Freeing Grace (43 page)
The door of our room opened immediately, and Deborah and Matt trickled out.
‘That’s us.’ Deborah nodded towards the usher.
Spiv planted himself in front of my seat and took hold of his braces. ‘I’ve had a word with the other parties,’ he intoned. He was sweating a little. ‘No one objects to you coming in as a support person. You can sit in the public area, so long as you understand the rules of confidentiality and don’t interfere.’
‘Jake
never
interferes.’ Debs smiled down at me. ‘It’s against his religion.’
‘No way I’m going in there,’ I objected, stubbornly crossing my arms. ‘I’ll just wait for you.’
‘Suit yourself,’ said Spiv. He strutted away through the double doors, tossing his tussock grass.
Deborah watched him go and then sat down beside me. ‘I don’t know how I’m getting through this day,’ she said quietly. ‘I feel as though I’m drunk, and at any moment I’m going to start giggling, or screaming, or both. And Matt is even closer to the edge.’
I glanced up at the unhappy figure of my young friend, wearing his best suit, his bleached tangles carefully brushed out. He looked so young. So lost. A schoolkid who had fallen over and scraped his knee. As I watched, he pressed his eyes into the palm of his hand, and I felt a bloody great jolt somewhere in my chest.
Debs squeezed my arm. ‘We need you to look solid and dependable in your homespun sweater and desert boots. We need you to be in there as our friend. Please.’
And before I’d even found the strength to argue, we were in.
Leila had reached the end of the road.
She was alone. The fourth floor was completely empty now, the lights turned off. There was no sound except for a vague electrical hum from the drinks machine. Even the cook had locked up her kitchen and gone home to her family.
She was frozen, isolated, in this void. There was no one to eavesdrop on her grief. It felt as though nobody else existed in the whole world. Some catastrophe had wiped them all out: perhaps nuclear war. When she finally stepped out onto the street there would be no traffic, no
Big
Issue
sellers, no schoolchildren at the bus stop, no gnarled old ladies walking their dogs. Nothing.
For almost a decade she had lived in limbo, forever waiting, hanging on, suspending her decisions until the arrival of the children who were to join them. After every disappointment, she’d dragged herself up and made a new plan. It had become her career. It was what defined her. And this had been her final effort. She had risked everything, even David’s trust. She had done her very, very best. And she had failed.
On the table in front of her, between three untouched plastic cups of coffee, the crumpled page of her diary lay rejected. It had been her trump card, but it had done no good. She covered it with her fist and stuffed it into a pocket.
The baby’s family were not as she’d imagined. Not at
all
. They were real people. Distracted, perhaps, and oddly melancholy, but real. The man—the quiet uncle, in whom she’d sensed such unease—had even shaken her hand. They were not mad or drunk or evil or filthy. They wanted to keep their baby, and who could blame them? The little one was a part of their family. Leila had no place in her life.
Perhaps they were already telling the authorities she was here. Perhaps she would be confronted on her way out of the building, taken into a little bare room and forced to confess. They would never let her have another chance. Well, so be it.
Half an hour passed, and she’d long run out of tears. With a tremendous effort, she pushed herself up from the table and wandered towards the lift. She’d failed, and she was tired. She was almost too tired to put one foot in front of the other. She wanted to be home with David. The lift murmured softly to her and deposited her in the lobby. The older guard was still there, packing up his newspaper. No nuclear catastrophe, then. He glanced up at Leila as she passed.
‘Did you make it, love?’
Leila stopped, and half turned towards him. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Thank you. But it didn’t help.’
She pushed through the revolving doors. Starlings were gathering above the roof of the Station Hotel across the road. She stood for a short while, her head turned longingly towards the neon sign that glittered cheerfully above the hotel’s broad sweep of steps. She imagined taking a cheap, anonymous room and staring at mindless gameshows on the television. She wished she could run away, disappear, escape from the rest of her life.
Instead she forced her steps towards the bus stop where the Renault crouched, abandoned at a time—so long ago, it seemed—when she’d still had hope. At first she moved like a sleepwalker, barely conscious of the world around her. But as she drew closer she looked up, and her gaze sharpened.
Then, with a cry of indignation, she began to run.
