Eager to Please

by Julie Parsons

  Rachel had noticed the man at the back of the queue for communion. He was much younger than everyone else and he wasn’t usually here at this time, in this place. It had become her habit to sit in the darkness of the church and listen to the sound of the Mass. There was comfort in the familiar words and no one ever noticed her. All eyes were on the priest and the altar. And she liked that. But he had looked at her. She had felt rather than seen his glance in her direction as he walked past. She had watched him bow his head and hold up his hands to receive, and she had expected him to look again at her as he walked back to his seat. But his eyes were lowered, his expression turned inward.

  She got to her feet and edged out of the pew. It was time, she was sure, to go back to work. Today, Mickey, the nice man who worked alongside her in the dry-cleaner’s mending shoes and cutting keys, had asked her to have lunch with him. But she had refused, found an excuse. His feelings had been hurt, she could see that. He had looked down at his hands – callused, hardened, shoe polish ingrained around his fingernails and lodged in the lines of his palms, so they seemed, she thought, like an etching or a woodcut – and turned them over this way and that. Then he had looked at her face again and said, ‘Some other time maybe,’ as he put on his coat and lifted the countertop and walked away. She had nodded at his back, the bile rising into her mouth. How could she explain that it was nothing personal? That twelve years of eating on her own, in her cell, had made it impossible for her to imagine how it would be to eat in the company of another. Biting, chewing, swallowing, all such actions must be done privately. She could no more eat in public now than she could walk naked down the street. It just wasn’t possible. That was why she always went back to her room at lunchtime, or to the corner outside the shopping centre, behind the parked cars, where no one else ever came. But she would have never been able to tell him or anyone else that. They wouldn’t understand.

  And then as she passed the man seated at the back by the door to the street he looked up at her, looked straight into her face. And she saw who he was, and knew him, and cringed away from him as she remembered. The searches and the interrogation. The parade of witnesses during the trial. The words that were spoken about her. Against her. She tried to think. Was there a name that went with that face? Did it matter? He was one of them. The people who had spoken lies about her. Who had turned her into this pathetic creature. Whose memories were so confused that sometimes she thought she would never be able to sort the chronology of her recollections into any kind of order. Before, after, then, now, it was all a muddled blur. And the only way to make it clear again was to complete the task that she had planned for so many years. The time was nearly right to begin. Nearly, but not quite. Soon she would be ready, and then everything would be different.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ANOTHER FACE THAT might or might not be familiar. Plump cheeks, wide lipsticked mouth, long gold earrings that caught the light and twinkled, and a charm bracelet snagging on the wool and tweed of the suits and coats that the woman piled on the counter in front of Rachel.

  ‘There’s no rush for these, dear. Just getting all the winter clothes sorted out. I do like to make sure that everything’s nice and tidy before the summer holidays. You know that way.’

  Rachel had never heard the woman’s voice before. In the days when she had sat in Court Number Four and watched and listened as the case against her was laid out for public scrutiny, she had heard the voices of the barristers, prosecuting and defending, the judge, the witnesses, but never the voices of the twelve members of the jury. Apart from the man elected to be their foreman, who would make known their decision. Freedom and vindication or prison and disgrace.

  Eight men and four women were selected from the panel of jurors. She had watched the selection proceed. Her solicitor explained, prosecution and defence could object to four each. But the objection could be based on nothing more than appearance and instinct. They would try to get as many women as they could for her. Stands to reason, her solicitor said. Women would be more sympathetic to her situation. Precedent suggested that anyway. But they were unlucky.

  Rachel had sat opposite them for the six days that the trial lasted, shifting uneasily on the hard wooden seat, trying not to slump or sag, straining to look alert and interested, to look like the kind of person they would believe. Behind her sat her father. Always. Every day. Her mother stayed at home. Rachel waited to see who would support her and believe in her. Once she had friends. Girls she had met at school and at university, who had stayed in touch through their years of work, marriage and motherhood. A few of them came, in twos, and stayed for an hour, sometimes less. Mouthing excuses across the crowded courtroom.

