I Made a Mistake

by Jane Corry

  To stop myself going crazy, I tried to follow my mother’s advice by gritting my teeth and getting on with life.

  I ignored the cheap smells on Jock’s clothes. I took no notice of the pink frilly pants I found in the back pocket of his trousers or the packet of condoms in his jacket. I pretended to be flattered by his advances at night.

  I didn’t hear Jane’s voice for a while after that. But she continued to visit me nightly in my dreams. Yet, to my disappointment and shame, she didn’t say anything. Just looked at me. And when I said I was sorry, she would turn away.

  Central Criminal Court, London

  The woman on the stand is looking as if every ounce of strength has been drained from her.

  The barrister appears puzzled in an exaggerated way. It’s as though she is alerting the jury to a conundrum that she cannot solve herself. A theatrical gesture, perhaps?

  Barristers are not dissimilar to actors. They both know how to make their presence swell to fill a stage. They both know how to tell a good tale. But a barrister is meant to do so for the sake of the truth. An actor is expected to elaborate it through mannerisms and voice in order to make the plot more interesting. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.

  ‘There’s something that is troubling me, Mrs Page,’ says the barrister, leaning forward.

  The air is tight. Taut. Expectant. Each juror is listening keenly.

  ‘If you wanted to get Matthew Gordon out of your life “for ever” as you’ve just admitted, why did you agree to meet up with him again?’

  23

  Poppy

  I can drive down to Dad’s now that the car has been repaired but the traffic is terrible and I wish, with hindsight, I’d taken the train. I could at least have caught up with emails then. Instead, I’m going to have to find time to do that later on. Right now, it all seems endless. A bit like trying to catch water in a sieve.

  Still, at least I’ll be able to take him for a run later on this afternoon if he wants one. Poor Dad. It’s no fun to have a twisted ankle when you’re in your seventies. Despite the law suit, it makes me feel even guiltier about Doris, who is no spring chicken herself. If only I’d had that carpet replaced or Betty hadn’t moved the chesterfield in order to vacuum properly …

  It takes my father an age to open the door and I am shocked by how frail and haggard he has become in the short time since I last saw him. Perhaps it’s the pain. ‘Thanks for coming,’ he says quietly.

  I give him a cuddle. ‘I’m sorry you’re hurt,’ I say as he then limps his way over to the sofa.

  ‘It was a silly accident,’ he puffs, sitting down heavily. ‘If I hadn’t fallen over my slippers, it would have been all right.’

  Did I hear him right? ‘You said you fell on the doorstep,’ I point out.

  He looks embarrassed. ‘I did. I landed on it after tripping over my slippers.’

  ‘What were you doing in them outside?’

  ‘Answering the door, of course. What is this? A bloody inquisition?’

  He’s getting cross now, as if I should know this.

  ‘And who was there?’

  ‘Kids.’ He waves his arm dismissively. ‘Playing pranks, they were. Ringing the doorbell and then running off. Their parents should be ashamed of themselves.’

  ‘And then someone walking past helped you out?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s what you told me,’ I say patiently. ‘He called the ambulance, you said.’

  ‘That’s right. Actually it was a woman.’

  I’m sure Dad said it was a man.

  ‘We ought to thank her.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know where she lives, do I? Stop going on about it, Poppy. I’ve sprained my ankle and that’s the end of it. It’s not like I’ve broken my neck. But it is a flipping nuisance, I grant you. Are you going to stay down here for a few nights to help me out?’

  Dad might be making light of his injury but he’s obviously worried. It can’t be easy. Yet a ‘few nights’ is longer than I was envisaging. I’m not sure I can leave my family for that long. Or my business.

  ‘I would if I could,’ I say, thinking about the appointment with the lawyer that Sally has now made for the following day. ‘But I’ve got to get back tomorrow.’

  Dad’s face falls. It reminds me of Daisy’s when I say she can’t do something. I’ve more or less given up with Melissa, who does what she pleases. Not surprising, really. She’s a young woman now. Almost the same age as I was when I fell hook, line and sinker for Matthew Gordon.

