Eager to Please (12 page)

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 iliac 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. The 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.

Her father was seated at a long table. A nurse was beside him. She lifted a double-handled cup to his mouth, coaxing him, urging him on, until he sipped tentatively, as if, Rachel thought, this
was the newest experience in the world for him.

‘Good boy, there’s a good boy,’ the nurse muttered, holding up a small square of toast, placing it against his lips. Again the pause, again the encouragement, the urging on,
until eventually he opened his mouth and accepted the offering.

‘It’s the memory,’ the nurse said, looking up at Rachel. ‘They forget how to eat.’ Forget how to eat and drink, how to dress and wash, how to read and listen.
Forget how to be human in the world.

‘But there’s one thing they don’t forget,’ the nurse said as she led him into the large room which looked out on to the garden. Double doors opened on to a sunny lawn.
Inside it was dark. A young man sat at an old upright piano. He was playing a tune that Rachel recognized. Her father and the others took their seats in a large semicircle around him. Their grey
heads were bowed, their arms hanging passively by their sides. Rachel stood in the doorway, uncertain. The man at the piano smiled a big broad grin.

‘Come on, lads and lassies. Take your partners for the waltz. Quick about it now.’

Rachel watched her father. He began to sway from side to side on the chair, his feet in their slippers moved backwards and forwards in a familiar pattern. The nurse looked at Rachel. She
gestured to the old man. Rachel took his hands and drew him up to standing. His hands felt so soft now, and small and withered, in hers. She remembered the way they had been in the years before.
Large and strong, callused and capable. She thought of all the things he had taught her. To shoot and fish. To sail a boat. To grow vegetables and fruit. To drive. She could see his hands on the
steering wheel. The veins stood up, blue ridges against the skin, brown, always brown, winter and summer. Now his hands were white and flecked with pale brown marks. Once he had always seemed to
fill the space around him, now he seemed so small. Once he had been substantial, rock-solid in his uniform with his stiff peaked cap and his shoes that squeaked as he walked. Now his wrists were so
thin she could have joined her finger and thumb around them, and his back was bent so his head was, for the first time ever, at the same level as hers.

They shuffled slowly around the room.

‘Sing, everyone.’ The man at the piano stood and waved encouragingly with one arm. The nurses clapped in time. Rachel opened her mouth and the familiar words poured out. Her father
sang too. Around and around they turned together. His hands grew warm in her grasp and his voice grew louder. She listened to the words he was singing. He knew them all, verse after verse.

‘Dada,’ she said, ‘it’s me. It’s Rachel. I’m here. It’s been such a long time, but I’m here now.’ He didn’t answer. He just kept on
singing.

Round and around they waltzed. Rachel watched her father’s face. His expression had begun to soften and relax. He was losing that look of frozen immobility, the ‘lion face’ as
she had heard it called. The man at the piano increased the pace, and the dancers spun more and more quickly. And then she saw her father smile, that same open, joyous expression that she had
carried with her in her memory for so many years. Unseen all the time that she was in prison, when he had come to visit her, reluctantly, once a month. The prison surroundings filling him with
revulsion, so he had drawn away, unable to engage in anything but the smallest of small talk. Once, she remembered, she had leaned across the table to touch him, but he had flinched and looked in
the direction of the watching prison officer and quickly pulled back, out of her reach. It was shame, she knew. Of her betrayal of her husband, her infidelity, her public humiliation. And she could
barely bring herself to look at him and see her shame reflected back at her from his watery-blue eyes. And then he told her, six months or so after she began her sentence, that they couldn’t
keep Amy any longer. It was too much. They were too old. And besides, she was difficult. Her behaviour was disturbed.