I looked away, p.31
I Looked Away, page 31
My father cuts in. ‘I said WHERE?’
My mouth is dry. ‘Over there,’ I say quietly, pointing.
‘In the copse?’ shrieks Sheila. ‘So that’s why you’ve got green marks on your dress. You two were at it while my son just went off unsupervised.’
‘It wasn’t like that,’ says Peter desperately.
‘Yes it was.’ I hear my voice crying out. ‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking …’
‘Whose idea was it to play hide-and-seek in a big garden like this?’ screams my stepmother.
‘Mine,’ I whimper.
Sheila seizes me by the collar of my dress. My throat hurts. ‘You little slut! If anything’s happened to my son, I swear to God that I will personally make you pay for it for the rest of your life.’
‘Sheila.’ My father’s voice is sharp. Scared. ‘Let’s just concentrate on finding Michael, shall we? He has to be here somewhere.’
60
It’s the second week of the trial. Or maybe the third. Who knows? A woman is called to the witness box. Her surname is White. Even though my barrister had told me that she had come forward because I had apparently ‘helped’ her son, I can’t remember any of it.
‘My son, Alastair, ran away from home when he was eleven,’ she tells the court. ‘I didn’t know then but it turned out that my now ex-partner had been abusing him.’ Her voice comes out in choking sobs. ‘My boy was missing for three long years. He went by the name of Tim.
‘Then the police got an anonymous call from a woman who said he was in this hotel room in Cornwall. They found him and brought him home. We’ve worked things out. I’ll always be grateful to her.’
She wipes her face with a tissue. ‘When we read about the trial in the papers, my son saw her picture and recognized her. So I told the police and that’s why I’m here.’
Either she’s lying or I’ve lost my mind. I don’t recall travelling with a young boy or ringing the police about him.
She looks straight at me. ‘I want her to know that Lucky’s settled in real well and that my Alastair still writes his poetry.’
Poetry. Why does that ring a bell? I swallow the big lump in my throat.
Then Barbara gets permission to recall Carole to the stand. I feel sick just looking at her.
‘Was Roger speaking to you on the phone when his wife, by her own admission, attacked him?’
‘Yes.’
‘And can you tell us the details of your conversation?’
‘A few months earlier, Roger had broken up with me, saying that his wife had cut herself because she couldn’t cope with him leaving. So he decided to “put his family first”.’ She says the last bit in an ironic tone. ‘Bit late for that, like I told him.’
I can see some of the jurors frowning at this.
‘But that morning, I’d seen his wife in town. She looked happy and I … well, I felt jealous. She didn’t deserve Roger. It was me he really loved. Not her. He was just staying out of duty.’
‘Did you talk to Mrs Halls?’
Carole shrugs. ‘I might have.’
‘Can you tell the court what you “might have” said?’
She isn’t looking at me now. ‘I said Roger and I were still seeing each other.’
‘Was that true?’
She’s staring at the ground. ‘No. I was about to move back to London. I should have left earlier but the purchase of my new place was delayed.’
‘Did you tell any other lies?’
She looks slightly ashamed now. ‘I insinuated I was there when Roger had chosen his grandson’s playhouse. Actually, I happened to be at the garden centre on my own when I saw him buy it. He was with the little boy so he pretended not to notice me. But I know he did.’
My mind returns to Roger’s words when I’d accused him of buying it with Carole. ‘It wasn’t like that …’ he’d said.
‘What happened after you told her that?’
‘She called me a liar.’ Her face is black. ‘It was on the high street. Anyone could have heard. I was livid. So when I got home, I rang Roger.’
‘What did he say?’
‘That he wanted to stay with his wife. But then I heard her voice. It was clear she’d caught him on the phone.’
‘What time was that?’
She gives an elegant shrug. ‘I don’t know precisely. Some time after lunch.’
‘Then what happened?’
