Douglas Kennedy - A Special Relationship

I wanted to respond to her - to tell her exactly what I thought of her. But I kept myself in check.

'I just need', I said, my voice shaky, 'a translation of what the judge just said'.

Another weary sigh. 'A Residence Order is exactly what it sounds like. The court decides with whom the child should reside - and in this instance, the judge has decided to maintain the status quo of the last order. Which means that your husband and his new partner will have residence of your son for six months - which is when there will be what the judge called "A Final Hearing", at which time you will be able to argue your case again and hopefully work out a more favourable custody arrangement. For the moment, however, as he said, you will be granted supervised contact at a contact centre - which essentially means a room in some social services office in Wandsworth... where you will have an hour to be with your child once a week, under the supervision of a social worker, who will be there to ensure that the child comes to no harm. CAFCASS stands for "Child and Family Court Advisory and Support Service". And the CAFCASS report which he commissioned means that, in the ensuing six months, the court reporter will be investigating your background, and that of your husband and his new partner. And to be absolutely direct about it, given the case they have compiled against you, I honestly don't see how you will be able to change the court's opinion. Especially as, by that time, the child will be overwhelmingly settled with his father and his new partner. Of course, should you wish to instruct us to take the case...'

I raised my head and stared directly at her.

'There is absolutely no chance of that', I said.

She stood up, gave me another of her supercilious shrugs, and said, 'That is your prerogative, Ms Goodchild. Good day'.

I was now alone in the courtroom. I didn't want to move from this spot. A court had declared me an unfit mother. For the next six months, my sole contact with my child would be a weekly sixty minutes, with some social worker standing by in case I went psycho. And Ginny Ricks was right: given the evidence stacked against me - and given the wealth and hyper-social standing of Ms Dexter - the chances that I would be granted custody of Jack, or even permitted to see him on a regular, unsupervised basis, were around nil.

I had just lost my son.

I tried to fathom that - to reason it out in my head.

I had just lost my son.

I kept playing that phrase over and over again in my head. The enormity of its meaning was still impossible to grasp.

After ten minutes, the court usher came in and told me I would have to leave. I stood up and walked out into the street.

I made it to the Temple Underground station. When the train came hurling down the platform, I forced myself against a wall and clutched on to a waste bin - to ensure that I didn't pitch myself under it. I don't remember the journey south, or how I got back to the house. What I do remember is getting to the bedroom, closing all the blinds, unplugging the phone, stripping off my clothes, getting under the covers, and then realizing that, though I could try to block out the world, the world was still there, beyond the bedroom window, indifferent to my catastrophe.

Not having a clue what to do next, I stayed in bed for hours, the covers pulled up over my head, wanting the escape of oblivion, yet being denied it. This time, however, I didn't find myself hanging on to the mattress as if it was the sole ballast that was keeping me from going over the edge. This time, though I felt an intense, desperate grief, it wasn't overshadowed by a feeling of imminent collapse or a downward plunge. I didn't know if it was the cumulative effect of the anti-depressants, or some chink in the armour-like depressive veil. All I realized was that I wasn't sinking any longer. My feet were on terra firma. My head was no longer fogged in. The view ahead was clear - and thoroughly dismal.

So I forced myself out of bed, and forced myself to take a hot-and-cold shower, and forced myself to tidy the bedroom, which had become something of an uncharacteristic dump over the last few days. When I broke down - a wave of sobbing that hit me shortly after I finished hanging up the last pair of cast-aside jeans - I didn't find myself falling into oblivion. I was simply convulsed by sadness.

I plugged the phone back in around four. Immediately it rang. It was Sandy. From the sound of my voice, she knew the outcome. But when I detailed the findings of the judge - and the supervised access I would have to Jack - she was horrified.

'Jesus Christ, it's not like you're an axe murderer'.

'True - but they certainly gave their barrister enough ammunition to depict me as someone who was on the verge of catastrophe. And I certainly didn't make life easier for myself by...'

'Yeah?'

And then I told her about my weekend trip down the country, apologizing for not informing her before now.

'Don't worry about that', she said, 'though you should know you can tell me anything... like anything, and I won't freak. The thing is, surely the court must have been sympathetic to the idea that you just had to see your son - which isn't exactly an abnormal instinct, now is it? And, like, it's not as if you pounded on their door at three in the morning, wielding a twelve-gauge shotgun. You just stood at the gate and looked, right?'

'Yes - but also the barrister representing me hadn't been properly briefed'.

'What the fuck do you mean by that?'

I explained about the slapdash approach of my solicitor. Sandy went ballistic.

'Who recommended this bitch to you?'

'The husband of my friend Margaret Campbell...'

'She was that American friend living in London, now back in the States, right?'

Sandy certainly had a terrifying memory.

'Yes, that's her'.

'Some friend'.

'It's not her fault, nor her husband's. I should have researched things a little bit...'

'Will you stop that', she said. 'How the hell were you to know about divorce lawyers in London?'

'Well, I certainly know a thing or two about them now'.

Later that evening, the telephone rang and I found myself talking to Alexander Campbell.

'Hope this isn't a bad time', he said. 'But your sister called Margaret at home today, and told her what happened, and how this woman - Virginia Ricks, right? - behaved. And I just want to say I am horrified. Truly horrified. And I plan to call Lawrence and Lambert myself tomorrow' -

'I think the damage has been largely done, Alexander'.

'Damage for which I feel responsible'.

'How were you to know?'

'I should have checked with other London colleagues about the best divorce firms'.

'And I shouldn't have accepted the first lawyer I spoke with. But... there it is'.

'And now?'

'Now... I think I've lost my son'.

Margaret also called that night to commiserate, and to say how bad she felt.

'Did they fleece you, those lawyers?'

'Hey, you're married to a lawyer - you know they always fleece you'.

'How much?'

'It's irrelevant now'.

'How much?'

'A retainer of twenty-five hundred sterling. But I'm sure the final bill will come to more than that'.

'And how will you cover it?'

With my ever-diminishing funds, that's how.

In fact, the Lawrence and Lambert bill arrived the next morning. I was right about it running beyond the original retainer - a cool £1730.00 above the initial £2500.00 - every expense and charge laid out in fine detail. I also received a phone call from Deirdre Pepinster. She was as laconic as ever.

'One thing I wanted to raise with you yesterday - but didn't think you needed more bad news...'

Oh, God, what fresh hell now?

'I checked the Land Registry. The house is in both your names...'