The Accidental Life of Greg Millar (37 page)

We look at each other, eyes wide.

Then Freda adds, ‘Unless, of course, you have adopted the
children
?’

‘Adopted? Why would I need to adopt if I’m already a stepmo—’

Greg interrupts. ‘Would it make a difference?’

‘It would have, yes,’ she says, speaking in the past tense. ‘It would have created a direct link between Lucy and the children.’

‘Why don’t people tell you that?’ I ask. ‘How are you supposed to know?’

‘Lucy could adopt them now,’ Greg suggests.

‘There would never be enough time. It is a long and arduous process.’ Seeing our distress, her face softens. ‘Having said all that, in this case, one thing has gone in your favour. Their solicitor has made, in my view, a slight cock-up. He has included Lucy’s name on the order. That increases your relevance to the case,’ she says, looking at me, ‘and puts you both in a stronger position because they are effectively acknowledging your status as that of a parent. A parent who does not have bipolar disorder.’

‘But, then . . .’ starts Greg.

‘Legally, it could still be undermined because the blood link is stronger. But it’s something.’

I look at my husband, guilty that I never offered to adopt his children, and even guiltier that I am considered a better parent simply because I don’t have bipolar disorder.

But Greg hasn’t given up yet. ‘Can’t we argue that taking the children from their home would be extremely traumatic? They’ve already had to suffer separation when I was in hospital. Surely, a court should recognise this? And, surely, Ben and Ruth must come across in a bad light for not caring about that?’

‘You can argue it, but not until the hearing. Temporary custody has been granted. A decision has already been taken, in court, that indicates that the judge is concerned about the children’s welfare.’

Jesus.

‘Couldn’t we appeal?’ Greg asks.

‘Yes. You could. But it wouldn’t be in your interest. An appeal would be based on a short affidavit only – not enough, in my opinion, to convince a judge. A full hearing is what you need, and that is already planned for three weeks’ time. What we need to concentrate on now is being as prepared as we can for that hearing. We need to get a report from your psychiatrist . . .’

But Greg has stopped listening. ‘Are you saying that the children have to stay with Ben and Ruth for three weeks? That’s a ridiculous amount of time to separate children from their parents. It’s unjust.’

‘That’s why I will begin negotiations tomorrow, for access,’ says Freda in an assured tone. ‘We should get daily access. It may have to be supervised. Indeed, we should request supervised access. It would increase our chances of getting it. I will argue for supervision to be carried out by a relative.’ She makes a note of that.

‘So, to be clear . . .’ I say. ‘We can’t get the children back before three weeks, and there’s a chance we may not even see them in that time, and then a court hearing will decide who they stay with permanently?’

‘That would be a pretty accurate summation.’

I shake my head at the injustice of it.

‘Who will you negotiate with for access?’ asks Greg, who has started to take notes himself.

‘The applicants, through their solicitor.’

‘Who are the applicants?’ I ask.

‘The children’s grandparents. They are the applicants. You are the respondents.’

‘What if they don’t agree to access?’ Greg continues.

‘Unlikely. Their solicitor will advise them to agree. Judges don’t look favourably on denial of access. Even in child abuse cases, access is granted. Supervised access. But as there have been cases where applicants have not agreed to access, I will prepare a replying affidavit to bring a motion, returnable on the date of the court case, seeking interim access that day.’ She makes a note of that.

‘Sorry, what?’

‘If they don’t agree, the question of access will be before the courts in three weeks.’

‘That’s all we can do?’ asks Greg.

‘For the moment. Yes.’

‘What about speeding up the hearing?’ Greg, again, is asking all the right questions.

‘I must warn you,’ she says, ‘the case may, in actual fact, be postponed.’

‘What? Why?’ I demand in disbelief.

‘Their side is likely to apply for a Section 47 Report as soon as the hearing opens. If that happens, and don’t be surprised if it does, then nothing can be decided upon until the report has been prepared. It may take weeks.’

‘I’m sorry, you’ve lost me,’ I say. ‘What’s a Section 47 Report?’