Her face turned sour. ‘Roger rang off and said he didn’t want to talk to me any more. He insisted it was over and that I must never contact him again. Then I …’
She stops.
‘Please continue, Mrs Kent.’
‘I threatened to kill myself if he didn’t commit to me. I didn’t mean it. I just wanted him to leave that stupid woman and be with me …’
Her voice breaks. She is in tears. I recall Roger’s pleading voice on the phone. He would have been trying to talk her out of it …
The rest of the proceedings go back to being a blur in my head, yet I am aware of various witnesses, all testifying to my ‘good behaviour’, including friends from the homeless committee, the Independent Monitoring Board and the food bank. A rough-looking man who claims he slept in a Plymouth squat alongside me says that another man, Nick, often picked up homeless women to use as mules for carrying drugs. Again, I have no memory of this. It makes me feel strange and uncertain. And guilty. How is it possible that I have lived another life without knowing?
Our neighbour also appears, corroborating what I said. ‘The little lad got through a hole in the fence – I hadn’t noticed that the contractors had damaged the panel when they were putting in the pond – and went straight into the water. I was gardening at the time and ran over. The weeds had got tangled round the neck of his T-shirt – the poor lad was almost being dragged down – so I had to get it off him before pulling him out. I was wrapping him in a towel up near the house when his grandmother burst through. I tried to call out to her but it was like she was transfixed. She just stood there, staring at the pond.
‘I started running towards her but then she disappeared back through the fence. I thought she was going to come round via the front, so I just took Josh inside and waited. Then we went round to the Halls’ house but no one answered.’
A vicar from Cornwall with a boyish, gangly frame is called. Barbara had told me about this witness too. Again, I don’t recall him, although those orange trainers stir something inside. ‘I came forward when I read about the case in the papers,’ he says. ‘I recognized the picture as being a woman I tried to help when I found her in my church. I think she ran away because she thought I’d blame her for the broken collection box. But I’d already suspected it was a gang from Falmouth who’d given us trouble before.’ He looks sad. ‘She ran off before I could tell her.’
I did?
‘I couldn’t help noticing that she’d hung something on the prayer tree,’ he adds.
My barrister nods. ‘The jury members have been given a photograph of this piece of evidence but would you like to give more details to the court, please?’
‘Glad to do so. We have a small model tree at the back of the church with paper on the side for people to write prayer messages to God and then hang them on a branch.’ The vicar puts his hand in his pocket. ‘In fact, I brought it with me.’
‘Would you read it out?’
‘Certainly. It’s the words to Brahms’ Lullaby. “Go to sleep, go to sleep …”’
The song I used to sing to Michael when I put him to bed at night! The same one which my mother had sung to me, though I had no idea it had a name. Tears begin to roll down my cheek.
‘Call Peter Gordon,’ says the clerk.
Peter? I stiffen. Surely it can’t be ‘my’ Peter?
I stare at the rather dull-looking grey-haired man who walks across the court towards the witness stand. How is it possible that this is the boy I once knew who changed my life all those years ago? Who had put me off sex because I’d felt so guilty after our fumblings in the Daniels’ garden that had led to Michael’s death. I could easily walk past him in the street without recognizing him. He gives me a quick glance and then looks away. ‘Is it true that you were with Mrs Halls on the day of the tragic events involving her brother, Michael?’
‘Yes.’
He speaks in a quiet voice that is barely audible.
‘Louder if you don’t mind, Mr Gordon.’
‘Yes,’ he repeats with an agonized look. Then he turns to the jury as if he himself is on trial. ‘I have lived with the guilt for the rest of my life. I blame myself – it wasn’t just Ellie. We tried to shake Michael off so we could have some time to ourselves.’ Then he covers his face with his hands.
Something makes me glance up at the public gallery. There is a woman looking down at him with pity. Instinctively I know it’s his wife.
The jury’s faces are a mixture of sympathy and disgust.
‘How would you describe Ellie’s home life?’ asks Barbara quickly.
