Cath Staincliffe - The Kindest Thing

My life got a little easier without Gaynor’s jibes to deal with. I expected Stephanie to relax now her assailant was locked up, but two days later she too was shipped off to the wing. The rumours were that Stephanie had sexually assaulted a girl in the gym.

On my wall there are two birthday cards, one from Adam and one from Jane. Nothing jokey about being over the hill or still up for it, thank God. For a while I distract myself remembering earlier birthdays, the surprises I had, the homemade gifts when Adam and Sophie were little, many of which found their way into my workshop when I couldn’t bear to throw them away. The time I’d been working away and come home to find the house full of flowers and a birthday tree (a yucca) hung with presents.

Sophie turned sixteen this February. I wanted to send her a present. In prison I am only allowed to order things from the Argos catalogue. I pored over the pages wondering what her grandparents would get her, wondering if she had bought herself any of the things that I was considering. Although I have some money here, earnings from my job, they don’t amount to much at 15p a session. I asked Jane to get Sophie’s present for me – I’d try to pay her for it later. Our bank accounts had been frozen. Jane has had to go to the Citizen’s Advice Bureau to help her sort things out with the bank so our direct debits continue to be paid and money made available from our savings for the children. The bank’s not really geared up for this sort of thing – one account holder dead and the other on remand. Not what’s expected of their platinum reserve customers.

I got Sophie a camera, a digital SLR. She was talking about doing photography at A level. There was a workshop in the prison stocked with graphic materials and computers where we could make cards and calendars. I designed a card and sent it to Jane to include with the present.

I didn’t hear whether Sophie liked the camera. Would she shun it because it had come from me? I didn’t probe Adam when he visited. He sees her a couple of times a week but he finds it very difficult, and if I mention her there is always a flash of resentment in his eyes.

I am lost in this chasm between Sophie and me. A trench so wide, so deep, filled with choppy water, sunken rocks. Her insistence on justice is familiar. When she was twelve I mistakenly accused her and Adam of running up the phone bill, and told them they couldn’t make calls to their friends, especially not to the mobile numbers that cost so much more. Sophie’s face hardened. She’d stuck out her hand for the bill and disappeared. She returned later and she had highlighted the calls she made. The cost of them was negligible. It was all down to Adam. She had been furious at the unfairness of my accusation. My paltry ‘Sorry’ and my backtracking weren’t enough. She refused to speak to me for days.

And now here we are estranged. Two pinprick figures either side of a canyon. I ache for the sight of her face turning my way, the break of her smile, the tune of her laughter, the brief weight of her embrace.

Tonight I lie awake spinning headlines and worrying about the children. When I sleep I dream of sinking sand: it is dark and I am out alone in a vast estuary, being sucked under, my legs leaden in the mud, my nostrils filling with the cold, gritty stuff until my lungs crave breath and my heart climbs into my throat.

The jury file in and I watch the parade as they walk through the court to their seats. Mousy moves with her eyes cast down, her shoulders rounded; Dolly has strappy shoes, which cause her to wobble a little; the Prof strides along and the Callow Youth bobs after him. The Cook and the Artist and the Sailor take their places in the second row. The only woman on this row is young and trim. She wears her hair scraped back into a ponytail and she has lovely skin – either that or she’s a makeup wizard. She reminds me of a PA we had at the big interior design firm so I’ll call her PA. Hilda and Flo settle in on the back row, sandwiched between the only black juror and an overweight woman with ginger hair. The man wears a crisp blue shirt and a suit and has been following the proceedings with an intent and unchanging expression. He looks a bit flash – estate agent or media man, perhaps? Yes, Media Man. Earning plenty, I guess, with a canal-side apartment, a beautiful girlfriend and all the latest gadgets.

At the other end of the row, the last juror couldn’t be more different from him. She’s probably in her early twenties, her hair is long and she wears an Alice band. Alice has a wide, freckled face and her large size is emphasized by the tight clothes she wears. She smiles a lot, laughs a lot, nods as if she agrees with whoever’s speaking.

When they go home at night, these twelve peers of mine, do they confide in anyone? Does any of them have an audience clustered round the family tea-table, clinging to their every word, or are they alone with their thoughts from the day, or oblivious, shrugging off my case with their courtroom clothes and heading out to see friends?

The court usher calls Sophie Draper and my bowels turn to water. I would give anything to stop this, to shield her from the amphitheatre. I had asked Latimer if he would refrain from cross-examining her. He gave me a pitying smile, murmured some words of sympathy and assured me he would be gentle with her. There would be nothing to gain if the jury witnessed him ripping into a tender sixteen-year-old.

Sophie had the option of giving evidence by video link but only the real McCoy would do for my girl. My jaw is clamped so tight I think my teeth will shatter. Saliva clogs my throat.

She comes in and I am so happy to see her. How daft is that? My maternal instincts kick in and override all other considerations. She is here, my girl is here. It is almost six months since I have seen her. That was at Neil’s funeral. This flush of pleasure, the quickening of my heart, is swiftly replaced by a bitter sadness, an impotent desire to protect her.

She steps into the witness box and tucks her hair behind her ears. A gesture that betrays her youth. The sympathy emanating from the jury box is almost palpable. I wonder if any of them have children, teenagers, and daughters. Can they make sense of this rift?

Sophie’s hair is different, longer, layered, the highlights bolder. By this time of year her hair has usually darkened to the colour of toffee. She wears clothes I don’t recognize: a plain cornflower blue long-sleeved top, black boot-cut trousers. Who went with her to buy them? A wave of jealousy grips my neck. Did Briony Webber have a hand in it? Counselling her witnesses as to what apparel would best create the right image? The prospect that Sophie and I might never do these things together again, shopping, ordering things online, that she will never wander into my room and ask me if she can borrow my eyeliner or if she should put her hair up or leave it down, kicks me in the belly.

All I have lost.

Sophie does not look at me; she does not look at her brother in the gallery. She concentrates on Miss Webber and the jury.

‘You are Sophie Draper?’

‘Yes.’ Sophie’s voice is small but not timid.

Neil chose the name Sophie. I wanted to call her Rachel but he wasn’t keen. He’d gone out with a girl called Rachel at school; she’d been horribly clingy when he broke up with her. All those years later the name still conjured her up. So we settled on Sophie. Adam had my surname and we gave Sophie Neil’s. We had no plan for how we would name a third child.

Sophie affirms, which I’m relieved about. She’d had a religious phase as a younger teen and challenged Neil and me when we made any anti-religious comments. I think I’d been worrying that staying with Veronica might have sent her looking for comfort in God.