Douglas Kennedy: A Special Relationship

'Figured we should celebrate the heat with a drop of drinkable wine... that is, if you can indulge just now?'

'I think I can get away with a glass', I said. 'I'm down to two anti-depressants a day now'.

'That is impressive', she said. 'It took me nearly a year to be weaned off them'.

'Well, Dr Rodale hasn't pronounced me "cured" yet'.

'But you're certainly getting there'.

She uncorked the wine. I lay back for a moment, and felt the sun on my face, and let the sour lemon aroma of the grass block out all the usual urban odours, and thought: this is rather pleasant.

'Here you go', Julia said, placing a glass beside me, then lighting a cigarette. I sat up. We clinked glasses.

'Here's to finished business', she said.

'Such as?'

'Finally wrapping up a fucking awful project'.

'The East Anglian history thing?'

'Yes, that beast', she said, mentioning some tome she'd been editing which had bored her senseless (or so she had kept telling me). 'Done and dusted last night. And anyone who's spent three months enveloped in East Anglian history deserves a few glasses of wine. You still working on the Jazz Guide?'

'Oh, yes - all 1800 pages of it. And I still haven't gotten beyond Sidney Bechet'.

'Watch out - Stanley will get worried'.

'I've got seven weeks before it's due. And given that Stanley just asked me out, I doubt he'll be hectoring me about' -

Julia nearly coughed on her cigarette.

'Stanley asked you out?'

'That's what I said'.

'My, my - I am surprised'.

'Over the course of my adult life, men have occasionally asked me out'.

'You know what I'm talking about. It's Stanley. Not exactly the most forward of men. And even since his divorce, he's maintained a pretty low profile on that front'.

'He's quite charming, in his own avuncular way. Or, at least, that's the impression I got when we had that lunch all those months ago'.

'And he's only in his early fifties. And he does look after himself. And he is a very good editor. And I hear he does have a rather nice maisonette in South Ken. And' -

'I'm certain he can hold a fork in his hand without drooling'.

'Sorry' she said with a laugh. 'I wasn't really trying to sell him to you'.

'Sell him as hard as you like. Because I've already told him I'm too busy for dinner right now'.

'But why? It's just dinner'.

'I know - but he is my sole source of income at the moment. And I don't want to jeopardize that by veering into situations non-professional. I need the work'.

'Have you reached a settlement with Tony's solicitors as yet?'

'Yes, we've just got there'.

Actually, it was Nigel Clapp who got us there, forcing their hand through his usual hesitant determination - a description which, if applied to anyone else, would sound oxymoronic, but made complete sense when portraying Nigel. A week after the hearing, the other side got in touch with him and made their first offer: continued shared ownership of the house, in return for 50 per cent payment of the ongoing mortgage, and an alimony/child support payment of £500 a month. Tony's solicitors explained that, given he was now no longer in full-time employment, asking him to pay the entire monthly mortgage, coupled with £500 for the upkeep of his son and ex-wife, was a tremendous stretch.

As Nigel explained to me at the time, 'I... uhm... did remind them that he did have a wealthy patroness, and that we could dig our heels in and force him to hand over ownership of the house to you. Not that we would have had much chance of winning that argument, but... uhm... I sensed that they didn't have the appetite for much of a fight'.

They settled rather quickly thereafter. We would still own the house jointly - and would split the proceeds when and if it was ever sold, but Tony would handle the full mortgage payment, in addition to £1000 maintenance per month - which would cover our basic running costs, but little more.

Still, I didn't want any more. In fact, in the immediate aftermath of the hearing, my one central thought (beyond the shock of winning the case, and getting Jack back) was the idea that, with any luck, I would not have to spend any time in the company of Tony Hobbs again. True, we had agreed joint custody terms: he'd have Jack every other weekend. Then again, the fact that he'd be spending all forthcoming weekends in Sydney ruled out much in the way of shared custody... though Nigel was assured, through Tony's solicitors, that their client would be returning to London on a regular basis to see his son.

Tony also assured me of this himself during our one conversation. This took place a week after the hearing - the day both our solicitors had agreed upon for Jack to be returned to me. 'The hand-over' as Nigel Clapp called it - an expression that had a certain Cold War spy novel ring to it, but was completely apt. Because, on the morning before, I received a phone call from Pickford Movers, informing me that they would be arriving tomorrow at nine am with a delivery of nursery furniture from an address on Albert Bridge Road. Later that day, Nigel rang to say he'd heard from Tony's solicitors, asking him if I'd be at home tomorrow around noon, 'as that's when the hand-over will take place'.

'Did they say who'll be bringing Jack over?' I asked.

'The nanny' he said.

Typical Tony, I thought. Leave it to a third party to do his dirty work for him.

'Tell them I'll be expecting Jack at noon', I said.

The next morning, the movers arrived an hour early ('Thought you wouldn't mind, luv', said the on-the-job foreman). Within sixty minutes, not only had they unloaded everything, but they'd also put Jack's crib, wardrobe, and chest of drawers back together again in the nursery. Accompanying the furniture were several boxes of clothes and baby paraphernalia. I spent the morning putting everything away, rehanging the mobile that had been suspended above his cot, setting up a diaper-changing area on top of the chest of drawers, repositioning the bottle sterilizer in the kitchen, and setting up a playpen in the living room. In the process, I started erasing all memories of a house without a child.

Then, at noon, the front door bell rang. Was I nervous? Of course I was. Not because I was worried about how I'd react, or whether the momentousness of the moment would overwhelm me. Rather, because I never believed this moment would happen. And when you are suddenly dealing with a longed-for reality - especially one that once seemed so far beyond the realm of possibility - well, who isn't nervous at a moment like that?

I went to the door, expecting some hired help to be standing there, holding my son. But when I swung it open, I found myself facing Tony. I blinked with shock - and then immediately looked down, making certain that he had Jack with him. He did. My son was comfortably ensconced in his carry-chair, a pacifier in his mouth, a foam duck clutched between his little hands.

'Hello', Tony said quietly.

I nodded back, noticing that he looked very tired. There was a long awkward moment where we stared at each other, and really didn't know what to say next.

'Well...' he finally said. 'I thought I should do this myself'.

'I see'.

'I bet you didn't think I'd be the one to bring him'.

'Tony', I said quietly, 'I now try to think about you as little as possible. But thank you for bringing Jack home'.

I held out my hand. He hesitated for just a moment, then slowly handed me the carry-chair. I took it. There was a brief moment when we both held on to him together. Then Tony let go. The shift in weight surprised me, but I didn't place the carry-chair on the ground. I didn't want to let go of Jack. I looked down at him. He was still sucking away on his pacifier, still hanging on to the bright yellow duck, oblivious to the fact that - with one simple act of exchange, one simple hand-over - the trajectory of his life had just changed. What that life would be - how it would turn out - was indeterminable. Just that it would now be different from the other life he might have had.