By all accounts, Zoe Scott was a talented and charismatic
woman. On this the Wildes and Joseph Scott agree. It is also
common ground that she had a diagnosis of bipolar disorder.
While this was well managed for long periods of time, there
were also episodes when it was not. At such times, her
behaviour and moods could be extremely unpredictable.
I am aware of the intense distress exhibited by the children
in the months after Zoe’s death, which still impacts on the
family on a daily basis. The Wildes impressed upon me that
the present application is threatening to damage the stability
which they have so carefully built up. They insist that the
children do not want to see their father.
I have been assisted by a telephone conversation with
Gilda Grayson, Scarlet’s headmistress at St Mary’s College.
She expressed concern about the effect of these proceedings
on Scarlet, whose previously exemplary behaviour has
deteriorated. I have spoken also to Theo’s teacher, Nuala
Brennan at Fossbridge Junior School. In recent weeks Theo
has appeared distracted in class, has withdrawn from his
peers and has been involved in violent altercations in the
playground. According to school records he exhibited similar
behaviour in the year after his mother died.
Ben has only recently begun attending Fossbridge. Staff
report that he is a lively boy who has settled in well, and
appears to have a warm and loving relationship with his
grandparents.
I have had the benefit of speaking to Nanette Marsden,
a bereavement counsellor who worked with the family after
Zoe’s death. She described patterns of behaviour clearly
indicative of trauma and bereavement. Scarlet and Theo,
through play, expressed profound guilt and helplessness at
their inability to protect their mother in her last moments. Even Ben, who was twelve months old, was observed to make
dolls attack one another in an enactment of a violent scene. Ms Marsden assisted the children to work through a grieving
process while providing channels for their need to nurture
memories of their mother.
It is of note that the children’s attitude to their father was
a significant concern to Ms Marsden. She felt that Scarlet and
Theo were extremely conflicted. On the one hand they felt
anger towards their father and strong ties of loyalty to their
mother and grandparents; however, these emotions clashed
with grief for the loss of their father, their old home and their
family life.
Ms Marsden described the Wildes as caring and dedicated.
However she expressed concern that Joseph Scott was
afforded no contact with the family whatsoever after Zoe’s
death. The grandparents felt unable to accept even indirect
contact from him in the form of letters or cards.
I did discuss with Nanette Marsden the possibility of her
playing a part in introducing their father into the children’s
lives. She felt that this would not be appropriate. The work
she did with the children was specifically around their
bereavement. That work is now over and the family have
been assisted to move to another stage. She believes it would
be confusing for the children to involve her now.
The Wildes asked me to see Scarlet by herself before
meeting her brothers. They were keen that she should have
the opportunity to express her feelings openly. Therefore,
I arranged to meet Scarlet at her home.
Scarlet
I couldn’t believe it when they told me this guy wanted to see me by myself. I was nervous. I was sick-stomach nervous, but I agreed all the same because I actually wanted to speak to him. There were things I needed to say.
I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t a weirdie beardie with a shirt the colour of Ribena, carrying a carpet bag in great big sausagey fingers. He looked a bit like Babar the elephant, all oversized and forced to wear tidy clothes. He shook my hand, and he had this rumbling voice. He said I could call him Lester, but I really didn’t want to. I hate calling adults by their first names, unless they’re very close to me. Gramps tactfully headed out to the garden while Hannah steered Mr Hardy and me into the sitting room.
‘May I stay?’ she asked, and plonked herself onto the sofa without waiting for a reply. She’d spent hours tidying up. Poor Hannah. She just can’t keep the house tidy; she isn’t that sort of person, and she worries that people will think she isn’t fit to have us. The fake log fire was flickering away. Mr Hardy started by going on about who he was and why he was there. Then he spent ages asking me about school and my hobbies. I knew he was just softening me up. I could feel myself getting closer and closer to yelling at him. Finally, I had to interrupt.
‘Can we please get to the point?’ I burst out.
‘If you like.’
