The Accidental Life of Greg Millar (39 page)

Meanwhile, we do what we can to help our case. This means preparing for a court hearing that is, more than likely, going to be postponed. Freda sets up a meeting at her office. She introduces us to our ‘counsel’. Jonathan Keane is in his forties and already
completely
grey. He looks so sure of himself that, even if he were buck-naked, you’d probably guess his profession. He smells of cigarettes and mints. I wish Freda was representing us in court, but a barrister it has to be.

The meeting is to build an affidavit – a sworn, written statement putting forward our case. It’s Jonathan Keane’s job to write it. He grills us. When did Greg become high? Was I there then? Did I do anything to prevent the dangerous drive down the mountain? Did I know of the suicide plan? When was Greg diagnosed? How has he been since? Career-wise, what has he achieved since? Did Greg,
in any way
, ever hurt the children?

I have to remind myself that Jonathan Keane is on our side.

From all the questions, we learn a few things. Some judges are more sympathetic than others. It’s pot luck who we get. There won’t be a jury; just a judge.

‘Less intimidating,’ says Freda.

‘Depending on the judge,’ Greg replies.

I’m not sure what Greg’s social standing and career success have to do with anything, but Jonathan points out that they should impress a judge. I will be sold as the ‘stabilising influence’. I worry how this must make Greg feel.

Ultimately, what this affidavit must show is that Greg’s condition is well-controlled, and that we, as a couple, are not only responsible and capable of looking after the children, but also the best people to do so. Going by the questions Jonathan Keane has asked, it will take a small miracle to prove that.

The meeting lasts an hour, but so much is covered, it feels
longer
. Just as we’re finishing up, I remember the media and how interested they are in Greg’s life. I can see the headlines and the pressure that that would put on Greg and the children.

‘That won’t happen,’ reassures Freda. ‘The parties in family law cases cannot be identified in order to protect the children.’

Thank God for that.

42.

T
he morning of the hearing finally arrives. I dress in the clothes I laid out the night before – a formal suit, like a criminal going to trial. In the mirror, I seem faded, as though I’
ve lost substance; not just weight, but bulk. Is it possible t
o lose height?

I think of the children, who will be at school, Toby not completely aware of the day’s significance, Rachel knowing only too well. I pray for one outcome: the children returned, case dismissed. I close my eyes and will it.

On the way to court, I have to ask Greg to pull over. I open the door and empty the contents of my stomach onto the wet tarmac. Then I tuck my embarrassed head back into the car. In silence, he hands me a tissue.

We meet Freda on the steps of the High Court.

‘Couldn’t be more prepared,’ she says.

I’ve never been in the Four Courts before. I’ve never been in any court before.

The place is buzzing. Important-looking people rush, here and there, black capes flapping in their slipstream. Others are huddled together in urgent discussion. Some wear wigs, many do not. All look confident, at home. Then there are people like us. All, regardless of status, reduced to the same level here – at sea, nervous. To the lawyers, we’re today’s business. Just another case. X versus Y. Soon to be replaced by more of the same.

In court, we sit through case after case. As each one ends, groups of people leave, until, finally, the lines of mahogany benches have emptied but for our legal teams. Ours is the last case.

‘Where are Ben and Ruth?’ I whisper to Greg. ‘They have to be here, don’t they?’

He looks as unsure as I feel.

I look at their barrister to see if he’s concerned. The man doesn’t look as if he ever gets concerned about anything.

Maybe they don’t have to come. Maybe they’re outside. Maybe they’ll arrive any minute now. I look back at the door. Then at their barrister again. I slip my hand into Greg’s and give it a squeeze.

The judge sits at his elevated mahogany bench, towering over us, Peter at the Gates of Heaven.

When their barrister stands, he calls for a postponement, pending a Section 47 Report.

All becomes clear. They didn’t show up because they knew it would be postponed. They have been in control from the
beginning
.

How can they do this?

Tears blur my vision. Rachel and Toby won’t be coming home. We said three weeks. We promised. My stomach heaves. And I have to run from the court.

I make it to the toilet in time to retch over its not-so-clea
n bowl.

How is this justice?

When I get back to the courtroom, Greg and Freda are waiting for me at the entrance. It’s over.

‘Are you OK?’ they ask together.

‘Fine. I’m so sorry. What happened?’

‘Jonathan sends his apologies,’ Freda says. ‘He had to dash off. Well, that went as well as it could have.’

‘But they called for a Section 47 Report,’ I say. ‘Rachel and Toby won’t be coming home.’

‘That was a given, Lucy,’ says Freda.

‘I’d just hoped that maybe . . .’

‘We have to be realistic. What we expected to happen has
happened
. On the upside, our psychiatrist will be doing the report.’

‘Well done on that,’ Greg says.

‘That’s what you’re paying me for.’

‘And you did well on the access,’ he continues. ‘Daily access for two hours, starting today.’

‘Thank God,’ I say.

‘I wanted to punch the air when the judge scolded them for denying access,’ Freda says. She looks at me. ‘You realise that was, ever so slightly, good for us.’

The downside, I discover, is that the court case has been postponed for another seven weeks to allow for the completion of the report. We’ll have been apart, in total, two and a half months by th
e ti
me of the court case.

I walk down the steps of the High Court, my legs weak, my knees shaking.
What will we tell them? How will they ever trust u
s again?

‘They were always going to ask for that report,’ says Greg, walking back to the car. ‘At least we controlled who does it. And we have daily access.’

‘I know. But seven weeks.
Seven weeks
!
’

‘We’ll see them every day. And, by God, we’ll make the
mo
st of it.’

