Authors: Cath Staincliffe
Adam answered the phone. ‘Mum?’
‘Adam, I’m . . . erm. Listen, love, I want you to call Grandma, okay? Ask her to come over.’
‘Why? Where are you? Are you still at the police station?’
‘I’m in prison, in Styal.’
‘Fuck. Why? Because of Dad?’
Did I even answer his questions? I don’t know.
‘Is Sophie there?’
‘She’s in the shower.’
Disappointment weighed me down. I longed to hear her voice, picture her disconcerted but determined to manage. It probably wasn’t fair but I was hoping she would make me feel better.
‘Tell her I’m fine. You both look after yourselves. And will you ring Jane and explain to her? The number’s on the thing in the kitchen.’
‘Mum, it’s going to be all right, isn’t it?’ Was he trying to reassure me or asking me? ‘How long are you going to be there?’
‘I don’t know. I have to go to court in the morning. They might give me bail. I’d better go now. I love you.’
I was still in shock. People had to repeat things to me before I grasped what they were saying. My knees were weak and I worried that I might throw up, though there was nothing much to throw as
I hadn’t managed to eat anything for hours.
As a novice, I was put into a special unit called the First Night Centre. It was designed to give new prisoners extra care and support but I was so bewildered to find myself locked up that I was
unable to pay much heed to such distinctions.
I shared a room with a slight, dark-skinned woman who spoke no English. I don’t know where she was from, Africa perhaps. When I made attempts to find out her name, she just shook her head.
We spent the time silent, each in our own cocoon of despair, numb and unresponsive. Everything around us was out of proportion, escalated like in a fever. The level of noise was debilitating: the
hard surfaces amplified the sound of chairs scraping, gates clanging, coughs and shouts and canned television laughter. The smells, of women and food and unfamiliar toiletries, were overpowering.
The ceilings were too low, the lights brash, the colours sickly and unsettling. When I touched the plastic chair in my room, an electric shock bit my fingers.
If they’d employed me I could have shown them how to use natural materials to absorb the sound and vibration, reduce the amount of static. Soften the lighting with daylight bulbs to give
an easier spectrum, less tiring for everyone. Pick colours to soothe the eyes and ease the emotions.
The day after, I appear in the magistrates’ court. There are three people sitting at the bench. I confirm my name and address and date of birth. The charge is read out
and my solicitor says I am not entering a plea. She asks them to consider bail. The magistrate in the middle looks to her colleagues and a couple of whispers are exchanged. Then she straightens up,
presses her lips together briefly before replying. ‘Given the seriousness of the charges involved we will not be granting bail. The accused will be held on remand until the preliminary
hearing next week.’ They send me back to prison.
S
o today, nine months after, I am being tried in the Victorian Court at Minshull Street Crown Court. There are two Crown Court buildings in the
city. This one’s not far from Piccadilly station. Handy for spectators, if popping into town for a shot of criminal justice is your thing.
As the name implies, it’s a traditional set-up: a raised gallery for spectators, dark wood benches and panelling, a high, vaulted ceiling. The combination of pomp and circumstance that the
Victorians loved and their careful workmanship. You can see evidence of that in the carvings on the ends of the benches, the crest with the lion and the unicorn high on the back wall.
Being a prisoner, I enter the court up steps that lead from the cells beneath. When I hear the clatter of our shoes on the marble, my thoughts seem to fly apart in fragments, like spilled beads
rolling into the shadows, under furniture, out of sight. I cannot remember what the solicitor said. There’s an urge to run, to flee or buckle.
The room bristles with attention as I appear. Afraid, I do not dare look round yet. I need to place my feet one in front of the other and turn so as to reach the dock. The usher nods that I may
sit and I do, letting my gaze fall on the warm, worn wood of the ledges around me. My cheeks are aflame and my pulse thrums heavy in my neck. There are whispers and muttered conversations and the
rustle of papers – all the lawyers have great big folders. They march around with them, in one arm, all importance. Well, it is important, the reports and records and documents that speak to
liberty or incarceration.
Little by little, I raise my eyes, glancing to my left, across the people seated in the main well of the court. My barrister, Mr Latimer, the one in charge of my defence, is a bullish man with
an unfortunately appointed nose and beefy skin. He stammers but he has a technique for overcoming that in public, a sing-song delivery that reminds me a little of the comedian Kenneth Williams
stretching out his time on the radio quiz
Just A Minute
, though Kenneth was way more camp. Beside Mr Latimer is his junior. And beside them my messy solicitor, Ms Gleason, takes her seat.