‘It’s a report carried out, for the benefit of the court, by an independent expert – a child psychiatrist or psychologist, usuall
y –
recommending which party custody should go to. The – probably psychiatrist, in this case, will be professionally trained to interview the applicants and respondents. He will also want to see how the children interact with both. He will, almost certainly, look for access to your medical records, Greg. These can, I’m afraid, be used as evidence against you.’

‘If they’re going to apply for a Section 47 Report anyway,’ says Greg, ‘would there be any advantage in us being the ones to request it, you know, to show we’ve nothing to fear?’

‘No, the courts will make their decision based on the welfare of the children, only. And no, I wouldn’t request one. Once evidence goes in, that’s it, you can’t take it back,’ she says, leaving us in no doubt that a Section 47 Report would not be good news.

‘Is there anything we can do to influence the report?’ Greg asks.

I think it a wasted question.

‘Two things,’ she says. ‘Firstly, it is well-known that some
psychiatrists
are more pro-men than others.’

‘Really?’ I can’t help asking.

She nods. ‘I’ll go through the list of psychiatrists who do these reports and contact one I feel would be appropriate and see if he could start work as soon as possible. If the applicants request a Section 47 Report, they’ll suggest a psychiatrist. If we don’t agree with their selection, we can put forward the name of our man on the basis that he’d be ready to start immediately. Saving time would be seen as hugely advantageous to the court.’

‘You said that there were two things we could do?’ Greg asks, pen poised.

‘Yes, we will also ask the psychiatrist you attend to prepare a report on your condition, treatment and prognosis. You’re his patient. He’s likely to give you a favourable report. However, I should warn you that a Section 47 Report, should it be requested, will override all others.’

‘Is there anything, at all, in our favour?’ I ask.

‘Well, there’s Greg’s history as a good father.’ She turns to Greg. ‘You’ve been a parent for twelve years and – apart from that driving incident in France – nothing untoward has happened to the children while in your care. There is the fact that your condition is well-controlled . . . I assume it is?’

Empathy of a stone.

‘I haven’t had a relapse in almost two years,’ Greg says, flushing under her scrutiny. I hate Ben, Ruth and Hilary for putting him through this.

‘Good, well. We have that in our favour. And the fact that Lucy has been included on the order.’

‘Thank God for “cock-ups”,’ he says bitterly.

‘What do we do now?’ I ask.

‘First thing in the morning, I’ll get on to their solicitor to negotiate access. Then I’ll brief counsel to draw up a replying affidavit in case the negotiations don’t go in our favour.’ She sees my confused face. ‘It just means that if they don’t agree to access, we’ll be able to argue it out at the court hearing in three weeks’ time. And I can pretty much assure you that we will get access.’

‘Could you let us know how the negotiations go as soon as you can?’ Greg asks. ‘We need to talk to the children.’

The thought of telling Rachel and Toby nearly chokes me.

‘Yes, of course,’ she says.

‘When do we have to hand them over?’ asks Greg.

‘I’ll find that out tomorrow.’ She stands. ‘Right, I’d better be off. It was good to meet you both.’ She holds out her hand. ‘Till the morning, then?’

We stand at the door until her car pulls away. Then we go inside.

‘What do you think of her?’ asks Greg.

‘I don’t know. What do you think?’

‘I like her,’ he says.

‘You do?’

‘She’s straight. Says it as it is. No bull.’

‘She doesn’t seem to have much heart, though, does she?’

‘We don’t need heart, Lucy. We need balls.’

‘Well, she certainly seems to have those.’

‘Let’s hope so. We’re totally in her hands.’

‘I still can’t believe it.’

‘I shouldn’t have written that bloody book.’

‘Don’t blame the book. Blame fear. Millions of people are
bipolar
. It’s not a licence to take their children away.’

‘Not unless they’re dumb enough to go on record saying how out of control they were. That driving thing is going to sink us, Lucy. I know it. I can convince anyone I’d never commit suicide so that the children would find me – not after my experience. But the driving thing – I can’t argue with that.’

