guardians, agonising over every decision, our lives entirely subsumed by their needs. So I looked forward to Monday lunchtimes.
I was warming my hands on the Aga when the music stopped. Frederick appeared in the doorway. He lit up at the sight of me—literally, as though a torch had switched on behind the fading honey-brown of his eyes. I felt my own face lift in response.
‘Hello!’ he cried, with the emphasis on the second syllable. Hel- lo ! He always managed to make it sound as though my arrival was a delightful surprise. He came over to kiss me. ‘I didn’t hear you. How were your undergrads?’
‘Two were actually asleep, one played games on his phone, and one was grinning at her laptop—I’m fairly sure she was watching cute cat videos on YouTube.’
Frederick had opened the fridge door and was peering at the shelves. ‘I’m not sure what we’re having for lunch.’
I felt a twinge of irritation at his scattiness. He knew perfectly well what we were having! I’d bought brie and baguettes and other goodies, as I had done every Monday for years. It was waiting on the table. I could smell warm crust, faintly yeasty.
‘It’s all here,’ I said briskly, taking a seat. ‘You ready to eat?’
No, he wasn’t ready. He stooped over a chair back, gripping it. There were age spots on his knuckles. ‘A letter came this morning.’
I sat with a baguette in my hand and a rictus smile on my face, looking up at him. For some reason, I was thinking of the moment we heard Zoe had been murdered. We were sitting at that same table; we were happy, laughing, hosting a dinner party for good friends.
It was murder, you know. The lawyers did a little pleasant plea-bargaining over a cup of coffee (they denied it, but I’m sure that’s what happened) tipped sweet-smelling scent all over the crime and rechristened it manslaughter. But I know what it was, all right, and so did the judge and the police and the ushers and the woman from the CPS and all those wigged barristers who wouldn’t meet my eye.
Frederick pushed an envelope across the table. ‘He wants to see them.’
‘They don’t want to see him.’
‘He warned us he’d go to court.’
I read through the papers with a sense of disbelief. It was an application on a standard form. It sounded innocuous enough: Joseph William Scott applies for contact with the children Scarlet Zoe Scott, Theodore Marcus Scott and Benjamin Frederick Scott.
‘Will we never have peace?’ I whispered.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘If anyone else had killed our daughter right in front of her own children, we’d never have to see him again! Yet this monster can walk into a court and ask—no, not ask, demand —that we offer them up like sacrificial lambs!’ I took a long breath. ‘It’s not happening, Frederick. Last time they clapped eyes on that man . . .’
I didn’t need to finish the sentence. We both knew what had happened the last time the children saw Joseph Scott. That was the moment when the world came to an end.
Freddie looked weary. ‘I think we’d better phone Jane.’
‘I’ll do it.’ As I picked up the phone to call our solicitor, Freddie wandered to a shelf beside the Aga upon which we’d arranged photographs of Zoe. This was instigated by Nanette, a bereavement specialist we brought in to help us in those early days. According to her, in some families there was an unhealthy conspiracy of silence and the dead person was never mentioned; others went to the opposite extreme and made the entire house a sort of shrine, with memorabilia everywhere so that the past was revered more than the present. Instead, Nanette suggested the photo shelf.
‘It’s to acknowledge Zoe,’ she said. ‘They need to make new relationships rather than fixating on loss; but let her be a part of family chat around the table, if you can. Share your memories. Don’t let her become a taboo subject.’ Our kitchen was the hub of our world, so that’s where we put most of
I was warming my hands on the Aga when the music stopped. Frederick appeared in the doorway. He lit up at the sight of me—literally, as though a torch had switched on behind the fading honey-brown of his eyes. I felt my own face lift in response.
‘Hello!’ he cried, with the emphasis on the second syllable. Hel- lo ! He always managed to make it sound as though my arrival was a delightful surprise. He came over to kiss me. ‘I didn’t hear you. How were your undergrads?’
‘Two were actually asleep, one played games on his phone, and one was grinning at her laptop—I’m fairly sure she was watching cute cat videos on YouTube.’
Frederick had opened the fridge door and was peering at the shelves. ‘I’m not sure what we’re having for lunch.’
I felt a twinge of irritation at his scattiness. He knew perfectly well what we were having! I’d bought brie and baguettes and other goodies, as I had done every Monday for years. It was waiting on the table. I could smell warm crust, faintly yeasty.
‘It’s all here,’ I said briskly, taking a seat. ‘You ready to eat?’
No, he wasn’t ready. He stooped over a chair back, gripping it. There were age spots on his knuckles. ‘A letter came this morning.’
I sat with a baguette in my hand and a rictus smile on my face, looking up at him. For some reason, I was thinking of the moment we heard Zoe had been murdered. We were sitting at that same table; we were happy, laughing, hosting a dinner party for good friends.
It was murder, you know. The lawyers did a little pleasant plea-bargaining over a cup of coffee (they denied it, but I’m sure that’s what happened) tipped sweet-smelling scent all over the crime and rechristened it manslaughter. But I know what it was, all right, and so did the judge and the police and the ushers and the woman from the CPS and all those wigged barristers who wouldn’t meet my eye.
Frederick pushed an envelope across the table. ‘He wants to see them.’
‘They don’t want to see him.’
‘He warned us he’d go to court.’
I read through the papers with a sense of disbelief. It was an application on a standard form. It sounded innocuous enough: Joseph William Scott applies for contact with the children Scarlet Zoe Scott, Theodore Marcus Scott and Benjamin Frederick Scott.
‘Will we never have peace?’ I whispered.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘If anyone else had killed our daughter right in front of her own children, we’d never have to see him again! Yet this monster can walk into a court and ask—no, not ask, demand —that we offer them up like sacrificial lambs!’ I took a long breath. ‘It’s not happening, Frederick. Last time they clapped eyes on that man . . .’
I didn’t need to finish the sentence. We both knew what had happened the last time the children saw Joseph Scott. That was the moment when the world came to an end.
Freddie looked weary. ‘I think we’d better phone Jane.’
‘I’ll do it.’ As I picked up the phone to call our solicitor, Freddie wandered to a shelf beside the Aga upon which we’d arranged photographs of Zoe. This was instigated by Nanette, a bereavement specialist we brought in to help us in those early days. According to her, in some families there was an unhealthy conspiracy of silence and the dead person was never mentioned; others went to the opposite extreme and made the entire house a sort of shrine, with memorabilia everywhere so that the past was revered more than the present. Instead, Nanette suggested the photo shelf.
‘It’s to acknowledge Zoe,’ she said. ‘They need to make new relationships rather than fixating on loss; but let her be a part of family chat around the table, if you can. Share your memories. Don’t let her become a taboo subject.’ Our kitchen was the hub of our world, so that’s where we put most of
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