  Sorry, got to go. Got to collect the kids from school, crèche, football practice. Got to get back to work, got a deadline. Sorry, talk to you soon. Keep in touch. Don’t worry. It’ll be fine.

  While the jury sat and listened. All twelve of them. The eight men and the four women. Including the woman with the dangling earrings and the clinking charm bracelet, the powdered cheeks and the red mouth who now was pushing the piled clothes across the counter. Whose face had crumpled with anguish, her plump shoulders shaking, tears spilling down the ridges on either side of her nose as the foreman of the jury rose to pronounce the verdict.

  She had cried silently then, and she had continued to cry while the judge pronounced sentence. And afterwards? Rachel did not know. Because afterwards there had been no time for anything or anybody except to say goodbye to Amy, to hold her for one last moment, breathing in the musky sweetness which rose up from beneath her bright blue sweater as Rachel kissed her and kissed her. On her cheeks and forehead, her mouth, her chin, the soft folds of skin around her neck, her hands and fingers, red with cold on that raw November day. Until the prison officer tapped her on the shoulder and told her that she had to go. That it was time. That the van was waiting.

  ‘The van?’ Rachel had looked up at her and back down to Amy, who had begun to whimper.

  ‘The van, the prison van. Come on now, Rachel. Don’t keep us waiting.’ And she put her hand on her forearm and gestured to her to stand up. ‘This way, now. There’s a good girl. Don’t make a fuss.’

  Rachel stood in the Round Hall and looked from side to side. At her father, who had picked up the child and was cradling her in his arms, promising her sweeties and treats ‘if you’re a good girl for Grandad’. So that was the way it was to be. Mother and daughter, their obedience demanded. One by threats, the other by bribes.

  Her solicitor and barristers were walking briskly towards the front door. The crowd who had milled around her since the trial began, the journalists, the guards, the vicarious onlookers, were leaving. Buttoning up their coats against the damp chill, picking up their bags and briefcases. Their conversations drifted past her.

  ‘Tonight? I fancy a film. What about you?’

  ‘Dinner would be nice, then a couple of pints.’

  ‘I’m for a night in. A hot bath and a bottle of wine. I’m wrecked. And I’ve another big case starting tomorrow.’

  She stood beside the prison officer and watched as the Round Hall emptied, like the tide going out, leaving her behind. And somehow or other she realized that it was all over.

  The trial, the parade of witnesses, the chain of evidence, the testimonies, the legal arguments, the disputes about procedure. She had heard them all. She had listened as the days passed. And the story of her husband’s death had been laid out in front of the court. The prosecution had produced their evidence. The shotgun with her fingerprints on it. Her clothes stained with his blood. The forensic evidence that the spread of droplets was consistent with being in the position from where the shots had been fired. The medical evidence that the first wound to his upper-right thigh severed the femoral artery causing haemorrhage. That it was not, however, necessarily fatal. If he had received medical attention he would have survived. That it was the second shot that penetrated the pelvis that caused his death by damaging the left il
iac artery, so he haemorrhaged into his abdomen. That the cataclysmic bleed caused him to exsanguinate, to bleed to death. That he went into a state of shock, that he lost consciousness immediately, that he died within half an hour. The evidence from her neighbours who said they had heard the sound of an argument. And yes, they had heard something else, a couple of loud bangs. They had thought it was a backfiring car. But no, they hadn’t seen anyone else at the house. They’d seen no one come or go that night. Nothing except they’d heard a car drive away sometime late, after eleven or so.

  ‘And did you see whose car this was? And who was driving it?’ The prosecution barrister leaned forward as he asked the question.

  The young woman from next door had hesitated. She couldn’t be sure, she said. Oh, she was sure that it was Rachel Beckett’s car, she knew that all right. And she thought it was Mrs Beckett in it, but she wasn’t absolutely certain.

  ‘Not certain, I see. In percentage terms what would we be talking about? Seventy-five, eighty, ninety per cent?’

