by Jane Corry
Stuart has taken time off work to look after them, something he’s never done before, not even for illness.
We have our meals separately, by unspoken agreement. Even Coco is ignoring me.
‘I can’t believe you could have had an affair,’ said Stuart, as I was about to go into Betty’s bedroom.
‘I’m sorry,’ I sobbed. ‘And I’m sorry about the money too.’
The notes had scattered everywhere after the accident. About £18,000 was recovered but the rest, say the police, was either completely destroyed or stolen. Apparently it’s not uncommon for spectators at the scene of an accident to help themselves to ‘valuable goods’. Ironically, if the money had been in the new plastic £5 and £10 notes, they might have remained intact. But because of the amount, it had come in larger denominations Luckily, the bank was able to replace those notes that were still identifiable.
He gave me a scathing look. ‘You’re not the woman I thought you were.’
Those words hurt almost more than any others. Because they were true. In fact, I’m not the woman I thought I was, either. My mind goes back to the night of Matthew Gordon’s death when the police knocked on our door.
‘You’re accusing my mother of killing one of my patients?’ spluttered my husband when the officers interviewed us in our sitting room. ‘She didn’t even know him. Matthew Gordon was just a patient of mine who happened to be at drama school with my wife.’
I was as confused as he was to begin with. I’d only just returned from seeing Matthew all too alive and well. How could Betty – who was still out at one of her evening classes – be involved in his death? Now was the time to tell the police about the package; to confess that it was me who had met Matthew earlier that evening.
But I was too scared. Then while the officer was still there, Betty came home and – to our horror – was arrested and taken to the police station.
We found a defence lawyer who specialized in murder cases. Murder! It seemed completely unreal. But Betty wasn’t even allowed bail. She was held on remand in a prison on the outskirts of London until the trial.
When we went to see her at visiting time, Betty told us what she’d told the police. ‘I was on my way to my jewellery-making class and happened to be standing next to Matthew Gordon on the platform when he suddenly fell on the track. I didn’t know him from Adam.’
It’s possible, I suppose. When a platform is packed with so many people, you are bound to have a connection with one of them even if you aren’t aware of it.
Then she burst into tears. She was shaking so much we could actually hear her teeth rattling. ‘It was so awful when he went like that …’
‘You’re in shock, Mum,’ said my husband. ‘It was just a horrible accident.’
Then he awkwardly tried to give her a cuddle but one of the officers stepped in. ‘No touching.’
When visiting time ended, she managed to whisper into my ear. ‘Don’t say you saw him too.’
That’s when I realized. She had known about Matthew. But how? And there was still no way I could believe my wonderful mother-in-law was guilty of murder. There must have been some mistake. But I kept quiet, convinced she’d get off. After all, where was the evidence?
As for the money, it no longer seemed important. Not in the grand scheme of things.
Then everything really started falling apart. My husband’s statement – which included the fact that Matthew had been a patient of his and that he’d been at drama school with me, led to further police investigations. The lawyer told me that staff at the hotel in Worthing came forward to say we’d shared a room. Guests at the Christmas work party were also contacted. Jennifer told them that she’d seen us go up to the fourth floor together. I swore that nothing had happened then, but I found that when I got to court I’d be quizzed about what went on between us after that.
‘You will be asked to describe your relationship with Matthew,’ warned the lawyer.
‘Why?’ I’d asked, panicking. ‘What relevance does it have?’
‘The prosecution might argue that this influenced Betty’s motives and that she is indeed guilty.’ She gave me a look that might or might not have been interpreted as sympathetic. ‘Does your husband know about your affair?’
‘No. Only … only that Matthew and I once knew each other years ago.’
‘Stuart will find out when you give evidence. You might want to tell him first.’
But once more, I simply couldn’t summon up the courage. Meanwhile, Betty refused to let any of us visit her again in prison. ‘She’s too upset,’ said the lawyer. ‘And she says it will only distress you all.’
When the case went to court, I wished I had followed the lawyer’s advice about coming clean with Stuart. As she had warned me, the prosecution did call me as a witness to show what Matthew was like and the strain he had put me under. Then their barrister argued that Betty had killed Matthew in order to ‘protect her family, including the daughter-in-law, whom she loved as a daughter’.
They forced me to reveal all the terrible things that Matthew had done: the stalking, the harassment, the blackmail. I hadn’t expected such personal questions about Matthew and me. I hadn’t realized I would be forced to go into intimate sexual detail.
Time and time again, I looked up at the public gallery, searching for Stuart and my daughters’ faces. To tell them I was sorry. At one stage, after a particularly graphic confession, I saw Melissa and Daisy jumping up and leaving. That’s when I knew it was all over. At least for me.
Later, the prosecution called another witness. A cellist who had been near Betty and Matthew on Platform 3. ‘I saw them arguing over a package,’ she claimed. ‘There was a scuffle. He bumped right into me. I’m pretty sure she pushed him.’ She shuddered. ‘Then there was this terrible scream.’
Yet ‘pretty sure’ is no concrete proof, as the defence lawyer pointed out.
Sandra’s brother Tom was also called as a witness to give a ‘character reference’.