  ‘But I’ve found a care agency,’ I add brightly, to hide my apprehension at his reaction. ‘I spoke to this really nice woman who’s going to send someone round twice a day to cook you a meal and check you’re all right.’

  That was something I’d organized when I’d stopped for a break while travelling down. I expected Dad to object but instead he merely nodded. ‘OK.’

  Things must be bad. Whenever I’d suggested help before, he’d gone ballistic.

  ‘Would you like me to take you out for a little drive?’

  ‘What’s the point?’ he scoffs. ‘I’d rather stay in the warm. Maybe you could just stay and keep me company. I’d like that.’

  He keeps glancing at the window as if he’s expecting someone.

  ‘Of course. You seem worried about something, Dad.’

  ‘Too bloody true.’

  Dad hardly ever swears. ‘I’ve twisted my ankle, haven’t I? I’m in pain. And now my only daughter tells me that she can’t be bothered to hang around for more than a night to help me.’

  My heart sinks. ‘The thing is, Dad, I’ve got a few problems at work that need sorting out.’

  He makes a batting motion as if he doesn’t want to know the details. ‘You can sleep on the sofa tonight if you want, instead of going to a hotel.’

  He speaks as though he is doing me a favour. But I can tell it’s because he wants me nearby. Though, of course, that’s fine.

  That night, as Dad and I sit and watch an old film together (he’s selected something called The Scarlet Woman, which is, in view of the dire mess I’ve got myself in, rather ironic), my mobile rings. Daisy’s name flashes up. What’s happened now? My heart thuds so loudly that it’s like having a pneumatic drill inside my chest. It’s been doing this when my phone goes off ever since the night of the Christmas party.

  ‘How’s everything going?’ I ask.

  Daisy’s voice is tight, the way it gets when she’s apprehensive. ‘There’s something I’ve got to know, Mum.’

  I can hardly breathe for fear. She’s found out about Matthew. Or maybe she suspects. She wants to know if I could really have done the unthinkable …

  ‘Sorry, Dad,’ I say, leaping up. ‘I’ve got to take this.’

  He frowns. ‘Well, don’t be long. We’re getting to the good bit.’

  I slip into the kitchen. ‘What is it?’ I ask.

  ‘I know you said you wouldn’t but …’

  ‘What is it, Daisy?’ I’m aware that the fear in my voice is sounding like impatience.

  I can see my life disintegrating before my eyes. By the time I get back, Stuart will have changed the locks. Tell me I’m no longer welcome there. The girls will look at me through the windows with hate on their faces …

  ‘Would you let us keep Coco for ever? Madame Blanche has just called to say she’s not coming back because she’s getting divorced and she’s asked if we can keep the dog. Please say yes!’

  The relief is so intense that I almost slump to the floor.

  ‘Mum? Are you there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes you’re there or yes we can have Coco?’

  All the tension that’s been building up has made me irritable. ‘Of course we can’t. We’ve got enough to cope with as it is. Ask your father. He’ll tell you the same.’

  Daisy’s voice is desperate. ‘But Dad says we can keep Coco if you agree. He’s here. Right now. Speak to him. PLEEASE.’

  My
husband’s voice comes on the line. ‘Hi. How’s it going with your dad?’

  ‘How can you have promised her this without discussing it with me?’ I hiss, ignoring his question.

  ‘I didn’t.’ His voice is calm. Rational. Steady. I want to throttle him. Figuratively speaking, of course. ‘I said you needed to agree, Poppy.’

  Why is it that when people use your name – especially when it’s not actually necessary – you feel as though they are in control of you?

  ‘But the fact that you said she could if I agree makes me look like the baddy if I say we can’t.’

  ‘I don’t see it that way,’ he says. ‘Anyway, have you considered the fact that a dog might give the girls some comfort during a tricky time.’

  My skin starts to break out into goosebumps. What is he talking about? Has he found out about Matthew? Is he about to tell me he’s leaving me for Janine?

  ‘What do you mean?’ I say. ‘What “tricky time”?’

  There’s a short laugh. ‘I know you’ve been busy at work, Poppy. But surely you haven’t forgotten about their exams.’