Walking into the court was like being beamed into a spaceship made of polished wood and blue tip-up chairs. Spiv steered me into the cheap seats at one side and led Deborah and Matt into the dress circle. Their seats were arranged in rows, each with a desk running along in front of it. Forsyth and two other suits set up shop at the front, and their teams were parked behind. There seemed to be an awful lot of people in there. I found myself wondering whether it was all strictly necessary, just for one minuscule blob in a fluffy pink babygro.
I heard other footsteps and shufflings, and Imogen Christie slid past, carrying her blue file and giving me a cool nod. There was no sign of Lenora Blunt, but on the far side I spotted a well-groomed woman in flowing silk, who I guessed was the Children’s Guardian. She looked just as Deborah had described her.
I wondered whether Cherie was there too. Watching us.
Mandy bustled up to the front. ‘Everyone here?’ she clucked, and the lawyers in the front row all nodded and coughed and pushed bits of paper around, as though the future of Grace King was remotely important to them, which I’m quite sure it wasn’t.
We heard the judge coming long before we saw her. I swear I felt the beat of a military marching band; then in she thundered, shaking the ground, and everybody leaped to their feet. I was a bit slow off the mark, mind you, but luckily she didn’t notice.
Jeez, you wouldn’t want to meet this monster on a dark night. She was a one-woman artillery battery in a power jacket and pink lipstick. Deborah began to giggle, silently, unnaturally. I could see her shoulders shaking.
When the rest of us sat down, Marcus Thingummy—the weary, threadbare one with the bad-hair day—remained reluctantly upright, and the Big Gun smiled lovingly down at him. She looked almost maternal. I had the impression they went back a long way.
‘Yes, Mr Watson?’ She had a northern accent, quite strong. Lancashire, maybe. It only added to her presence.
‘Your Honour, I appear on behalf of the applicant local authority in this application for a placement order in respect of the child, Grace Serenity King. The father is Matthew Harrison, and he is represented by Mr—’
‘—Yes. Thank you. I know who’s here.’ Cannonball held up a hand to stop him. ‘I’ve seen your helpful summary, Mr Watson, in this rather tragic case. And I understand that the local authority will be withdrawing its application? Having read their assessment, it seems to me that Mr and Mrs Harrison are both
very
capable people.’ She shot Deborah a kind, encouraging smile.
The barrister’s hair was standing straight up, as though he’d seen a ghost. He rocked back on his heels and then forward again, and cleared his throat. Then he slid his hands into his pockets and jingled some loose change. ‘Er . . . no.’
I just about shot out of my seat. What the hell did he mean, no?
The Cannonball raised her eyebrows about a millimetre, and the temperature dropped by at least twenty degrees. The kind, encouraging smile was a thing of the past.
Poor old Watson held up one hand, as though waving a little white flag. ‘Until fifteen minutes ago, that
was
the intention. The local authority was to withdraw its application and consent to a residence order in Mrs Harrison’s favour. We’d even drawn up an agreed order for Your Honour to approve.’
The Judge pressed her pink lips together. ‘Yes, Mr Watson. I know you had. I’ve
seen
it.’
‘Mm. But at the eleventh hour Mr Forsyth has received instructions—
clear
instructions, from both his clients—that they do not oppose the adoption plan. Indeed, they welcome it! It seems therefore that we are all agreed, including Mrs Midya, the Children’s Guardian. You will find a copy of the original care plan at page fifty of your bundle.’
Cannonball leafed through the pages of a file in front of her, read for a moment, and flared her nostrils. ‘I see. And is the proposed adoptive family still available?’
‘They are, indeed. Very much so. A twin-track approach has been adopted in the planning of this case.’
‘Don’t give me jargon, Mr Watson. Give me facts.’
‘Sorry. Er . . . we’ve just spoken to their team. If you agree, the plan is to inform the couple immediately. Today. We propose to commence introductions as soon as can be arranged, and have Grace placed with them by Christmas.’
‘Hmm.’ Cannonball blinked dangerously and then took aim at Spiv, who shot up and stood to attention, stroking his luxuriant locks with one nervous hand.
‘Well
,
Mr Forsyth? What’s it about? This is all very extraordinary.’