She’s the one who’s held my hand for all these months. Today the hair has been pulled back in a barrette. She smiles across and nods. She is watching me and the others are talking
shop.
Beyond them is the prosecution table. I have already been told about their team but the names escape me now. The main prosecutor is a woman and she has a male aide.
My heart squeezes as my eyes light on Adam in the public gallery. My boy. I am so glad he has come. That seems bizarre. What mother wants her child to see her tried for murder? Next to him,
Jane. Jane and I are the same height but she’s a bigger build. More padding, she says. She’s on a diet every few months and shifts a few pounds. Then it creeps back on. She can’t
stop smoking either. She’s done the lot, everything from patches to acupuncture.
I try to smile but my lips jerk about in some ghastly jig. Adam bows his head suddenly, close to tears, I think. Jane gives a wry smile. She has always been there for me. Have I been as good a
friend? Jane is giddy, gregarious. She’s never really left the hubbub of her childhood, competing with her three brothers for a spot in the limelight. The phrase ‘good for a
laugh’ comes to mind. Not that she is frivolous or shallow, more that she has a ripe sense of humour. She sees the funny side and points it out. People mistake her comic vision for happiness
but Jane has had a hard time of it. Since Mack left her she’s never found the right man. And she’s very lonely. She’s a manager in the NHS, her working life a mire of reports and
strategies, evaluation and targets. She and Neil had plenty to moan about together, swapping anecdotes of bureaucratic lunacy and governmental folly.
Sophie isn’t there, or Veronica or Michael. There are other faces – I’m startled to see two of Neil’s colleagues, and people I don’t recognize. The gallery is full.
I’m quite a draw. Who are all these strangers? What brings them here?
The team have dressed me in mumsy clothes, Marks & Sparks, a plain light blue blouse, navy skirt, opaque tan tights. The skirt rustles against the tights when I walk. I hate these clothes.
I’m a fraud. I’ve never worn things like this in my life. School uniform came closest. But I will do whatever they tell me now. At their mercy. They even brought earrings, small gold
studs. My fingers seek out my wedding ring. I twist the familiar smooth metal.
We bought our rings from Lewis’s. It’s hard to remember now why we got married. It certainly wasn’t part of some shared dream of white silk dresses and
pageboys and speeches. And we didn’t do it to stock up on toasters and tableware, either. I did wear silk – and taffeta – a gorgeous cherry red cocktail dress that I found in a
dress agency in Stockport. Neil wore a black suit and shirt and a bolo string tie. He still had his hair long and looked like an extra, a pioneer in some Wild West movie. We got hitched at the
register office and only told our families afterwards. They were hugely disappointed. My mother gave a little ‘Oh!’ of regret on the phone, as though I’d punched her in the
stomach, which perhaps I had. And Veronica was furious: the register office ceremony wasn’t a union in the eyes of God. But I was a non-believer, with no intention of converting, and Neil had
been lapsed for years. Neil told me they tried to keep it all secret from their Catholic friends.
I’d had boyfriends before Neil, I’d even had some after, but sooner or later they had irritated me. The reasons varied, the timescale too, but eventually their childishness, the way
they held my hand or their taste in music, the smell of their skin or the pattern of their conversation would pall and then rankle – like grit in my shoe, producing a blister, not a pearl.
Soon everything about them would be wrong and I’d be planning my farewell speech.
‘You want perfection,’ Jane had said, when I was dumping my first boyfriend at uni. ‘It’s impossible. Give him a bit longer.’ She finished rolling a joint, lit it
and sucked hard.
‘No, I feel trapped. When I think of carrying on I feel panicky.’
She’d shaken her head. ‘He’s so sweet.’
‘It’s not enough. I know he’s sweet and pretty good-looking, and he’s not dumb but . . . I can’t change how I feel. I can’t unthink what I’ve been
thinking about him.’
‘Unthink?’
I held out my hand for the joint, the first two fingers splayed. ‘Exactly, not possible.’
So when I asked Jane to be a marriage witness for Neil and me, she reminded me of how picky I was. ‘What if you go off him?’
‘We’ve lasted six years.’ I laughed. ‘It’s him going off me I’m worried about.’
