The Accidental Life of Greg Millar (38 page)

‘Hello, Greg,’ he says curtly. ‘What seems to be the problem?’

‘Don’t start me off, Ben, or so help me . . . You wanted the
children
? Have the decency to come for them in person.’

‘Children!’ their grandfather calls. He swivels and starts down the steps, expecting them to follow. Far from the Pied Piper . . .

‘Come on, guys,’ says Hilary, cheerfully. ‘Wait till you see what Gran and Granddad have got you. A hamster, a PlayStation . . .’

‘A hamster?’ asks Toby. ‘Deadly.’

They chat together on their way to the car. We are right behind.

‘You can pick a name for him, and feed him, and look after him,’ Hilary enthuses.

‘Really?’ he asks.

‘Yeah.’

‘Deadly.’

‘It’s really good to see you, Hilary,’ says Rachel. ‘Why didn’t you ring us?’

Hilary makes a point of looking at me, then says to Rachel, ‘I’ll tell you later.’

Greg loads the suitcases into the boot, his face tight. Rachel and Toby stand obediently by the car as Hilary opens the back door. I hug each of them, not wanting to let go. But their arms slip away. Greg lowers himself to one knee and draws them to him, eyes closed.

‘I love you, OK? Just remember that. I love you. You’ll be back soon. I promise.’

Slowly, reluctantly, they climb into the car. Greg stoops down at the back window. Toby, closest to him, stares out, his hand on the glass, fingers splayed. I will him to lower the window, but he doesn’t. Hilary sits between the children. I want to punch that triumphant look right down her throat. Rachel, at the far side, leans forward to look at Greg. As the car pulls away, she stretches out and, resting her hand on his leg, she tries to comfort her brother, who is now crying, and calling for his dad.

I bite my lip as they disappear up the avenue. I put my arm around Greg and he pulls me into such a tight hug, I know it’s for him as much as me. For a long time, it’s all we can do. There is nowhere we want to go, nothing we want to do, except be with them.

41.

G
reg heads for the punchbag. I make for the phone.

‘Surely there’s
something
we can do,’ I say to Freda.

‘Keep in touch with the children. Keep every pre-arranged phone call. And . . . try to be positive.’

‘But can’t we be doing anything to strengthen our case?’

‘I’m working on it, Lucy. We’ve already lodged the replying affidavit. We’ve contacted Professor Power’s office to request a report. And we’re tracking down a suitable psychiatrist for the Section 47 Report. At this stage, all you can do is wait.’

‘If only we could see them. Two phone calls a day . . . It’s just not enough. Even if we could write to them, send them little things, just to let them know we’re thinking of them . . .’

‘I’ll talk to their solicitor.’

‘Thanks, Freda.’

‘You just have to be patient now, Lucy.’

We can’t stay in. Everything reminds us of them. Their favourite foods are in the fridge. Rachel’s pink Groovy Chick mug peeps out from the cupboard. Toby’s frog wellington boots lie abandoned in the cloakroom. Their clothes are entwined with ours in the washing machine. We have to get out. Get air. Keep moving.

There is only one thing we can talk about, think about; only one thing that matters. We can’t eat, sleep, work. We can’t do anything, except regret. And that’s too easy. Writing the book was a mistake, according to Greg. But I think our only mistake was not explaining to Ben and Ruth about the illness once Greg was better. And so, rather than argue, we regret in private.

Stunned questions are repeated over and over by my parents, Grace, Rob, Fint. Answering them is exhausting, depressing,
humiliating
and many other things, none of them good. Their fury is appreciated, but doesn’t help.

I think I must be Freda Patterson’s most annoying client, ringing her constantly.

‘Has Professor Power’s report come in yet?’ I ask, going through the checklist I drew up at three this morning.

‘Not yet, no. If nothing’s arrived by the end of the week, I’ll chase it up. These things take time. Psychiatrists are busy people. To them, it’s just paperwork.’

‘Have you had any luck finding a psychiatrist for the Sectio
n 4
7
Report?’

‘We’re on to it, Lucy. If I’ve any news, you’ll be the first to know.’

‘Thanks, Freda.’ I know she thinks me neurotic. But maybe she’s used to this. Maybe everyone acts out of character when their family is under threat.

As soon as I hang up, I call Professor Power myself – just so he knows how much more than paperwork this is.

We live for the short, awkward telephone conversations that are all we have to keep close to Rachel and Toby. As the minutes edge closer, we perch by the phone, silent and tense, hoping it will go well, that we won’t say anything to upset them or make them more homesick than they already are.

‘So, how are you?’ Greg asks Toby. ‘Did you have a good day?’ Pause. ‘Did you have a good day at school?’

It’s so unnatural. Question after question just to get him to talk. It makes us sound hyper. And probably makes the children nervous. If only we could see them, be with them, we’d know what to say, what they’d need to hear. We’d sense it. We mightn’t hav
e t
o talk at all. But on the phone, every word counts; every word has to be chosen carefully. And it isn’t just the words. It’s the tone. Too happy and they’ll think we’re fine without them. Too low: the
y’ll worry.