  For the second time I just about manage to keep myself from sighing with relief. ‘Of course I haven’t.’

  ‘There’s been quite a lot of medical research to say that animals can help people deal with pressure.’

  ‘What about me?’ I demand. ‘A dog will just be adding to my to-do list. I’ll be the one who ends up walking it.’

  I feel my voice rising, aware that I sound overwrought. My husband, on the other hand, is talking as though he is a doctor in charge of an unstable patient who needs to see reason. ‘The girls will do their share. It will teach them responsibility. And Mum says she’ll help out.’

  ‘It sounds as though you’ve got it all sorted, then.’

  ‘There’s no need to be sarcastic.’

  ‘Poppy,’ Dad calls from the living room. ‘Are we watching this film or not?’

  ‘I won’t be long,’ I call back, putting on a brighter voice. I might not be an actress any more but I’ve kept some of my tricks.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ I say down the phone. ‘My father needs me.’

  ‘We all do.’

  Is there a hint of accusation in his voice?

  ‘I’m doing my best, Stuart.’ Tears sting my eyes. ‘I’m at my wits’ end here.’

  ‘I know.’ His voice becomes irritatingly soothing. ‘That’s why we need that break in Devon. I’ve booked the time off.’

  I’d completely forgotten about that. Forgotten about our twentieth wedding anniversary too, to be honest.

  ‘That’s great,’ I say, trying to sound as though I had remembered all along. ‘I’ll try and make sure my diary is clear too.’

  ‘Well, only if it’s not too inconvenient,’ says Stuart.

  If I didn’t know my husband better, I might think he was being sarcastic as he had accused me earlier. But Stuart says what he thinks. It’s another reason I fell for him in the first place. You knew where you were with him. Then I think of his conversations on the phone with Janine and I wonder if this is still true.

  ‘Of course it’s not too inconvenient,’ I say deliberately. ‘I want to go.’

  ‘Good. Mum will look after the girls.’

  For the umpteenth time I ask myself how we’d ever manage without Betty.

  Meanwhile, Dad’s grumbles are getting louder.

  ‘I’ve got to go now,’ I say.

  ‘Of course. Give my best to your dad. How’s he doing?’

  ‘Not fantastic,’ I say. ‘He –’

  But then there’s a click. Stuart has hung up.

  ‘Hello?’ I say blankly, even though I know he’s gone. I ring again. It’s engaged. It continues that way until I give up. Something doesn’t feel right.

  I help Dad to bed when the film has ended but I can’t help worrying about how he’s going to manage when I leave tomorrow. What if he has another fall in between the carer’s visits? I decide to ring Reg in the morning and see if he can come round too. There’s a blip on my phone. It’s a text from Stuart.

  Sorry. Reception was bad and then I had to take a work call. Sleep well x

  After a night tossing and turning on Dad’s sofa, I’m woken by the mobile at 6.30 a.m. I swear that if it’s Daisy with some nonsense about that dog, I’ll …

  But it’s a withheld number.

  ‘Yes?’ I say sleepily.

  ‘Pops!’

  My chest starts to thump.

  ‘Just wanted to wish you luck.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  His voice is jaunty. Chatty, even, with a low sinister threat. ‘Your meeting today. A little bird tells me you’re getting legal advice on poor Doris’s case.’

  This makes no sense. ‘How on earth do you know?’

  ‘Ah.’ I can almost hear Matthew smiling down the phone. ‘You’ve underestimated me, Pops. People talk in this business. All you have to do is keep your ear to the ground. Then again, you made it so easy for me! After you told me about Doris fracturing her shoulder, I gave her a little ring to offer my condolences. We met briefly at the Christmas party, if you remember. Lovely woman, isn’t she? Told me all about your worn carpet. You tripped yourself up there, didn’t you Pops, if you’ll forgive the pun. Naturally, poor Doris was very upset that she wouldn’t be able to work for some time. I suggested that she might have a case against you. After all, your home office was unsafe, wasn’t it? So I advised her to go to a lawyer and check out her rights.’

  I listen, scarcely able to believe what I’m hearing.