Spiv scratched an ear and looked perplexed and I couldn’t blame him. I was bloody perplexed myself.
‘It is, Your Honour. Very. I’ve spent a good deal of time just now ensuring that both the father and grandmother understand that they are burning their bridges. They’re quite adamant.’
‘What about the grandfather?’
‘He has never been a party.’
‘Some people, Mr Forsyth, might think it a disgraceful waste of public resources to carry out a detailed assessment of grandparents who then throw in the towel.’ She flapped a dismissive hand, and he ducked gratefully down behind the parapet. Took a surreptitious glance at his watch. Shot his cuffs.
Slowly, menacingly, the great sights swung to rest upon Deborah, and I shrank lower in my seat in an effort to be invisible.
‘This is right, is it, Mrs Harrison? You want to withdraw your application?’
Deborah gazed down the barrel without flinching. ‘Yes, that’s right,’ she replied, bold as brass. ‘I do. We feel it’s better for Grace.’
‘And is that view shared by the father?’
Matt nodded miserably.
‘And what about the grandfather?’
Deborah didn’t hesitate. ‘He’s right behind me.’ To my horror, she motioned in my general direction.
Jeez, Debs!
I mouthed furiously, trying to hide behind a concrete pillar. I was spared, though. Cannonball barely bothered to waste her contempt on me. She merely flicked a nasty glance in my direction, sighed, and picked up a pen.
‘Anyone else want to say anything? What about the Children’s Guardian— Mrs Midya? She’s entirely satisfied, is she? Does she need more time?’
‘No thank you,’ said the silver-nailed woman, rising briefly to her feet. ‘In the circumstances, Mrs Midya supports the local authority’s application.’
Once she’d sat down there was a long, uneasy pause. I could hear the lawyers shuffling their feet, tying up their papers, getting ready to make a dash for the fast train. I could hear the hum of a vacuum cleaner. I could hear the ticking of a clock above the door.
I almost thought I could hear Cherie, weeping; but perhaps it was only the squeaking of a chair.
Judge Cartwright began to speak fast and very clearly, as though dictating a business letter. ‘The local authority has made an application for a placement order in respect of Grace Serenity King,’ she said.
I’m afraid I lost track after this. It all became a blur of legalese; the history of the thing, assessments and adoption panels, checklists and timetables, something called Parental Responsibility, and what the Children’s Guardian thought. I was watching Matt. He’d turned completely white, poor kid. Almost blue, actually. Sitting bravely to attention, straight as a soldier; losing the most precious thing in his world.
When I next tuned in, Cannonball seemed to be winding down. ‘
Most
unexpectedly, and very late in the day, the grandmother wishes to withdraw.’ She took several fiery breaths in order to glower at Deborah. ‘I imagine she has her reasons, but I deprecate her timing. In any event, I give her leave to do so.’
She glanced regretfully down at Matt. ‘The father is not by himself in a position to give the child a home, nor will he be within an acceptable timeframe. Greatly to his credit, he accepts this. He does not actively oppose this application although he feels unable to consent. I am able to dispense with his consent because the welfare of this child demands it. Her welfare also requires that her future be settled without further delay. In the circumstances, I find that adoption is in the best interests of this child.’
She halted, as though gathering momentum for the final swing of her axe. The death blow. They should have brought her a black cap to wear.
For too long, we were all suspended in a horrible echoing emptiness, waiting for the blade to fall. Deborah took Matt’s hand. There were tears on his face. I swear I could actually taste his loss. The dry, recycled air seemed to vibrate with it.
Then down came the axe. ‘I therefore make a placement order in favour of Woodbury Borough Council, authorising them to place the child, Grace Serenity King, with prospective adopters. There will be no order for costs.’
The judge stood, nodded curtly at the assembled company, and marched out.
So. It was over, just like that. One baby, signed, sealed and delivered.
Good luck to you,
I thought.
Good luck, Grace Serenity King
.
The building seemed to be shutting down for the night. The lights had dimmed, the corridors were silent.
Imogen Christie collared Matt and Deborah in the lobby. She wanted to talk about their final visit. The social worker seemed quite subdued, which surprised me. She certainly wasn’t celebrating. I reckoned old Imogen was human after all.