‘Miserable. My mother used to say that her stepmother treated her disgracefully and that her father was too weak to stand up to his new wife. They often cut her out of family holidays and used her as a free babysitter without allowing her a life of her own. My mother also knew Mrs Greenway, Sheila’s own mother, who has now passed on.’
I feel a pang in my heart. Although common sense told me that my old ally could surely no longer be alive, the news grieves me. ‘After the accident,’ continues Peter, ‘Mrs Greenway asked my mother to visit her in the home Sheila had put her in. The old lady was extremely upset and very emotional. Apparently she told my mother that neither Ellie nor I should hold ourselves responsible and that Sheila should have taken more care of her child herself. She also said that her daughter had had two sides to her. She could be charming when it suited her and also highly manipulative. The pills for her depression apparently affected her behaviour. Her father left before she was born and she always had mixed feelings towards her children – both Ellie and Michael. She could, according to the old lady, be quite selfish, and at times this led to neglect.’
‘Could you tell us any more?’
My palms sweat as I wait to hear what Peter will say next. ‘Only that Ellie never stood a chance with a childhood like hers.’ He throws a beseeching look at the jury. ‘She deserves our pity.’
There are no further questions. He leaves the stand without looking at me. There is no need. We are irrevocably tethered by the binds of the past. ‘Thank you,’ I mouth to him. But is it enough?
I am being called back to the witness box to clarify ‘certain issues which have arisen’. I clench my fists so that the nails dig into my flesh, preparing myself for the inevitable next question.
‘Can you tell the court exactly what happened in the garden on that day, Ellie?’
I can’t get away from it any more. I have to speak. Barbara has told me this. I owe it, she says, to Michael. When she puts it that way, it’s easier.
The judge has allowed my barrister to read the jury a summary of my memories – the ones I told her about during our sessions. But when she finishes, I have to fill in the final moments. I close my eyes. It allows me to pretend I am talking out loud to myself. I am more able to express my true feelings that way. The court is silent.
2.32 p.m., 17 August 1984
My chest feels sick with chilled fear. I can hardly breathe. The garden is empty apart from four people playing croquet. Why aren’t they doing something to help?
My father is going into what my mother used to call his ‘official’ manner. ‘You search this part of the garden, both of you, and we’ll take the other side. We need to let everyone else know too.’
Then he cups his hands around his mouth and raises his voice. ‘My son has gone missing! Can everyone please help us look?’
The croquet couples join us. So too do Christine and her parents. ‘Don’t worry, dear,’ whispers her mother to me. ‘I’m sure it will be all right. I remember you and Christine going off together in the park when you were little. Your mother and I were so worried but we found you by the swings, safe and sound.’
Yet they hadn’t been neglecting us as I had Michael …
I glance at Peter. This can’t be happening. It just can’t be. I should never have suggested hide-and-seek. I shouldn’t have hidden in the copse. I shouldn’t have ignored my little brother when he had called out to me in distress …
‘He’s got to be here somewhere,’ says Peter boldly as Christine runs along beside him. ‘Bet he’s in the woodshed.’
He isn’t.
My stepmother is still crying out his name but in loud sobs now. ‘MICHAEL, MICHAEL!’
My father joins in. His tone too is increasingly desperate. ‘MICHAEL? WHERE ARE YOU?’
What started as a game has become a nightmare that is too horrifying to contemplate.
We’ve all reached the bottom of the garden now. He couldn’t have gone any further, could he?
Then I see a small iron gate I hadn’t noticed before. Where does it lead to?
At that moment, a large bird soars over. It looks down as if it recognizes me. Even though I don’t know what has happened, a crazy thought flits through my head that this bird is my brother’s spirit.
I race towards the gate. It is open.
And then I hear a terrible sound. It’s worse than a scream. It is inhuman. And it’s coming from me.
‘NO! NOOOO!’