  Again the hesitation. Rachel stared at her, willing her to look back. But she ducked her head and paused, then said, ‘It was pretty dark, but I’d say I’d be over ninety per cent sure that it was her.’

  Rachel waited for the cross-examination from her defence. But it didn’t come.

  ‘Why didn’t you go for her?’ she had asked her barrister afterwards.

  ‘Because,’ he said, ‘that way we still had a doubt. If I’d pushed her further who knows what she might have said?’

  She had watched Daniel when he was called to give his evidence. She had never seen him so calm and confident. He told his story cogently. Mrs Beckett, Rachel, his sister-in-law had phoned him. Said that she was frightened, that she and Martin were having a row, that Martin was drunk.

  ‘Did she ask for help?’

  ‘Yes, she did.’

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘I said I would come and speak to Martin.’

  ‘Did she tell you what the row was about?’

  ‘She did.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She said that Martin had found out that we had had a relationship a number of years ago. That he was furious. That he wanted to end the marriage.’

  ‘So what did she want you to do?’

  ‘She wanted me to come and tell Martin that it meant nothing. That it was casual. That it was all over.’

  ‘And did you do that?’

  ‘Well, I was going to, but when I got there Martin was asleep. He had passed out on the couch. So there didn’t seem to be much point in hanging around. So I left.’

  ‘So what do you say to the testimony of the defendant? That it was you who fired the second fatal shot and you who told her that you would get rid of the evidence – the gun, her clothes – that you would take her car and dump it, make it look as if it had been stolen. And it was you who concocted the story, the ridiculous story about who it was who had killed her husband.’

  She watched him. She tried to catch his eye. She knew when he saw what was happening that he would do the right thing. And then she heard his words.

  ‘That’s completely untrue. Who would believe anything like that? My brother was alive when I left the house.’

  ‘And where were you between the hours of ten p.m. and midnight on the night in question?’

  ‘I was at my mother’s house in Greystones. She hadn’t been well. I had rung her when I was leaving work and she had asked me to come and sit with her, because my father was away. And I did, I stayed the night.’

  She had watched Mrs Beckett give her testimony. She listened carefully to the words she used. She looked frail and old, her hands shaking, but her voice was strong.

  ‘My son was with me. He put me to bed. He sat beside me till I went to sleep.’

  ‘And what time was that?’

  She hesitated. The court waited. Then she spoke. ‘It was nine o’clock. I remember I heard the clock in the hall chime. I couldn’t sleep. He brought me a video, one of my favourite old films, High Society with Grace Kelly and Bing Crosby. I love that film. I fell asleep. He was so good to me that night. He woke me up for the ending, because he knows I love it so much, and then he came into me every hour to make sure I was all right.’

  And Rachel looked at her and listened as the barrister questioned her. Asked her over and over again.

  Are you sure?

  Are you positive?

  Do you know?

  And to each question she answered yes, yes, yes.

  Until finally the judge intervened. Said he’d heard quite enough. That there was no further purpose to this line of questioning.

  And now it was all over. And she was walking through the car park to the van, feeling the wind from the river tugging at her hair and her coat, the chain from the handcuffs tugging at her wrists as she looked up and around her, at the lighted windows of the court buildings, and the crowds outside the gates heading for home.

  She did not cry then, not until sometime early the next morning as she lay in her prison clothes, underneath her prison blankets, and tried to understand what had happened. This cannot be, she said out loud. This is a mistake. I am not this person. I am not this woman. I am a good woman who loved her husband and loves her daughter. I made a mistake, that is all. I should not be punished for it like this. Tomorrow they’ll let me out. As soon as it gets light I’ll tell them it’s all been a mistake. And she banged on the door and shouted.

  But no one came to her. And she saw nothing except the sudden bright point of light as the spyhole was jerked open, every fifteen minutes throughout that night. And then the tears began to flow and saltwater stung her lips.

