The Beginning of 'Time'

In the end, after the interminable waiting, it is over quickly.

‘I have no other option but to award a custodial sentence. It may ruin your reputation and ultimately your life Burton but you should have thought of that before you behaved so recklessly, before you broke the law. Six months. Take him down’.

Jack’s first reaction is shock. Not at the sentence itself, which he is prepared for. No the shock comes from the suddenness of the separation, of being torn away from Dena. ‘Hang on a minute I want to talk to her,’ he says, but not out loud. No chance. Taken out of the world he knows, down the dark stairs, a warder on either side, and into another frightening world of cells, prisoners and prison officers; jailors, screws. A world of endless hours, arbitrary judgments and powerlessness. Dazed he’s put into a kind of half-way cell, a secure room with a thick plate glass window, and left, presumably to reflect on his crime and on society’s judgment. But he is otherwise preoccupied. Focused for now only with his bodily responses. His heart is beating so vigorously he is afraid of cardiac arrest and his stomach feels as if it’s full of a nest of snakes struggling to get out.

The officers are friendly enough, matter of fact, swapping banter amongst themselves. ‘This can’t be real,’ Jack thinks. After a while he is allowed a brief meeting with Dena. He doesn’t know when he’ll see her again.

Next there is a short visit from his solicitor and barrister who spend most of the time congratulating each other on ‘a result’. 'Good job he’d taken their advice to plead guilty', 'thank goodness there were people to speak well of him'.  Now he’s really starting to feel sorry for himself. Well-meaning and likeable they may be, but sod them. Sod them for being able to walk out of here any time they choose, to go back to Chambers, home to their dinner, out for a drink or two. ‘That’s the spirit my son. Hold on to that.’ Mercifully, they quickly complete their display of mutual admiration, and, backs patted, they leave.

The only abiding memory of the next interview, which is with his probation officer, is the excellent advice he is given: ‘keep your head down and your chin up.’ Time passes. He doesn’t know how much.

It’s getting dark as a prison officer arrives to unlocks the door of the small cell he is waiting in. ‘Time to go,’ the bored looking jailor indicates with a small flick of his head. Handcuffed to the guy next to him Jack is unsure of whether or not to exchange pleasantries’ ‘How do you do,’ or even ‘Hiya mate,’ somehow feels inappropriate. So taking his lead from his neighbour he nods then looks down at his shoes (head down, chin up). And so they continue for the hour or so it takes to drive from the court to the prison.

******

Once back home I sit nursing a coffee I don’t want to drink. I’m grateful though for the comforting warmth of the cup. I try to prepare myself for the next bit of the day. Picking Rosie up from my friend Cathy’s house is the first task I’m dreading.  Eight year old Rosie, bright as the proverbial button. I dread the questions – ‘where’s dad?’, ‘when will he be back?’, ‘will he come up to kiss me goodnight? I know I must subsume my own needs to concentrate on those of my child but selfishly all I want to do is shut down. I don’t want to think, I can’t think, about what might come next; how to explain what has happened to others, how to stop or at least avoid the whispers, how to keep a brave face and a head held high, how not to worry about Jack for the next 91 days (the time he will serve with ‘good behaviour’).  Thinking of all this I realise that I no longer feel numb anymore but angry; angry with the useless solicitor and barrister, the pompous judge, myself even for not being able to stop all this happening, but most of all with Jack, stupid, stupid man, ‘WHY hadn’t he thought of the possible consequences of his actions?’

I push my way through the usual evening activities; some television, teatime, baths, a computer game and reading with Rosie. I manage to avoid the inevitable ‘big discussion’ and tell Rosie that her dad is away for the night. I know this is only making it all worse, putting off the inevitable, but I want to give Rosie, and myself, one more, one last, normal night. Bedtime routine over I pour myself a small, what the hell, large glass of red wine (less likely to give me a headache than white) and sit on the sofa with my feet tucked up underneath my bottom. Looking around I know I should tidy up, the place is a mess; a couple of books, my knitting, some of Rosie’s stuff and a whole heap of newspapers, waiting for Jack to cut out ‘interesting bits for his students’, breakfast mugs on the coffee table and the floor. Shaking my head to loosen the headache I remember asking Jack to tidy up while I took Rosie to school this morning. Was it only this morning? He is an active and engaged father who cooks regularly and always does the ironing – well, usually but not yet awhile – but he doesn’t seem to notice ‘dust and destruction’ as I call it. The kitchen surfaces are often messy (especially after his specialty curry when I invariable have to wipe down not only the cooker and the work surfaces but also the walls and the floor), the untidy pile of novels, newspapers and work paraphernalia annoying rather than homely, and the inside of the toilet bowl would surely turn from white to brown if not for my attention to it.  ‘Tomorrow’, I say out loud, I’ll deal with it all tomorrow.