‘I have a message for my father, and I’d like you to pass it on.’
‘Go ahead.’
I looked him in the eye. ‘Piss off.’
He looked right back at me. ‘That’s the message?’
‘That’s the message. Piss off and die.’
‘Why do you want to send him that message?’
‘Why? I’d have thought that was obvious!’
‘Sounds as though you’re very angry with your father.’
I waggled my head sarcastically. ‘Well,
hello
! I think it’s normal to hate the person who kills your mum. I think you’d be pretty effing angry.’
‘Scarlet!’ warned Hannah, sounding shocked. ‘Language.’
Mr Hardy waved at her, probably to show that he didn’t care about my language. ‘Wouldn’t you like to give him the message yourself?’
There was a long silence, and I wasn’t going to be the first to break it. I don’t know whether Mr Hardy signalled to her somehow, but Hannah got up and started muttering about making tea.
He thanked her and let her go.
‘Well,’ he said, once she’d disappeared, ‘since you want to get to the point, would you like to tell me about your mother?’
I shrugged. ‘She was my mum.’
‘Yes. And what else?’
‘I don’t really want to say any more.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because what’s the point? Just tell him to piss off. That’s all I want to say.’
He fished in his bag before passing some paper and felt tips to me across the coffee table. ‘How about you write down three memories of your mother, and three of your father? They can each be very short, just a few words. Or even just one word, if you like.’
He didn’t wait to see whether I would do it. He got up and stood at the mantelpiece, looking at our photographs. I was pleased when he bent his head to stare more closely at one of Mum and me. It was a copy of the one in my memories box, the one taken near our caravan with our faces pressed together. I could hear Hannah in the kitchen, filling the kettle.
I picked up the pen. ‘Three things?’
‘Three.’
It took me ten seconds. ‘Finished,’ I said in a bored voice, dropping the pen.
He came over and looked at what I’d written.
MUM
SCREAMING DEAD CREMATED
DAD
BASHING BASHING BASHING
The music had started. The man was singing. His voice filled my whole brain. My head was blowing up bigger and bigger, like a balloon. I jammed my fingers into my mouth.
‘Are you okay?’ asked Mr Hardy.
‘Not really.’
He sat down and waited.
‘It never goes away,’ I said. My voice sounded like Ben’s when he’s whining. ‘It keeps coming back. This frickin’ music.’
‘What’s the music like?’
‘Singing. A man, singing.’
‘Your father?’
‘No. This man’s got a really deep growling voice. I get this freaky feeling . . . I feel scared to death.’
Mr Hardy looked again at what I’d written. ‘When you wrote these memories of your dad, did other ones come into your head?’
‘I dunno.’
‘I think there might be others.’
Dad things were all swirling around me, feelings and smells and pictures of things we did together. I didn’t want to let them in. My eyes were stinging. ‘No,’ I said.
‘None at all?’
‘Only that he was my hero.’
‘In what way was he your hero?’
‘Because he was!’ I searched for the words. ‘He smashed everything in our lives. He never even bothered to come and see us. Not once. He didn’t even phone. Why didn’t he come? Didn’t he care?’
I felt tears welling up in my eyes and sliding down my cheeks.
I was furious with myself for crying.
Mr Hardy passed me a tissue out of his big bag. ‘Did you ask to see him?’
‘We never say his name. Nobody does. We pretend he doesn’t exist.’
‘Do you think he was allowed to contact you, Scarlet? He was arrested by the police. Maybe he couldn’t speak to you. Maybe he wasn’t able to send letters from prison, either. Maybe your grandparents felt it would be best.’
I thought about this, with my nose shoved into the tissue. It was as though he’d turned a sand picture upside down. Suddenly, everything looked different. Not better, not worse. Just different. Perhaps Dad wasn’t allowed to get in touch. Hannah and Gramps might have thought that because we never mentioned him, we wanted to forget about him.