There is a swimming pool. With a small body in a red T-shirt floating on the top. Face down. A tennis ball bobbing on the surface next to it.
61
‘Your brother had drowned,’ says my barrister quietly when I’d finished. It is a statement rather than a question.
‘Yes,’ I whisper. Once more, I have a flashback of my stepmother’s voice, after they had taken the body away. ‘The wrong child died,’ she’d wept. ‘I wish, to God, it had been your daughter instead.’
‘It made the news,’ she continues, holding up the Daily Telegraph. ‘This is dated 18 August 1984. The headline reads CHILD DIES IN “TRAGIC ACCIDENT”.’
Even now, it still doesn’t seem true. It’s too big to take in. The agony on my father’s face will haunt me to this day. So too will my stepmother’s anguish. ‘You as good as drowned him yourself!’ she’d screamed, flying at me and scratching me down the sides of my face with her nails. ‘You were always jealous of him.’
Yes. I was. He was the favourite. And if Sheila hadn’t come along, it would have just been Daddy and me. But I also loved my little brother. I wouldn’t have hurt a hair on his head.
But I’ve learned now that you can sin by not doing something as easily as you can by doing something. My mistake had been to take my eyes off my brother. And then I’d made the same mistake with my grandson thirty-five years later.
‘After the funeral,’ continues Barbara, ‘you tried to kill yourself by slashing your wrists with one of your father’s razor blades.’
What else could I have done? I couldn’t go on living any more. ‘You can’t even get that right!’ my stepmother had screamed at me. I had missed the main artery. ‘You don’t deserve to be alive.’
I could barely look at my father. His grief – and my role in it – haunted me day and night. It was an impossible situation for us all. I took out my pain and anger by locking myself in my room and hitting my head against the walls. When my father broke down the door to get me, I tried to jump out of the window. When he pulled me back, I pummelled his head with my fists because he’d stopped me from killing myself.
‘You had a breakdown and were sectioned at a private institution called Highbridge.’
‘Yes.’
I think about Cornelius and my ECT treatments, which numbed some of the pain at the time but failed to quell the anxiety I carried like a sack of coals on my back. My periods stopped; a common side effect of trauma. Horrible news – especially about children being killed – would make me sob uncontrollably.
If I hadn’t accepted that sparkly drink from the waitress, my mind might have been sharper and I might have looked after my brother more carefully. So I’d vowed never to drink after Michael’s death.
‘What was the attitude of your father and stepmother towards you when you were in Highbridge?’ asks Barbara, cutting into my thoughts.
‘They blamed me for Michael’s death.’
‘Did they ever visit you there?’
‘No,’ I say quietly.
‘Are you sure?’
I hesitate. ‘Apparently my father did try to see me on a few occasions but I refused to let him. I don’t remember this – the ECT treatment affected my memory. Cornelius told me later. Yet afterwards, when my children were born, I had a sudden yearning to show him his grandchildren. So I wrote, telling him about their births. I’d hoped this might bring us together again. One day, when I was out, he actually came to our house. He didn’t stay to wait for me but he left a note with my neighbour, Jean. It said he was deeply upset by the likeness between Luke and Michael. It was the last contact between us.’
I stop, wincing at the pain these words give me.
‘So he didn’t forgive you.’
‘I like to think he might have done so in his heart,’ I say, thinking of my mother’s music box he had left with Jean for me. ‘When he died, my stepmother came to tell me. My husband was shocked that I’d been in a “loony bin”, as he called it. He kept threatening to tell the children. I sensed he enjoyed holding this against me.’
‘What effect would you say the tragedy had on you emotionally?’
‘I was haunted by the fear that I might hurt my own children by mistake or be negligent, as I had been with Michael,’ I continue. ‘I was terrified of losing my family, especially when Roger had his affairs.’
I pause for breath. It’s all falling out of me now. The truth. The pain inside. ‘When I became a grandmother, my determination to keep the family together became even stronger.’