I half-heartedly flick through the channels on the TV as a ploy to put off what I know I have to do next; make the telephone calls. I’ve  spoken to mum but only briefly and I’m saving another call to her and dad until after I’ve done the rest: Jack’s mother; his brother and sisters; Felicity, Jack’s ex and my stepson David’s mother; a few other kind friends who I know will be sorry for our trouble but just a bit titillated by the news nevertheless. It’s like a death: with one list of people to inform and another of things to do; not book the funeral director, choose the coffin, order the flowers, plan the service and worry about the rest of one’s life but rather sort out a Visiting Order (whatever that is, I know I need to read the leaflet I’d been given), cancel the summer holiday (the first trip abroad for three years), make coats of sack cloth and ashes for the whole of the family and worry about the rest of one’s life. The main difference is that when someone dies you don’t feel so ashamed, so stigmatised; aware of course that people might be talking about you but with sympathy not distain. Taking a deep breath I sit up straighter, taller. Then, as ready as I’ll ever be, I pick up the phone.

The conversations are as I expect. Everyone is shocked and upset. Barbara, Jack’s mother, clearly worried the most about ‘what people might say.’ ‘Fair enough,’ I think, ‘I’m worried about what people might say.’ Jack’s older brother Will, and younger sisters Sarah and Amy are all mostly too stunned to talk, send love to me and to the children and promise to ring tomorrow. Not surprisingly the most difficult call is with Felicity and David. After a dispiriting ‘well I’ve been waiting for something like this to happen, he has always been unreliable,’ type conversation with Felicity, I briefly talk to David who is clearly close to tears. We told him about the trouble his dad was in, but had played it down, not only to David and others close to us, but, I now realise, also to themselves, not able to think about the worst. Well not quite the worst if the solicitor was to be believed, ’18 months is possible.’ he’d said earlier today; cold comfort just at the moment.

*****

Rosie is lying in her bed looking at the star constellations that her dad stuck on her bedroom ceiling last winter, Custard, one of the family’s two cats, is curled up by her feet, seemingly sensitive to the fact that she needs some comfort. Rosie guesses correctly that Crumble is downstairs with mum who she is sure she can hear crying. She knows something is wrong, she knew it last night when her mum came home with red eyes. She knows what the problem is of course; dad has left them. Exactly what had happened to her big brother David and to Joanna (her best friend from school) and to several of her other friends. She has always thought that her mum and dad really love each other, they are always teasing each other and laughing together, smiling at what they call ‘little private jokes’ which Rosie secretly thinks is rather rude. But the last few weeks things have been odd, they have been quieter, less fun to be around and they had both looked really unhappy yesterday morning. So that has to be it, dad has gone, to live somewhere else, and no none has bothered to tell her. ‘Children are always the last to know,’ Kelly had told her solemnly. She knows that there’s more to worry about, much more change to come. Her and mum will have to move to a smaller house and dad will live in a flat nearby, she will likely spend more time with mum but a night or two in the week and every other weekend with dad. They’ll go to McDonalds a lot. Again she knows this because of Kelly and her sister’s experience. She doesn’t even like McDonalds much, the milkshakes are too thick. With a start she sits up disturbing the cat; much more importantly; when will they see David? Will David be allowed to see mum? If mum and dad stay friends maybe they can all still go on holiday together? No that won’t happen, it probably isn’t allowed.’ It’s all too confusing and upsetting. She has to have some answers. She’ll go and find mum, make her talk to her.

*****

NB: The start of something bigger (probably).