‘He used to look after us,’ I said quietly. ‘I remember him cooking our supper, bangers and mash. He did that a lot.’ I could see Ben in a blue highchair, and Theo and me at the table. I felt happy. Dad had his sleeves rolled up and he was clowning around, pretending to dodge because the sausages were spitting at him. Ben was just a blob with a squashed nose, dressed in a little red hoodie. Dad made faces at him, so he shrieked and banged his tray with a spoon.
‘You say you hate your father,’ said Mr Hardy.
‘Mm.’
‘But I’m getting a sense that it’s a bit more complicated than that.’
‘No, it isn’t complicated at all. I don’t want to see him again, ever in my life, and neither do my brothers. He’ll just have to deal with it.’
Mr Hardy started leafing through one of our photo albums. I didn’t feel the subject was closed; I was sure he didn’t either.
‘Have
you
seen him?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And I’m planning to see him again very soon. Is there anything you’d like me to ask him?’
I had such a lot of questions. I was wondering whether Dad thought about me very often. I was wondering where he was living, what he was doing. I wanted to know what it was like in prison, whether it was terrible, whether he’d been raped. Some boys at my old shool told me men always get raped in the prison showers. These two boys were smirking, and they said my dad wouldn’t even be able to walk properly when he came out, because he’d have been effed up his A-hole every day. I wanted to know whether Dad cried for Mum. I wanted to know why he’d waited outside my school. I wanted to know all these things, but I didn’t ask any of them.
‘Hannah and Gramps couldn’t handle it if we saw him,’ I said instead.
‘What makes you think that?’
‘It’s obvious. Have you seen how old Gramps is?’
Mr Hardy smiled. ‘In the end it’s the judge’s decision, Scarlet. You don’t have to make a choice, and you don’t have to worry about upsetting people. It’s all down to the judge.’
I tried to imagine this stranger who had such massive power over my life. I pictured an ancient codger with a wig and robes banging a gavel. ‘You’d better tell that judge from me: we won’t go.’
‘I like this one,’ said Mr Hardy, pointing to a photo of me as Puck. ‘When was it taken?’
We talked about the play. He was very ignorant about Shakespeare, but he seemed to want to know more—he wasn’t doing what most adults do, putting on a fake interested voice which made me feel patronised. He asked me to describe my brothers, and that took me a while. I told him I was worried about Theo because he was wetting his bed again. I talked about how he’d attacked Ben on the way to school.
Mr Hardy asked how did I think he should meet them—should they come to his work, where he had a playroom, or should we all go out somewhere? He suggested maybe a park, but it was winter; and then I had a light bulb moment and came up with the brilliant idea of the Railway Museum.
‘It’s always a happy place,’ I said, ‘especially for Theo, who’s a railway geek. He’ll be less uptight there. Ben’s completely off the planet, but if you take him to the platform café and buy him apple juice and a bowl of chips, he might sit still for five minutes.’
‘Done,’ said Mr Hardy. ‘Thank you, Scarlet. And will you come, too?’
I sighed. ‘I think I’d better. My brothers are a real handful.’
•
Scarlet struck me as an intelligent and articulate young
woman who knows her own mind. She has strong loyalty to
her grandparents and is painfully aware of their anguish at
the loss of Zoe. She gave me a clear message for her father: loosely translated, this was that he should leave the family
alone. Initially she described memories of him that were
violent and negative, clearly arising from the last moments
in which she saw him; however, I sensed ambivalence. At one
stage she wept as she described him cooking for herself and
her siblings. She appeared relieved when I reassured her that
any decision about contact was out of her hands.
At Scarlet’s suggestion, I spent a morning with all three
children at the National Railway Museum. This outing proved
to be a lively and stimulating event.
•
Oh my God, what a frickin’ disaster. I have never been so embarrassed in my life.
Mr Hardy walked with us to the museum. He’d asked Hannah and Gramps to explain to the boys that our dad wanted to see us, and he was there to help the wise people at the court decide what was best. Hannah looked as though she was sucking on a lemon when she said the words ‘your father’.