‘Your condition is under control. You haven’t had a relapse in almost two years. Your psychiatrist will vouch for you.’

‘I know, but what about this bloody Section 47 Report? It’s going to hammer us.’

‘That’s if they go for it.’

‘You heard Freda. They’ll go for it.’

‘We need access. We need to be able to reassure the children. All I can think of is what Hilary might say to turn them against us, the lies she’ll come up with. She had so much control over them once. We need to see them. We need to keep in touch.’

‘I know.’

We watch Rachel sleep, safe and secure in her land of dreams, cheeks flushed, and features relaxed and trusting. There’s no trace of the gutsy little girl who once declared war on me with a fury I later came to admire, only a softness that reminds me of how she came to my rescue after her grandmother’s visit, how she’s always looked out for her little brother, and how she did the same for her father as soon as he came home. She looks so peaceful. It kills me that there’s nothing we can do to protect her from this.

Toby, in his room, looks so innocent. Vulnerable. This is the boy who has always made me smile, who likes Horrid Henry and Captain Underpants, and who says ‘Hello, sir’ to every dog he passes in the street. This is the boy I couldn’t bear to lose.

It doesn’t seem right for us to be sleeping apart. We should be herding together, practising safety in numbers. But there is safety in nothing. A process has been set in motion without our say to take the children from us. A person we’ve never met will decide our future as a family.

Neither Greg nor I sleep. Every few minutes, one of us sits up, flicks on a bedside lamp and scribbles something down – an argument in favour of us as parents, an argument against them as
guardians
, a word or phrase that might help explain all of this to Rachel and Toby. Rachel and Toby, the children I once wished away, but whom I’ve come to love as if they were my own.

40.

G
reg takes Rachel and Toby to school as though it’s a normal day. I wait by the phone.

When he returns, we wait together.

At eleven, just as we’re trying to decide whether it’s a good or bad sign that Freda hasn’t called, she does.

It’s bad. Access denied. The most they’ll do is let us talk to the children over the phone, twice a day, at allocated times.

Greg, who has been so patient, loses it. ‘Who gave them the right to make the rules?’ He looks at me. ‘This means war, Lucy. This means fucking war. If they want to play the bully, let’s see how tough they are. Let’s see how fit they are to be parents, how menta
lly stable?’

‘What’ll we tell the children?’ It’s all I can think of.

‘Well, I don’t know about you, but I haven’t a clue what to fucking tell them. “Sorry, guys, but we don’t make the decisions any more. Out of our hands. Don’t look at us.”’

‘Greg, they’re coming at three. We have to think of something. We have to pack.’

‘I can’t believe this. I can’t fucking believe it.’

We pack, in the hope that it’ll clear our heads. It only makes us worse, putting away all their things in cases and bags – games, books, sewing things, drawing stuff, pillows, clothes, uniforms, togs, hurley stick, hockey gear, skateboard, helmet and protective pads. It makes it all real. Definite.

We discuss and argue, and argue and discuss what we should or shouldn’t say. There’s no way they should learn how out of control things are. Still, we can’t lie, invent some three-week holiday they’re not invited on. Even if we wanted to, it wouldn’t work. If a Section 47 Report is requested, a strange man will come asking Rachel and Toby questions. God knows what Hilary will say. And what will we tell the kids if, after the three weeks, we don’t get them back? They’ll never trust us again. Somehow, we have to give them as much of the truth as we can, without the accompanying worry. Impossible, considering
we
know the truth and
we’re
terrified
.

We hear Rachel’s quick footsteps echoing in the school corridor. She rounds a corner, shoving her second arm into her coat, her school bag slung over one shoulder. She beams when she sees us, looking delighted to be let out early. Then she sees our faces.

‘What is it, Dad?’ she asks as soon as we reach her.

He hugs her tightly. I pick up her bag, which has fallen to th
e floor.

‘Is Toby OK? What is it?’ She looks from Greg to me, to Greg.

