More Than You Know (108 page)

“All rise.”

Judge Clifford Rogers looked more sombre even than usual, and his expression more inscrutable as he walked in.

Toby would sum up first; Eliza sat, her eyes fixed on him as if taking them off would somehow weaken her, scarcely hearing what he said, all the old arguments passing in a blur … Then Bruce Hayward, his testimony to Matt as moving as Toby Gilmour’s had been to her.

Outside, they waited. Toby was quiet, tense, Philip smiling, overeffusive; the assistants were chattering brightly, Matt’s team looking across at them, smiling, patently confident. Eliza felt utterly exhausted, numb, not even frightened, just longing to have it over, the final humiliation, the ultimate pain … and regretting—almost—her decision.

“All rise.”

She was going to be sick; she was … “No nose picking,” whispered Toby, trying to smile. She didn’t even try to smile back. Clifford Rogers looked at them all with his now-familiar air of weary resignation.

“We have heard a great deal. Some of it revelatory, some of it predictable. Some of it persuasive, some of it frankly incredible. And we are left with … what? Two people, two highly intelligent people, both undoubtedly good parents, both indisputably bad spouses. Two people who love their child so much but are so diametrically opposed to each other that they choose to fight for her, rather than learn not to fight each other for her.

“I am not overconcerned with the shortcomings of either, as they have been presented to me; it is my considered opinion that the behaviour of both of them is no better and no worse than that of a great many married people who have had the maturity to find a way to stay together for the sake of the children. Unfortunately neither Mr. nor Mrs. Shaw
is in the possession of this maturity. I think Mr. Shaw could actually make a very good fist of caring for his daughter as a sole parent, and Mrs. Shaw could do pretty well at caring for her in the same situation. The child would clearly be materially well provided for either way. But neither scenario would be ideal for her. Far from it. And it is the interests of the child, the innocent party in all this unhappiness, that have to be paramount.

“So—we need a Solomon. Unfortunately I am not one. I fear I lack both his brutality and his courage. Certainly insofar as a judgement would affect a child.

“But … I have found one. In the child in this case, in the six-year-old Emmeline Shaw, who has, mercifully, more maturity and common sense than either of her parents.

“We spoke at length, she and I; expecting merely to discover in which way and how badly she was affected by the breakup, I found my way forward.

“I think the best thing I can do is tell you what she said. She expressed a passionate wish that things could continue as they were, that she could live at home with both her parents. But she has come to accept that this is not possible. As she put it, rather succinctly, her parents are too stupid.

“She did, however, propose a scenario that I consider acceptable. Given that her parents are financially successful, I believe it to be workable.

“She says she would like them to live next door to each other, in houses that are exactly the same, particularly her bedroom. Now, I can see this would be a little difficult to arrange precisely as she desires it, but I see no reason why, in one of the areas of London with many adjacent streets of extremely similar houses, two identical, or very like, residences could not be found.

“She would like to spend exactly half her life in each house, with each parent. She would like to spend the weekends alternately with each of them, at the house in the country that Mr. Shaw so generously bought for the family, and where her pony lives. She would like them all to be together at Christmas and on her birthdays.

“Now, it seems to me that, for a little girl who has already suffered considerably, this is no more than she deserves. Indeed, it is a great deal less than she deserves, as I have already observed.

“I realise it would not be easy emotionally for the parents. I consider, however, that they could and should be able to accomplish it. I am not asking them to live together but for two weekends a year. I would hope they are civilised and mature enough to manage this.

“I am mindful that shared custody in these situations is rarely successful, and given the slightly charged potential of this one, particularly so. I therefore grant custody to the father, and care and control to the mother, with access for the father exactly as outlined.”

A long pause … then … and was that, several in his audience wondered, a smile struggling to break out on his lugubrious features?

“I should add that Emmeline’s dearest wish, as outlined to me, next to having her parents living together once more, is to hold a gymkhana at the country house in roughly one year’s time. I do not, of course, propose to make this a condition of the settlement, but I would say again that it is no more than she deserves. What I do realise is that again it would necessitate that Mr. Shaw keep the house, Summercourt, in the county of Wiltshire, and not sell it, as I believe he had wished to do. I realise that considerable generosity would be required to do this. But I believe it to be financially possible for him, and, given that he is to have custody of his daughter, I would like to think he would show his gratitude by granting her wish. May I say in closing that I am most impressed with Emmeline and what both—and clearly it is both—her parents have accomplished in her upbringing thus far. It is for this reason that I am so unwilling to disrupt her life any further than has already been done.”

“All rise.”

Eliza walked into the house; Emmie appeared, holding Sarah’s hand, looking anxious.

“Was it all right? Are you cross with me?”

“It was absolutely all right, Emmie. And no, I’m not cross with you. I can’t ever remember feeling less like being cross with you. Come here and give me a big, big hug. And Daddy, he’s here too, just to tell you he isn’t cross with you either.”