‘Matthew was a bully,’ he said. ‘He fooled people – including my sister at first – by pretending to be charming. But in my opinion, he was a dangerous, obsessive man.’
When Betty was giving evidence, the argument changed.
‘I put it to you that your daughter-in-law was indirectly responsible for Matthew Gordon’s death. You murdered him because she asked you to, didn’t you?’
‘No! She wouldn’t do that.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘How well do you really know her?’
‘Pretty well, I like to think.’
‘Is it not true that you overheard her saying, “I’ll kill you, Matthew Gordon,” or words to that effect, in her study? Is that when you decided to do the job for her?’
‘No. It wasn’t like that.’
Betty’s hands were gripping the edge of the stand.
‘Are you certain? Because your youngest granddaughter, who was at home with a cold, was also outside the door at the time. She told us that you had advised her never to mention it again to anyone.’
‘That’s because it was just a turn of speech. Poppy didn’t mean it. I know she didn’t.’
‘Then you did overhear her.’
‘Well, yes. But like I said, she didn’t mean it.’
‘I see. My Lord, I seek leave to recall Poppy Page for further questioning.’
I gasped silently. Please, no more! As if sensing this, Betty’s face turned to me. Our eyes locked. And suddenly I knew exactly what she was going to do.
‘All right,’ she cried out. ‘I admit it. I did it. I pushed Matthew Gordon in front of that train, but it wasn’t because Poppy told me to. My daughter-in-law had nothing to do with it. Shortly before it happened, I heard a conversation between them. That odious man was blackmailing her. He said she had to go to Waterloo on Friday evening with fifty thousand pounds. So I went there without her knowing and followed him down to the platform. That’s when I did it. I had
to stop that man from destroying us, not just financially but also mentally.’
There was a gasp that went through the courtroom like a wave. But at the end of the evidence, the judge addressed the jurors before they were sent out to make their decision. ‘I should make it clear that the defendant’s statement that she pushed Matthew Gordon under the train does not in itself constitute an admission to murder. The jury has to find that the necessary constituent elements of the offence of murder have been proven.’
In other words, all the other evidence had to be taken into account too.
It took the jury less than half an hour.
Their verdict was unanimous. I knew it would be. After all, Betty had been next to Matthew on the platform. A witness had seen them ‘scuffling’ and was ‘pretty sure’ Betty had pushed him. And although the judge had told the jury not to convict on the strength of Betty’s admission of guilt alone, it had to have been a big factor.
The case was over. Betty would have to stay on remand before being sentenced. How long would she get? I couldn’t bear to think of it. I ran around the court, frantically searching for my husband. But he had gone home with the girls, as I discovered when I came back myself, sick to the core. My daughters were upstairs in their bedrooms. Refusing to come out.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said to Stuart. ‘I wanted to tell you about Matthew. But I was too scared. Our relationship didn’t mean anything …’
‘Stop,’ he said. I have never seen him look so angry before. ‘Didn’t mean anything? How can you say that? It’s thanks to you that my mother is in prison. She was trying to save us.’
‘Do you want me to leave?’ I sobbed.
‘No. The girls need you.’
‘But they won’t want anything to do with me either.’
‘Not at the moment. They might, eventually.’
He was so cold. So clinical. My husband looked exhausted, as if all the life had been drained from him.
‘What about you?’ I whispered. ‘Will you ever want me again?’
He gave me a hard stare. ‘I don’t know.’
I attempted to talk the girls round. ‘Shall we write your grandmother a letter?’
Melissa stared at me blackly. ‘You honestly think that’s going to help?’ she said, her voice laden with scorn.
She was right of course. Nothing could fix this.
My home was no longer my sanctuary. It was my prison now that everyone in it hates me. But still I tried. ‘I understand that you had to tell the police what you overheard,’ I assured Daisy. But she wouldn’t meet my eyes.
‘I heard you saying you wanted to kill that man,’ she said. ‘That’s wrong. Granny said you didn’t mean it. But I think you did. It’s why I believe Granny killed him instead.’
‘I didn’t ask her to …’ I started. But Daisy was walking away. I wanted to sink into the ground or go to sleep for ever. I don’t deserve to be a parent.
Meanwhile, my initial relief that Matthew could no longer hurt us was becoming mixed with grief as the truth about his awful death sank in. No one deserves to die like that. I tried not to read the papers after the trial but in the end I couldn’t stop myself.
‘Grandmother Convicted for Pushing Man Under Train’ screamed one headline. Then it went into grizzly detail – eagerly supplied by onlookers from the platform – which made me want to weep.
You read about people falling under trains all the time, but this was different. This wasn’t just any man. This had been Matthew Gordon. I could see him as clearly as if he was standing in front of me. My first love with dark hair swept back from his face, revealing a strong forehead and a determined nose. Those lips, generous in their fullness. That squarish face. That manner of standing tall, as if assessing the rest of the world. An actor who enjoyed an audience.
That man was no more.
No wonder my husband and daughters hated me. I hated myself too.
I thought of the bruise Matthew had given me on my arm when I’d tried to get out of the hotel room. Had that been a sign of a violent nature? Or was he simply a desperate man? Did I believe what he’d said on my doorstep – that he took no pleasure in blackmailing me? I didn’t know any more.