‘Toby’s fine,’ Greg says. ‘He’s still in class.’ He rubs her cheek. ‘We wanted to talk to you about something.’ His voice is so gentle.

‘What?’

‘Wait till we get outside, pet,’ he says.

She looks at me.

I force a smile.
How are we going to do this?

There’s a park, opposite. We sit on the edge of a fountain, Rachel in between us. All around, spring is adding optimistic touches.
Bluebells
spreading out under trees, daffodils in cheery clumps, crocuses and snowdrops. A red balloon floats high over the buildings on the other side of the park. In the distance, a mother lifts her toddler out of a safety swing. Beyond the railings, people run for a bus.

‘Rachel, sweetheart,’ starts Greg. ‘We’ve something to tell you.’

‘I know,’ she says. ‘Is it bad?’

‘You know Gran and Granddad Franklin?’

‘Are they OK?’

‘Yes. Yes, they’re fine. It’s just that they want you to stay with them for a while.’

She’s surprised. ‘For a sleepover?’

‘Well’ – he looks at me, then back at Rachel – ‘for a bit longer than that.’

‘How long?’

‘About three weeks.’

‘Three weeks? But that’s ages. What about school?’

‘You’ll still be able to go to school.’

‘But why do they want me to stay for three weeks?’

‘Not just you, honey. Toby, too.’

‘But why, Dad?’

‘It’s a long story, Rache. And kind of hard to explain . . .’

‘Try.’

He nods, then takes a deep breath. ‘Remember when I was sick?’ She nods. ‘Well, Gran and Granddad don’t really understand about bipolar disorder very well, and they think I can’t be a proper dad if I have it. So, they want to mind you for a while.’

‘But you’re better now, Dad. Just tell them.’

‘They won’t listen.’

‘I’ll tell them. They always listen to me.’

‘Sweetheart, there’s something else I have to tell you.’

‘What?’

‘For those three weeks, Lucy and I won’t be able to see you. We’ll talk on the phone, twice every day, but we can’t go see yo
u, an
d you can’t come home.’

She looks very wary. ‘What’s going on, Dad? This doesn’t sou
nd right.’

‘Well,’ Greg struggles. ‘It’s just that Gran and Granddad want you to live with them for good . . .’

‘
What?
’ She stands suddenly, turning to face her father. ‘
No way.’

He stands, too. ‘Now, Rachel, that’s the last thing Lucy and I want. We want you with us . . .’

‘Good. Then just tell them.’

‘Rachel, the thing is,’ Greg says, with obvious difficulty. ‘
Actually
, honey, could you sit down for a sec? I’m trying to tell you something.’

She leans back against the fountain.

Greg does the same. ‘You see, Gran and Granddad have asked a judge to decide who you should live with.’

‘A judge? Why? This is crazy.’

‘Rachel, remember the time in France when we were driving down that mountain?’

She nods.

‘Well, that was because of the illness. You know that. You
understand
. But Gran and Granddad don’t. They’re worried that I might do it again, and they think they’re protecting you by
having
you live with them. They don’t understand that I’m taking my medication now, and that I’m fine. Lucy and I have to explain all that to the judge. A very clever lady is going to help us do that. She’s a solicitor and she really knows her stuff. Together, we’re going to convince that judge that we’re the best people to look after you.’

‘What if you don’t?’

‘We will.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I just do.’

‘Dad. This doesn’t sound good.’

‘It’s OK, Rachel. I promise, you’ll only have to stay with them for three weeks.’

Don’t promise, Greg; we said we wouldn’t.

‘But I don’t want to,’ says Rachel. ‘What if I tell the judge that? He’ll listen to me, won’t he? It should be up to me who I live with, shouldn’t it?’

‘It should, pet. But it isn’t.’

‘But I’m twelve. I’m almost a teenager. I know what I want. And I want to be with you. I want to stay at home.’ She begins t
o cry.