1972

E
LIZA LOOKED ACROSS AT THE MEADOW, TRANSFORMED INTO A PONY
paradise—a ring, jumps, all looking very professional—and in the corner nearest the house all the paraphernalia attendant to a gymkhana for later in the day—several bales of hay, dozens of buckets, a stack of chairs, and a large pile of poles, for musical chairs and poles, respectively. Beyond that, the rough field had become a car park, already holding two horse boxes—one a very flashy thing. She looked at it with some foreboding, fearing they had been brought here under false pretences, lured by an article in the
Daily News
, whose editor had insisted on publishing a half-page appreciation of the Summercourt Horse Show, and which rather gave the impression that the gymkhana was to be an event only a little humbler than Badminton.

The paper was offering, indeed, a cup for jumping, 14.2 hands and under, to be presented by the editor, Mr. Jack Beckham, who would be attending with his own family, the voluptuous Mrs. Babs Beckham, onetime weathergirl and columnist for the
Daily Sketch
, and their three teenage daughters, who, according to their father, didn’t really know one end of a horse from the other, but liked the boys who rode them.

“They won’t find any groovy boys here,” said Eliza briskly; but as it turned out, Gail—the girl who looked after Mouse—had suddenly produced her three half brothers, who lived in Bath with her mother and stepfather, two very presentable and one quite stunning, who bore a distinct resemblance to Marc Bolan, complete with wild head of glossy curls. Eliza, who hadn’t believed in the beauty of the Marc Bolan one, although it was much discussed in the village, stared at them open-mouthed when Gail brought them up to the house two evenings before.

“I got them over to help,” she said. “They all know about horses, course, and Cal—he’s the one with the hair—he’s been at vet college for a year now, so he might be useful with any accidents.”

Eliza went downstairs and went into the kitchen to make some coffee. Her mother was there already, looking as excited as Emmie.

“It’s all so lovely, Eliza; if only Daddy was here to see it, and no rain—you see; I told you so.”

“I know; I can’t believe it. Now the programmes have arrived, I hope—”

“Not yet, Mrs. Horrocks is bring them over. Mr. Horrocks was running them off on the Gestetner until the small hours apparently. But I’ve got a proof—here; what do you think?”

Eliza looked at it; it was hardly a fine piece of printing. But at least the gate charge was now correct, one pound rather than one hundred, which had been spotted, incredibly, only at the fourth proofing.

“You should have left it,” Jeremy said when she told him. “The ordinary punters would have assumed it was a mistake, and you might have got some rich outsiders coughing up, putting you in profit. How much do you think you’re going to make, anyway?”

“We’ll be extremely lucky to break even,” said Eliza. “It’s a very good thing we’ve got some sponsors.”

“Sponsors? Darling, how grand. Who would that be?”

“Well, Shaw Construction, funnily enough, and Scarlett’s travel company has put in five hundred pounds as well, bless her.”

“Are they coming?”

“Scarlett and Mark? I hope so, but her baby’s due on Sunday, so not quite sure … What about Mariella, Jeremy; is she coming?”

“Of course she’s coming. Only thing that’s worrying me is she’s got some mysterious plan.”

“What sort of plan?”

“I don’t know, except that it involves arriving at Summercourt long after I do, and she has some appointment quite early in the day just outside Marlborough. We’re staying at the Bear overnight; it seemed simpler. Oh, and Pa wants to come too; he’s never seen Summercourt. He’s quite lonely these days, poor old chap, misses Ma more than he’d ever admit, even misses the bullying—”

“Jeremy, of course it’s all right. I love your father; you know I do. I bet he loves Mariella,” she added.

“My God, he does. Whenever we have a row, she threatens to marry him instead.”

“Well, that’d be interesting. Anyway, stay for supper afterwards, why don’t you? Charles is bringing his new girlfriend—she’s a teacher, sounds a bit worthy, but perfect for him—and I’d love you to meet her.”

“Try to keep me away.”

Eliza took her mug of coffee and went to sit on the fence of the paddock. Mouse was tied up, clearly resentful at his curtailed freedom, and Emmie was rather unsuccessfully trying to re-oil his already shiny hooves. Eliza held out her hand to him; he pushed his soft nose into it, seeking Polo mints or carrots, and, finding neither, pushed his face against her body, jerking his head gently, slobbering onto her T-shirt. Good thing she hadn’t cleaned herself up yet.

She looked across at the house, the pale light dusting it, catching the windows, turning the stone lighter, almost luminescent. God, she loved this house. It was such a good friend to her, a gentle, graceful, welcoming friend, always ready for her, to greet her, to contain her.

But a shadow hung over it still. Matt had never—of course, how could he?—loved it as she did. He had bought it for her, because he loved her. He would have bought her anything—then. It had been the hardest part of the negotiations, the house; Matt’s initial heady relief at getting custody, thus saving his face and his sense of justice, had given way to his usual truculence; why should he, he argued, spend thousands a year on its upkeep for Sarah to enjoy, for Eliza to visit, when another house, cheaper, easier to run, closer to London, would serve as well?