And now, two weeks after the trial, I am finally cleared to visit the one person who tried to save our family. The woman who had been my substitute mother is now facing years in prison because of me.
I am directed towards an officer behind a glass screen. I present my passport and my fingerprints are taken for visitor recognition with some clever infra-red device. ‘Sign here, please,’ she instructs. ‘Leave your mobile phone and all personal possessions in the locker.’
The officer escorts me to a barrier, not unlike those in the Underground. I have to place my thumb on the pad. It opens. I am led down several corridors, conscious of her keys swinging from her belt. The walls are covered with posters offering help for families of those inside.
We are beyond that.
There’s a burst of light as we emerge into a sunny courtyard. Some women in green uniforms are weeding. I don’t expect this in a prison. They look up at me curiously and then down again. The officer accompanying me unlocks an outer door and then another. More corridors. Up a flight of steps. Women are sweeping the floors or just standing there, staring stonily. How would Betty cope with this, I wonder. She is too old for prison, surely? Yet there are other women here who look as though they could easily be over sixty.
The officer flings open a pair of double doors. ‘This is the visitors’ room,’ she tells me. ‘The inmates will be brought in shortly.’
I’m surprised. Pleasantly so. There’s a coffee bar. Pictures on the wall. Tables. Chairs. Other people sitting there who look as confused and out of place as I do, while some seem more familiar with their setting. There are young children playing with toys in the corner and older ones sitting with their fathers.
I didn’t tell Stuart or the girls I was coming here. I’ve no idea if Stuart has even applied to visit his mother. I don’t know what he’s thinking because he barely speaks to me. I only know that I need to talk to Betty on my own.
There’s a stirring in the room. A line of women is filing in. They are wearing green prison uniform tabards like the women outside. One has sharp weasel features and long greasy hair scraped back from her forehead. Another looks as though she could be a model. One seems not much older than Melissa.
And there is Betty.
She looks the same and yet different, especially without her usual purple beret. Her face is still until she sees me and then it lights up. She straightens herself. ‘Poppy, darling,’ she says. ‘I told them I didn’t want visitors, but of course I made an exception for you.’
My mother-in-law is talking as if we are meeting in a coffee shop. ‘Stuart applied to visit too with the girls but I asked them to wait until next week. It was you I needed first.’
She makes to clasp my hands but one of the officers stops her. ‘No physical contact,’ he says firmly.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she replies politely. ‘You did tell us, but I’m afraid I completely forgot.’
Then she turns to me. ‘You poor darling. They gave you such a hard time in the witness box. What is it like at home now?’
Her brow is furrowed. She is genuinely worried about me – not herself. ‘They’re ignoring me,’ I say, choked. ‘None of them wants anything to do with me.’
She nods as if it’s what she expected. ‘It’s the shock. Children assume that adults shouldn’t make mistakes. But we do.’
‘You didn’t,’ I point out. ‘Stuart had a happy childhood.’
Betty gives a smile that is almost sad. ‘I hid quite a lot from him, you know. But that’s all water under the bridge now.’
Is my mother-in-law implying that her marriage had had its problems too? To be honest, I’d never really cared for Jock and his brusque manner. There were occasions when I thought he was distinctly rude to Betty, even though she didn’t seem to notice.
&nb
sp; But I don’t want to press my mother-in-law on that now. I need to ask her something else.
‘They said at the trial that you followed …’
I hesitate. I can’t say the name ‘Matthew’. It makes him seem too real. I try again.
‘That you followed him down to the Tube and tried to get the money off him,’ I say.
She nods. ‘Of course I did. Anyone else would have done the same.’
‘But why? Why did you push him instead of reasoning with him?’
Betty says nothing. Instead, she is twisting her fingers. She always took great care with her hands. In fact, she and the girls would give each other manicures, giggling and sitting at the kitchen table with varnish and pads. But now I can see her nails are bitten to the quick.
I lean forward. ‘Come on, Betty. You don’t believe in aggression. You’re always saying how important it is to forgive those who hurt you.’
She sits back in her chair, folding her arms. Her mouth is tight. This is a Betty I have never seen before. ‘He tried to break us all up,’ she said. ‘I was furious. But at least now he’s out of our lives. And we can carry on as a normal family.’
‘But it hasn’t helped,’ I say desperately. ‘It’s made it worse. You’re inside now. Goodness knows how long you’ll get. And Matthew still succeeded in breaking us up. Stuart and the girls will never forgive me.’
Betty holds my eyes steadily. ‘But do you forgive me?’ she asks. ‘I killed a man.’
I take a deep breath. I want to say yes. I sort of do. But murder … can that ever really be pardoned? Briefly I think back to when I truly wanted to kill Matthew myself. But each time I’d eventually calmed down and realized it wasn’t the way to go about things.
‘I know it was wrong,’ she says with a tremor in her voice. ‘Afterwards, I kept telling myself I hadn’t done it. It was the only way I could cope.’
‘Is that why you pleaded not guilty at the beginning of the trial?’ I ask.