  ‘Of course, Doris said that she’d never sue you. “We’re more like friends,” she said. So I just set her mind at ease. Told her it wouldn’t be you paying out. You’d have insurance that would cover you. In fact, it wouldn’t really affect you much at all, apart, perhaps, from raising your premium next time you renew.’

  My mind shoots back to that evening in the Worthing hotel when I’d been foolish enough to confide my worries to Matthew, including Doris’s accident and other details.

  ‘Tripped on worn carpet. usually hidden by the chesterfield … don’t have public liability insurance … our home insurance might not cover it …’

  How stupid I’d been to tell him all this!

  ‘Who else knows about this?’ I thundered.

  ‘I might have mentioned it to another agency I’m dealing with. It’s run by a woman called Sharon. She was most interested. Didn’t sound as though she liked you very much, actually.’

  I close my eyes. I picture Sharon and her shapeless navy dress and our last terse conversation at the Christmas party. The news will have spread like wildfire: Poppy Page has messed up big time. It doesn’t look good.

  ‘Why are you doing this to me?’ I wail.

  There is silence for a moment. I can hear Dad calling out. ‘Poppy? Are you up? I need to go to the bathroom. Can you help me?’

  ‘Won’t be a minute, Dad,’ I call out, trying to sound like everything is fine.

  ‘You weren’t listening to me, Pops. I had to do something to get your attention. But hopefully now you’ll start being sensible and we can talk. I’ll text you a time and place.’

  And before I can say anything, the line has gone dead.

  24

  Betty

  The only answer was just to get on with life. It’s what I’d been brought up to do. So I prepared Jock’s meals, cleaned our dingy flat and took care of Stuart, whose chubby arms around my neck were some consolation. But guilt and misery were making me ill. I stopped eating. My scalp began to itch and soon my skin broke out into painful red sores. The doctor diagnosed psoriasis. I woke, sitting up straight with a start, every morning at 4 a.m. Then I’d tiptoe into our son’s bedroom to check he was still breathing. For some reason, I became consumed by the fear that he might die. I’d lean over his cot, terrified of what I might find there.

  But his little chest always rose and fell steadily.

  People began to remark about my
thinness. ‘You’ve gone all scrawny,’ said Jock when he came on to me. ‘It’s disgusting.’

  ‘At least you’ve got your other women to keep you satisfied then,’ I almost said. But I bit the comment back. I guessed there must be more than one because the perfumes on his shirt kept changing.

  Then one day when Stuart and I were round at my mother’s, she declared she wanted a ‘little word’ with me. ‘Don’t worry about the lad,’ she said, waving her hand at her grandson. ‘He’s all right in front of the telly for a bit.’

  I wondered what she was going to say. Her face was set as she pulled up a kitchen chair to sit down. ‘I’m going to come straight out with it. Your Jock has been with another woman.’

  ‘I know,’ I said.

  Her eyes widened. ‘You know? And what are you doing about it?’

  ‘I am getting on with my marriage,’ I said curtly. ‘Like you told me.’

  ‘I didn’t mean you to turn a blind eye to a prostitute.’

  I stared at her. ‘What?’

  ‘He’s been seen coming out of that place in Cross Lane.’

  I knew the bar. Everybody did. It was notorious.

  She put her hand out and patted mine in a rare display of affection. ‘You need to be careful, lass. You might pick up something.’

  I thought of how I’d itched after Jock had last touched me. He refused to wear a condom (or a rubber johnnie as we sometimes called them then), insisting that birth control was my problem. Instead, I’d grappled with the Dutch cap. But it was far from foolproof. ‘What shall I do?’ I asked.

  ‘Better get yourself checked out – but not by our doctor. Go somewhere where no one knows us. There are clinics, aren’t there?’

  I was surprised my mother was so knowledgeable.

  When I got home, I went through the Yellow Pages, barely able to keep my fingers from shaking. There was something called the Brook Advisory Centre in central London, so I picked up the phone and made an appointment, wondering what on earth I was doing. Afterwards, I panicked. I hardly ever went ‘up West’. What if one of Jock’s friends saw me getting on the 38 bus? So I wore an old hat pulled over my face. Mum had agreed to look after Stuart.