‘What if Hilary uses this to tell them we lied, that they can’t trust us? Who knows what she’s already said?’

‘We’ll have them for two hours every day, away from that environment. We have to use that. If you’re negative, they’ll pick up on it. We have to be positive. They have to believe it’s just a matter o
f time.’

‘But it isn’t. We’ve no guarantee we’ll get them back. If that report goes against us, we’ll never get them back.’

‘Thinking like that won’t get us anywhere. Lucy, you have to help me here: back me up, not bring me down.’

I see it then, the one positive in all of this: adversity has made him determined. I can’t take that from him. ‘I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m sorry.’

But as we drive home in a car that smells of vomit, and I take stock of our situation after five minutes in court, I can’t ignore the fact that everything hinges on a single report by someone we don’t know, someone who has access to all of Greg’s medical records. If that one report goes against us, the children are gone. Regardless of how determined we are.

Visits are to take place at Rob’s apartment – neutral territory – with Rob as supervisor. Ben and Ruth are to drive the children there for six o’clock and collect them at eight.

We get to the apartment for five. Rob’s already there. Bang on six, they arrive. We rush to the door. Open it. They seem to have grown. They’re wearing new clothes.

Toby runs in, straight to his father, hugging him.

‘Dad! Dad!’

Greg lifts him up and hugs him tightly. He looks so happy. ‘How’s my man?’

‘Where’s Robert?’ asks Ben.

‘I’m here,’ says Rob, behind us, his voice protective.

‘Hi, Rob,’ shouts Toby.

‘Well, I’d better go,’ says Ben.

‘You do that,’ Greg says.

‘Hi, Rachel,’ I say.

‘Hi.’ Her voice is flat.

‘Honey,’ says Greg. ‘Come here, give your old man a hug.’

She walks to him obediently. She lets him hug her.

‘How’re you doing?’ he asks.

‘Fine.’

He pulls back, holds her out from him. ‘Look at you. You’re getting so grown up.’

She looks down.

‘Have you eaten? We’ve got in pizza and Coke.’

‘A margherita?’ asks Toby.

‘Of course. Come on, let’s go to the kitchen.’

Rob has already begun to serve up. He hands Rachel a plate.

‘I’m not hungry,’ she says.

Greg looks at me.

‘Why don’t we all sit down, anyway?’ I suggest.

At the table, Rachel stares into her Coke as if it holds a key to the future.

Greg and I have a slice to keep Toby company, though I haven’t been able to eat anything in three weeks and worry that it will come back up.

Rob makes himself scarce, which is lovely.

‘Why didn’t we go home?’ asks Toby, matter-of-factly, mouth full. ‘Why did we come to Rob’s?’

‘Ah, well, we thought you’d like to see him, too,’ says Greg.

‘That’s not true,’ snaps Rachel. ‘We’re here so Rob can watch you. Hilary told me.’

Greg and I exchange looks.

‘What?’ asks Toby, confused.

‘Gran and Granddad just wanted Rob to be around, that’s all,’ Greg says.

Rachel sighs loudly and looks out of the window.

Silence.

She glares at Greg. ‘So, what’s the story? When are we coming home? The three weeks are up.’

‘I’m sorry, Rachel, but this is the best we can do for the moment,’ says her father.

Toby is eyeing him very carefully now.

‘It’ll be another few weeks . . .’ Greg starts.

‘Seven,’ she says.

Toby puts down his triangle of pizza. ‘Seven weeks? I thought you said three weeks.’

‘Come here, Tobes.’

Toby slides off his chair and goes to his father. Greg lifts him up onto his lap.

‘The three weeks was until we got to see each other. The three weeks are up, and here we are.’

‘For two hours,’ snaps Rachel.

‘I thought we were coming home today,’ Toby says, looking bewildered.

Has Hilary told Toby one thing and his sister another? Or maybe she’s told Rachel the truth and kept it from Toby.

‘I’m sorry, guys,’ says Greg. ‘I should have explained better.’ He pauses. ‘Today, the judge was supposed to make his decision. But, instead, he picked out a doctor to do it, because he thinks the doctor would do a better job. The doctor wants to meet all of us, so he’ll take a few weeks to make up his mind. That’s why you have to stay where you are for the moment. But, we explained to the judge that it would be unfair if you couldn’t see Lucy and me until the doctor made his decision. The judge agreed. So every single day until the decision is made, we can all get together for two whole hours, here at Rob’s.’

‘Two hours isn’t much,’ says Rachel.

‘I know, but when you think about it, it’s pretty good. By the time you come home from school, do your homework and have dinner, it’ll be time to come here.’

‘I don’t want to go back to Gran and Granddad. I don’t want to. I want to go home.’ Toby starts crying.

‘I know, sweetheart,’ Greg says, kissing the top of his head, ‘
I know
.’ He holds him close and rocks him. When, at last, Toby’s tears have stopped, Greg says, ‘From now on, we’re going to see each other every single day. And then, when this is all over, you can come home for good.’

‘When?’

‘As soon as we can. But we’ll see you every day. And you’ll still get the surprises in the post. And we’ll still ring you every morning before you go to school and every night before you go to bed.’

‘I know how hard this is,’ I say. ‘But, things went well for us in court today. The judge picked a very good doctor to do the report. So, we all just have to be patient and make the most of our time together, until you’re home. OK?’

‘OK,’ they both say.

‘And don’t always believe everything Hilary says,’ says Greg.

Rachel looks at him. Says nothing.

‘Now, let’s go out and have some fun.’