‘Rachel. Rachel, sweetheart. Please. Come on. You have to trust me. We’ll sort this out. You just have to be patient. And do this one thing. Just go there for three weeks. Remember when I had to go into hospital? That was for longer. And we managed then, didn’t we? It was tough for a while, but we managed. And you looked after Toby so well for me, didn’t you?’ He lifts her chin. ‘Remember? You were great. I need you to do that again, pet. He’s too young to understand. We can’t tell him as much as we’ve told you, Rachel. He’d be too afraid, poor little fellow.’

‘I’m afraid.’

‘I know. But you have to trust us that we are going to convince that judge that your home is with us. We will. It might take a while, but we
will
do it.’

‘Promise?’

‘Promise.’

She looks at him for a long time. Then she sighs deeply. ‘All right. I’ll do it.’

That she thinks she has a choice breaks my heart.

We discuss what we should say to Toby. This gives Rachel a focus outside of herself. Toby’s a pretty copped-on seven-year-old, she reminds us. We should be honest with him.

And so, to the boy with the brown eyes, we offer a simplistic, optimistic, watered-down version of what we’ve told his sister.

‘I’ll be with you all the time,’ Rachel reassures. ‘It’ll be like a holiday. Wait till you see. I’m going to bring my pocket money and buy you a treat every day.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Even chewing gum?’

‘Yeah. And when we get home, Lucy and Dad will get you loads of treats. They might even get you a new app.’ She looks at us
hopefully
.

‘Absolutely,’ Greg says.

‘Can I
bring
the iPad?’ he asks.

‘You can bring anything you want,’ says his father.

‘And I’ll still be able to go to school?’

‘Yep,’ says Rachel.

‘And hurley?’

‘Yep.’

‘But what if my tooth falls out?’ he says, wobbling one of his bottom set.

‘The tooth fairy will find you.’

I hope Greg’s right. I look at Rachel, and she understands. She’ll take care of it.

‘What time will you be ringing?’ he asks.

‘Before you leave for school. And just before bedtime. OK?’

‘OK. And when the judge decides, we’re
definitely
coming home?’

‘Definitely,’ lies Greg.

And I don’t blame him. I’d dare anyone to look into those brown eyes and admit the truth.

The doorbell goes at three, on the button. The children shrink back, looking suddenly smaller, younger.

‘I don’t want to go,’ says Toby.

Greg bends down to him, puts a hand on his shoulder. ‘You have to be a big boy now, Tobes,’ he says, gently. I imagine similar words being said to Greg many years ago.

‘Come on, Toby,’ says Rachel. ‘The sooner we go, the sooner we’ll be back.’

How I wish it was true.

We open the door to a surprise.

‘Hilary!’ four voices exclaim, two angry, two happy, all
surprised
.

‘What are you doing here?’ Rachel asks.

‘I’m going to help your grandparents mind you,’ she says with a warm, warm smile. She looks more like her old self, her eyes bright and focused, her posture confident. She is back in the driving seat. Plan A, executed. Now on to Plan B.

I look at Rachel. Her face is alight. ‘How did you know Gran and Granddad would be minding us?’

‘They told me,’ she says cheerfully. ‘They asked me to help them. And, of course, I said yes.’

‘Of course,’ says Greg, voice laced with sarcasm.

She smiles at him.

‘The children’s grandparents have been granted custody,’ Greg says. ‘And
that
is who will get it.’

‘They’re just in the car,’ she says, standing her ground.

‘Well, you’d better get them, hadn’t you?’

‘Whatever,’ she says in a tone that implies it’s all the same. She turns and walks down the steps to the car.

Rachel looks up at Greg. ‘What’s wrong, Dad?’

‘Nothing, pet.’ His voice softens. ‘It’s OK. It’s just that if your grandparents want to mind you, then they should come to collect you. That’s all.’

In the car, they’re staring straight ahead, no doubt thinking they’re the good guys, saving their grandchildren from a deranged parent. Hilary bends down as they lower the window. After a brief discussion, SuperBen steps out of the car. He walks tall and proud, Hilary right behind.