‘Hi, Rachel,’ Greg says. As he listens, his smile disappears and he looks at me. ‘It’s a long story, Rachel . . . We had our reasons, pet . . . I can’t talk about them now, OK? You have to trust us on this, Rache.’

When he finishes the call, I ask what she said.

‘She wanted to know why we stopped Hilary from seeing them.’

‘Didn’t waste much time, did she?’

Night-time calls are the worst, when Toby is tired and wants to come home. It makes me want to march over there, bang on the door and demand them back.

One night, Toby is upset because Greg’s not with him to read a story.

‘I can still read you a story, Tobes. Just hang on a minute till I get a book.’ Greg hands me the phone and runs upstairs.

‘Hey, Tobes,’ I say. ‘How’s Hammy?’ The one thing guaranteed to excite Toby is his hamster.

‘Great. He ackshilly yawned today. Like a baby. I could see all his teeth.’

‘Wow.’

‘Yeah, and he jumped off the first level of his cage and landed on the sawdust.’

‘On purpose?’

‘Yeah, ’cause he did it again. He keeps doing it. He’s mad.’

I’m glad he has something to distract him, even though it is another notch in their belt.

Greg arrives back with a book, and begins a story about owl babies who miss their mummy. Halfway through, he stops and looks at me. ‘He hung up.’

‘Ring them back.’

‘Can I do that? The agreement is two phone calls. I don’t want to risk it. You know what Ben’s like.’

‘You were cut off.’

‘Still. I’m not sure I should risk it.’

‘Why did he hang up?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘He was probably tired.’

‘Or upset. I hadn’t got to the bit where the mummy comes back.’

‘He knows the story. He knows she comes back.’

‘Well, then, maybe he was bored.’

‘Or needed a pee. Who the hell knows? This is impossible.’

‘Maybe Rachel will call us back.’

The phone stays silent for the rest of the night.

Waiting for news from Freda is like waiting for a Dublin bus. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Then, ten days after the children have been taken, we receive three pieces of news together. One: Ben and Ruth have agreed to us posting things to the children. Two: Freda has found a suitable psychiatrist, available at short notice to do a
Section
47 Report. Three: Professor Power’s report has arrived. She’s emailing it over.

We sit at Greg’s laptop, refreshing his email over and over. In fairness, the report arrives in minutes. And we read together in hungry silence.

To Whom It Concerns

Greg Millar has been a patient of mine for twenty months, initially as an in-patient at St Martha’s Hospital, where he was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, subsequently as an outpatient, regularly and consistently attending my clinics. Mr Millar’s condition is extremely well-controlled on lithium, the standard treatment for bipolar disorder.

Prior to admission and treatment, Mr Millar experienced one episode of mania (which led to the dangerous-driving incident outlined in the legal documentation) and one bout of severe
depression
, which was accompanied by suicidal urges. He was admitted to S
t M
artha’s Hospital at that point and commenced treatment. Since then, for a period of almost two years, Mr Millar has been entirely free from episodes of either mania or depression. This bodes very well for the future.

Mr Millar has an excellent understanding of his condition and the need to comply with his medication. He has returned to an excellent quality of life and is very well supported by his wife. He has published a well-respected and, I would say, widely helpful autobiographical account of living with bipolar disorder. The extent and demands of such a project are indicative of his return to good health.

It is my professional opinion that Mr Millar is a highly responsible and loving father who does not present any danger whatsoever to the children he has brought up single-handedly since the death of his first wife, seven years ago. I recommend that Mr Millar be reunited with his children immediately. I am happy to give evidence to this effect.

Yours sincerely, Professor Con Power

‘Oh my God. It’s great!’ I say.

‘Only if they don’t call for a Section 47 Report. But they will, Lucy. Ben will have hired the biggest and best legal firm in the country. You can count on it.’ His tone is defeatist.

I look at him, hoping he isn’t heading for a low. ‘Come on. Let’s go buy things for the kids,’ I say brightly. ‘I want to get a package out to them today by SwiftPost.’ For the first time since that yellow envelope arrived, there’s something we can do.

We buy a calendar of The Simpsons for marking off the days. We buy a new game for Toby featuring one of his favourite
cartoon
characters, Spongebob Square Pants – an appropriate nickname for his grandfather, I think. We buy the remaining five books i
n t
he Lemony Snicket series. Rachel can read them to Toby. We get th
e Cha
rlie Chaplin
and
Home Alone
box sets for Toby. We’re back in the car before I notice the theme – vulnerable characters
coping i
n adversity.

With every day that passes, we send a surprise to the children. We don’t expect much from it. But it has a surprising consequence. It starts conversations flowing. Every day, there’s something new to talk about. They love the fact that when they get in from school there’s a package waiting, personally addressed to each of them. They’ve never received anything by post before. Now, with every day comes something new to look forward to. It reminds them that we’re thinking of them, that we care and that we know them better than anyone else.