah, the Labour Party. Yes, of course. Then, had the Socialists—beg pardon, Labourites—been instrumental in obtaining his employment for the trade unions? Yes. And Mr Baines was now working as a night watchman? Only temporarily, owing to a cut-back; I see. Were politics discussed much in the house? Not much? That’s surprising considering your interest in the Labour Party and unions and strikes. Objection? I beg your pardon, no inference meant at all.

  Housewife and neighbour Mrs Florence Grindel had witnessed cleanliness, good wholesome food and happiness next door. House good enough for little mother to live in for some months prior to her confinement. Everything milk and honey until arrival of Deponent from England. Remarked then on change in child. Nervous, fearful. Witnessed threats and wild behaviour of Deponent towards poor Mrs Baines. Considered calling police. Child sick in hydrangeas. Wonder to her he hadn’t refused to return to Deponent long before.

  Now, at last, the housemaid, and the courtroom sat up and straightened its back. Vanessa smiled to hear herself described as a ‘martinet’ and ‘strict disciplinarian’. How silly of this young lawyer to put such words into the mouth of an inarticulate slavey who probably thought a martinet was some kind of cocktail. Dumb Dora. Poor thing in her terrible beret with a rhinestone koala bear pinned to it, her bile-green dress with all that awful ruching, stumbling now towards the witness box, puce-faced, numb with the shock of being of importance. Almost immediately, the judge became impatient and rapped at Diana to ‘speak up, for goodness’ sake. If I can’t hear you, I’m sure nobody else can.’

  But, to Vanessa’s relief, Diana made a wretched witness. Glazed with stage fright, her butter fingers muffed every ball that Mr Gentle tossed hopefully at her. She grew vague about times and events and frequently had to have portions of her affidavit read again to her. Every damaging admission was drawn out of her with red-hot pincers and sighs of pain. ‘Y-e-e-s, well, the old lady sometimes took a few.’ Well, not drunk exactly, more tipsy, like. Always nice to her, though. No, she couldn’t say Miss Scott was cruel exactly, more ‘stern’. You had to watch your p’s and q’s with her. The kid had too many lessons and not enough time to play with other kiddies after school. The kiddie was often so ‘knocked up’ (translation for the judge: ‘Tired, your honour’) he had to go to bed before it was even dark.

  Had she ever seen Miss Scott
strike the child?

  After a long pause: well, yes, once.

  Well, it was the day the father came and there had been a big bust-up. Even they could hear it in the kitchen and the father told Miss Scott to go to hell and left. Right after that, Miss Scott had run upstairs and pushed the kiddie into his bedroom and slapped him for no reason. Then the kiddie had come running out and locked himself in the bathroom. Oh, for hours. None of them could get him to come out. It got her goat to see a poor kiddie suffer and so she’d spoke up to Miss Scott and got the sack then and there.

  Thank you.

  Mr Hood said, ‘Are you used to hard work?’

  Oh, yes, she was indeed. Came from a farm, where she milked ten cows before daylight, cooked for twenty farm hands, worked eighteen hours a day, even when she was a kid.

  ‘Eighteen hours a day,’ said Mr Hood, ‘and you consider an hour’s piano lesson or a ride in the park overtiring for a boy of six?’

  ‘Well—’

  ‘When you were employed by Miss Scott did she ever correct you? Complain about your work?’

  ‘Oh, yes, she—’

  ‘Was she ever harsh with you?’