‘You love him more than he loves you.’
‘Do I?’
Had that been true? Back then or as time went by? Had the power in the relationship shifted? I wasn’t sure. Rather, I thought, the intensity of feeling we had, the desire for love and the
need for independence, ebbed and flowed between us like a subtle tide.
Jane was one of our witnesses and Tony Boyd, Neil’s old school friend, the other. Tony was a lovely man who could consume more illegal drugs then anyone I’ve ever met and still
acquit himself decently. He’d got hold of cocaine for our wedding party. It was pretty rare then and more expensive too.
We’d all booked into a hotel in the Derbyshire peaks, and once we’d checked in we took a picnic out into one of the deep valleys, still in our finery. The four of us got stoned and
went paddling, drank champagne and rolled about in hysterics. We’ve a handful of photos left from the day – I had my camera with me – but there’s only one with all of us in.
We roped in a passing hiker who did the honours. I look so young; we all do. The dress, its strappy top and flared skirt, glows against the green of the grass, the colours acidic.
When friends heard we were married, some were quite shocked. They’d assumed we had rejected the institution, that we’d live together in defiance of hidebound rituals. If Neil
hadn’t proposed perhaps we would have. But I liked my new status. I think I needed the conspicuous commitment, though I kept my own name. And bank account.
Jane once asked me whether I thought Adam’s troubles might have been made worse because we’d taken a relaxed approach to drugs, never hiding our own history of experimentation. I
gave her question some thought. Had he needed limits that we’d failed to provide? Had he needed different boundaries? But in the end I couldn’t see it. If we’d hidden our views
and adopted a rigid just-say-no stance, his dabbling would have been even more covert and we’d only have learned later how the drugs were affecting his mental health.
I look across the courtroom at Adam again and try the smile. A little better, perhaps, though Ms Gleason frowns. I am to be the grieving widow for the duration of my trial, a
hollow shell of a woman. They have warned me against sly remarks or clever answers. I must show some humility. It’s not me, at all.
My brother Martin is not here. I didn’t know whether he would come or not. We’ve grown apart – not that we were ever that close. There was a flurry of contact when Mum was
sick. Adam was only a month old when she first saw her doctor about her weight loss. She was dead before he was three. He was a wonderful baby but he never slept and he couldn’t bear to be
alone. He’d be up at five every day and happy as Larry if he was carried everywhere. It was exhausting. We had a baby sling, and for the first year we lugged him about in it constantly. I
remember hoovering with him strapped to my back. Then we bought a back-pack with a frame. Those years were a blur of broken nights and driving back and forth to my mum’s, Martin and I
conferring over who would do the next hospital visit.
Neil and I were both shattered, ill-tempered with each other, bickering about the chores – all the new ones that came with parenthood. I didn’t cut him any slack; he would do
everything bar breastfeeding or die trying. I knew other couples where the advent of a baby seemed instantly to dissolve any intentions of domestic parity, to rob them of political intelligence and
plunge them back into the stereotypical gender divisions of the fifties. The man was working harder than ever, all the overtime going, quickly losing faith in his skills as a parent; the woman did
all the housework, the shopping, cooking, cleaning, the baby. She was up night after night, simmering with resentment and careful not to disturb him because he was tired and he had to go to work
the next day. As if child care wasn’t twice as demanding.
No, Neil and I worked at it. Some days I’d wait at the front door for him coming in from school, ready to thrust Adam into his arms so I could set off to see my mum – or even so I
could just get out into the garden and have ten minutes’ peace. I went back to work part time after six months and we took turns dropping Adam at the child-minder. It was shaky for a while,
the parent thing, but we made it work. Not rocket science, just a little social engineering. Oh, I know I can be a smug bitch but, hell, I didn’t drop my beliefs when I dropped the placenta.
I’m proud of what we did. I’m proud that Sophie and Adam can look at us and know we were both fully involved in their care, their schooling; we both wiped and fed, changed and scolded.
We both did the fun stuff too, and there was plenty of that: Play Doh and puddle-jumping, castles made of cardboard, bedtime stories. Huge pleasure. Having children gave me glimpses of my father,
rare flashbacks to his whistling, letting me sip the whisky from his glass (it smelt like wee and tasted horrible), him playing the piano in a honky-tonk style and me plonking the black notes, him
watching me master my pogo-stick one Christmas morning.