  Now her hands touched the woman’s hands as she pulled the piled suits and coats towards her. The woman had long fingernails, painted crimson. They were hard and pointed, manicured and cared for. Rachel drew back and turned to the cash register, adding up the amount for each item. The machine spat out a pink ticket. Rachel tore it off and turned back.

  ‘When would you like these?’ she asked, and for the first time their eyes met. There was a pause.

  ‘There’s no rush. The end of the week would be fine.’

  ‘And your name?’ Rachel’s pen hovered, waiting. This time the pause was longer.

  ‘Lynch, Mrs Lynch.’

  She pushed the top half of the pink slip across the counter. Long red nails fiddled with it, then fingers grasped it and slipped it into a black leather bag. Rachel picked up the other half and pinned it firmly to the rough stubbly tweed of a man’s sports jacket. Around them was the bustle of trade and commerce, the echo of footsteps and loud music pouring from a speaker set in the ceiling tiles. She looked up again. The woman called Mrs Lynch was fiddling with the clasp of her purse, adjusting the floral scarf at her neck. Rachel dumped the pile of clothes in the waiting bin. She turned back to the counter.

  ‘They let you out. Finally. They let you out.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I’m so glad. It should never have been like that. I couldn’t believe they would do that to you.’

  Rachel smiled, just for a moment.

  ‘I’ve thought about you so often, wondered how you were. Please, if you need anything. I’ll be back for the clothes on Friday. Tell me then, if there’s anything I can do.’

  Rachel watched the tears well up in her large blue eyes as the next customer stepped forward, holding out his ticket, waiting for service. The woman called Mrs Lynch turned away, then turned back again towards her.

  ‘I’m so pleased, it’s been such a long time.’

  Rachel took the man’s ticket. She moved to the racks of polythene-wrapped clothes that hung in rows, like so many sleeping beauties, she thought, waiting to be brought to life. She ran her finger along the hangers, matching up the numbers. She found a dark suit and, nestling against it, a dress. Cream silk, with tiny pleats that would fold and mould themselves around the body beneath, a halter-neck top, a low back and a long skirt. Th
e plastic was cold and slippery beneath her hand as she pressed her palm up against it. She pulled the dress from the rack. She wanted to hold it next to her skin like the special dresses she had worn before. Once upon a time. Silk and linen, satin and lace. Her thighs crossing beneath her skirt, her stomach pressing against her waistband, her breasts pushing up and into her bodice as she watched Martin, how he was watching her.

  ‘Hey.’ She heard the loud voice behind her. ‘What’s keeping you? Is there a problem?’

  She turned quickly, folding the dress and suit over her arm.

  ‘Sorry, I’m sorry.’ Her face reddened as the words rushed out. ‘No, nothing wrong, not at all. I was just,’ she paused, ‘just admiring this dress. It’s lovely.’

  Notes thrust at her as she folded the clothes and put them carefully into a plastic bag. Change snatched from her hand, and a curt nod of the head in acknowledgement as her apologies still poured out. She crept back and away from public view to stand, head bowed, among the silhouetted shapes of other people’s lives.

  The Matron had told her to come at two.

  ‘You’ll see him at his best then. We have music in the afternoon. He loves the music.’

  She was late. There had been a mix-up over the cash in the till. It wasn’t her fault. She was only supposed to work until one. But the boss had insisted on counting the money, and there was a tenner missing. She had made Rachel wait until everything had been accounted for. Until the money had been checked and rechecked. The sums done. And somehow the missing note had appeared again. Rachel had met Mickey’s eyes above the pile of coins. He had winked and smiled apologetically.

  She had to run to get the train out along the seashore to Bray. She had the name of the old people’s home scribbled on a piece of paper, but she wasn’t sure where it was. She had to stop to ask. Twice, three times, unable to concentrate on the directions she was being given. Running from street to street, peering at the names on the gates, until she found the right one. Sylvan View it was called. A long drive, a garden filled with evergreens. And, standing apart from its neighbours, a large red-brick house, with granite steps and a concrete wheelchair ramp curving up one side.