Something in the way he spoke reminded her of his protest in the police station, some deep struggle to say the right thing. Where did that come from? Surely not from her.
‘So you’re going to university?’ Last week he had threatened to give up college and work in a bar.
‘I guess so. It’s what people do isn’t it. Like getting married.’
He was deadly serious, and she reminded herself that Jacob didn’t do irony. Like getting married, she thought.
‘I’ve finished with Paul,’ she said.
He continued to stare into his beer.
* * *
The next morning, she went into chambers for the first time for four months.
‘Hi, Mel,’ said Andy as if she had never been away. ‘A few of your solicitors have been asking for you. There’s a big care case at the Principal Registry next week if you’re up for it.’
‘Great. Thanks, Andy.’
He handed her a bundle of papers. ‘I’ll send the rest over by email.’
She drifted along the corridor and made tea in the galley kitchen, noting the coffee grounds and lipstick blotches on the unwashed cups that had been left after the morning rush for the High Court. She had eaten no breakfast and the biscuit tin was empty, as usual. A couple of colleagues dashed past her with quick nods of greeting as she took her tea and climbed the stairs to her room.
The desk she used to think of as her own was piled high with other people’s papers. She walked to the window and looked out over Temple Gardens. The sky was a pale grey and the false starts of an early spring lay under a melting film of sleet. There was a lump in her throat, her eyes pricked with tears and suddenly she could not hold back and she wept for her love of this place and the colleagues who had trusted her when she didn’t deserve their trust and who welcomed her now as if she had never left. She had been drawn back in the easy, offhand way she might have expected. Soon there would be work in the diary and, in that sense, everything was just as it was. But something fundamental had changed and it could never again be as it was.
On Sunday she would go down to Dulwich to see Isabel. Jacob had promised to come along and had asked to bring Don.
Chapter Forty-nine
Mel
In Isabel’s kitchen Don and Jacob were arguing over the rules of some incomprehensible strategy game. Jacob had his hands deep in hot soapy water. Don was wiping a plate with a tea towel; she looked up to smile at Mel standing in the doorway then reverted to her discussion with Jacob.
‘If you two are OK here, I’ll head off home and get some work done. Gran’s having a snooze.’
‘OK. See you later, Mum.’
‘Bye, darling.’ They hugged. Jacob smelt of sweat. He probably should wash more, but she loved that smell. Don looked on, smiling. Mel had feared how it would be when Jacob found a girlfriend. Would she take him away? In some curious way Don seemed to be bringing him back.
She went into the sitting room and whispered to her mother who was sitting in an armchair. Her eyes were shut.
‘Mum, I’m off home, I hope you don’t mind. I’ve got a bit of work.’
‘You and your work,’ muttered Isabel. But she opened her eyes and smiled. ‘Of course, darling. Thank you for coming.’
‘It was a pleasure. Lovely lunch. Look after yourself. I’ll call you in the week. And, Mum – thanks for everything.’
‘It was nothing. Any mother would do what I did.’
Mel pressed her lips against her mother’s cool, powdery cheek. Briefly she held the fragile bony hand which felt as if it would break at the slightest pressure. There was so much she wished she knew. So much she had never asked.
It was mild for the time of year, rain spitting from an overcast sky, as she walked out of the cul de sac, heading for Herne Hill Station. When she reached the park, some impulse drew her over the busy road to the wave of green unrolling up the gentle hill.
She had once seen an imaginary map of the city after the collapse of the Thames Barrier. Much of north London stood high above the flood. Most of south London was submerged. She was heading up one of its few islands.
A message pinged. She glanced at her phone, wondering if it might be Sami. But it was from Natasha’s phone.
Ned Thomas Baker Gearing 3.4 kilos. Mother and baby doing well. Luke.
She was surprised they had thought to inform her. But perhaps Natasha didn’t know about the message. Perhaps Luke didn’t believe Natasha. Perhaps, as had happened with the jury, it was Mel who had convinced him. It was hard to imagine Natasha as a mother, though she was glad the baby was doing well.
She walked on. The rain had stopped, and a weak sun glimmered beyond the thin cloud. Winter had been short, and the branches of the huge trees already rippled with the yellowy tinge of new growth. A couple of runners streamed past her. Dogs scuffled under shrubs or chased random scents across the grass. A group of young women with pushchairs were heading for the cafe. A single optimistic kite flyer stood near the top of the slope, waiting for the wind to rise. It was many years since Mel had come here. As a small child she and her mother had visited this park for dull, dutiful Sunday walks. The two of them. She remembered staring longingly at the large rowdy families. She had never flown a kite, never been allowed to keep a dog. As soon as she was old enough to come to the park alone, she had stopped coming. Her school was on the other side of the borough.
As she walked on towards the top of the hill she thought of her tears of joy at the window in chambers, the cheery chaos of the clerks’ room, the deep ties that bound her to her colleagues. However little she knew of their private lives, they could share in the lives of others, treading a fine line on the brink of client confidentiality to compare and compete in love and loss, rape, ruin, even murder. Jacob came first, but he would leave her soon. Lovers would assuage her hunger for intimacy. She hoped there would always be lovers. But Bridge Court was her family and she had been given a second chance.
At the top of the hill she turned back to look down over the city. The sun was breaking through the cloud now, enough to touch the urban landscape with a pale gold shimmer. Colours were sharper, lines more distinct. Beyond and below her she could make out the glittering towers of the City. If she twisted her head to the right, she could see the Surrey hills.
She ought to turn back. There were papers she needed to study for Monday. She was due to represent the father of an eight-year-old boy who had been starved and tortured by his mother. It had happened in Haringey, in a street not far from her own. The child had been beaten, tied to a bed. When he was found, his belly was swollen from malnutrition. The mother was in prison and the father was asking for the child to live with him, though he had never cared for him nor protected him from his dangerous mother. At their worst, families were brutal, tore each other apart. Yet each of them needed good representation. She would be well prepared.