Douglas Kennedy - A Special Relationship

Well, that's something I guess.

'But before the hearing yesterday, we heard from your husband's solicitors. Seems he wants to sell up straight away'.

'Can he do that?'

'According to the law, each party who co-owns a house can force a sale. But it takes time and the divorce courts can stop it. Now, if you'd had residence of your child, that would be a different matter altogether. No court would allow the house to be sold under you. But in this situation...'

'I get it', I said.

'They have made an offer - a settlement offer, I should say'.

'What is it?'

'Uh... Ginny Ricks said we won't be representing you from now on'.

'That's absolutely correct'.

'Well, I'll just fax it to you then'.

It showed up a few minutes later - a lengthy letter from Tony's solicitors, informing me that their client wanted to expedite the divorce, and to be as generous as possible under the circumstances. As their client 'would be retaining residence of his son', there were no child support issues to deal with. As I'd had an extensive journalistic career before moving to London, his client would argue that alimony was also not an issue here - as I was perfectly capable of earning a living for myself. And as their client had put 80% of the equity into the house, he could also expect to receive 80% of whatever profit the sale yielded (but given that we only owned the house for seven months, that profit wouldn't be enormous). However, wanting to be generous in this instance, he was offering the following deal: as long as I didn't contest residence, I would, upon the sale of the house, receive not just the £20,000 equity I had invested in it, but the £7000 for the loft conversion (as I had paid for this myself), plus an additional £10,000 sweetener, plus 50% of whatever profit the sale yielded. If, however, I didn't accept this offer, they would have no choice but to take this matter to court, whereupon...

I got the point. Settle fast or be prepared for shelling out even more money in legal fees. Money which I simply didn't have right now.

There was one small respite in this otherwise politely couched, but completely threatening letter: I had twenty-eight days to reply to this offer before legal action ensued. Which meant that I could dodge dealing with it for a bit. Especially as I had more pressing concerns to confront right now. Like my severe lack of money. Though I was expecting an increased bill, there was a part of me which hoped that, given the negative outcome of the case, Lawrence and Lambert might have reduced their costs. What an absurd idea - and just to pour battery acid into the wound, their invoice for the additional £1730.00 was marked: To Be Settled Within Fourteen Days.

Of course, I wanted to crumple up this invoice and dispatch it to the nearest circular file. Or find another lawyer and sue Ginny Ricks for complete professional incompetence. But I also knew that, if I dodged this bill, Lawrence and Lambert would not only come after me, but might let word get around that, not only was I an unfit mother, but a deadbeat to boot. So I went to the bank that afternoon and bought a £1730.00 sterling draft, and posted it to Lawrence and Lambert, and sat in a coffee bar on Putney High Street, pondering the fact that my net worth was now around £2500 - enough to see me through the next few months, as long as I didn't employ another lawyer to fight the custody case.

I had to admire Tony's solicitors: their offer was ferociously strategic. Accept our terms and you come out with a little money to get your life re-started again. Turn us down - and we will embroil you in a legal battle that you cannot afford, and which will end up having the same result: Jack stays with Tony and that woman.

Of course, there was a significant part of me that wanted to simply agree to their shitty terms and be done with it - to take the money, and try to find a new place to live and a job, and attempt to negotiate, over time, a shared custody agreement. But that would mean Jack growing up, looking upon that woman as his mother - whereas I would be some damaged parental adjunct, whom he would eventually come to regard as the person who had failed him by being unable to cope with motherhood. Judging from their behaviour so far, I had no doubt that Tony and that woman would do their best to poison him against me. But even if, in due time, they became equitable and fair-minded, I would still have been legally blocked by them from raising my son. And that was something I simply couldn't accept.

'You don't sound as shaky as I'd expect', Sandy said that night when she phoned me.

'Oh, I'm shaky all right', I said. 'And I find myself crying spontaneously. But this time I'm also angry'.

Sandy laughed.

'Glad to hear it', she said.

But my anger was also tempered by the realpolitik of the situation. Legally and financially, I'd been trumped. For the moment, there wasn't a great deal I could do about it... except attempt to present an exemplary face to the world.

Which meant, from the outset, adopting a certain mind-set when it came to the social workers at the contact centre who were now dealing with me. I could not come across as arrogant or enraged, or someone who believed it was their inalienable right to raise their child. In their eyes, the Interim Hearing order said it all: I had been declared dangerous to my child's well-being. It didn't matter that facts had been manipulated against me by a very clever barrister, or that I had been suffering from a clinical condition. I couldn't play the blame game here. Like it or not I had to somehow accept that I was at their mercy.

So when a woman named Clarice Chambers phoned me from Wandsworth Social Services to suggest that my first supervised visit start in two days' time, I agreed immediately to the time she suggested and showed up fifteen minutes ahead of schedule.

The 'contact centre' was located in a grim, modern, breeze-block building, just off Garratt Lane in Wandsworth. It was situated near a squat ugly tower block called the Arndale Centre - which was known locally as one of the easiest places in the borough to score a vial of crack.

Certainly, my fellow unfit mothers at the contact centre looked like they had all borne witness to assorted domestic horrors, not to mention the trauma of being legally cut-off from their children. There were four of us waiting on a bench in a hallway with scuffed linoleum and dirty concrete walls. My three bench mates were all young. One of them looked like she was no more than fifteen. Another had the sort of zombie eyes and shell-shocked demeanour that made me wonder what controlled substance she was on. The third woman was vastly overweight, and was about to burst into tears at any moment. We said nothing while waiting for our names to be called.

After ten minutes, a woman appeared from a reception area, and said 'Sally Goodchild', then directed me to Room 4, straight down the corridor, second door on my right. Walking down towards the room, I felt fear. Because I didn't know how I'd react to the sight of my son.

But he wasn't there when I went in. Rather, I found myself face-to-face with Clarice Chambers - a large, imposing Afro-Caribbean woman with a firm handshake and a firm smile. I noticed immediately that this room was set up as a nursery - with soft toys, and a playpen, and animal wallpaper that looked forlornly incongruous under the harsh fluorescent lighting and broken ceiling tiles.

'Where's Jack?' I said, my nervousness showing.

'He'll be with us in just a minute', she said, motioning for me to sit down in a plastic chair opposite her own. 'I just want to chat with you for a bit before you have your visit with your son, and to explain how this all works'.

'Fine, fine', I said, trying to steady myself. Clarice Chambers gave me another sympathetic smile, and then said that I should now consider this day and hour - Wednesday, eleven am - as my time with Jack. His father had been informed of this fact - and Jack's nanny would be bringing him here every week. She would not be present during these visits - only myself and Clarice. However, if I wished, I could nominate a friend or family member as the supervisor for these visits - but, of course, this individual would first have to be vetted by Wandsworth social services to assess their suitability for this role.