Chapter 41
Back in court, Matthew shifts in his seat. He’s struggling to find a comfortable position today, his body protesting at the length of time that he’s been sitting in the same spot.
The girls are back in the dock. Eliza’s face still unmoved, beautifully calm. Isobel is calm as well but she looks sullen, her brows knitted as if in concentration. A gargoyle to Eliza’s cherub, satyr to her fawn.
Christian’s father returns to the witness box.
He doesn’t look at the dock. Doesn’t look at the jury, either, his gaze fixed on a point somewhere at the back of court.
Matthew looks over to see that the previous witness, Christian’s mother, is now sitting in the front row of the public gallery.
Gill is sitting a couple of rows behind her – Matthew catches her eye but doesn’t smile.
‘To reiterate,’ Mr Alexander begins, ‘you say that you spoke to Isobel and told her of your concerns for your daughter?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
Matthew looks at the dock. Isobel is bright red, her mouth compressed into a tight line. But she keeps herself under control.
‘Where were you when you had this conversation?’
‘I went into the kitchen. Isobel was sitting there on her own. So I took the opportunity to say something, much as I wish I hadn’t.’
‘Let’s rewind a bit – what can you say about Christian’s general demeanour before she started boarding that year at school?’
‘She was a normal, happy child. I had no real concerns for her. Sure, she had the heart condition, but it was under control. She could have gone to boarding school a lot sooner, if her mum had let her.’
If her mum had let her. The phrase jumps out at Matthew. Why was Marianne trying to control the situation?
‘She liked our dogs, she liked riding, she liked going out for long walks with her mum and me.’ A sob from the public gallery. Marianne is losing control. ‘I had no concerns for her at all, other than that she should continue to look after her health. Take care of herself.’
‘Was there a point when you started to feel more concern for her? Aside from this half-term?’
Peter nods emphatically. ‘Yes. The tone of her messages home changed almost overnight. She had always been such a happy, open child. But she became more closed. Monosyllabic, almost. We put it down to typical teenager behaviour, a necessary adjustment as she got used to being away from home. It would have evened out in the end – I was sure of it. I know now that was wrong. I should have asked more questions.’
Matthew’s thoughts turn to Daisy, the times that she’d walked upstairs without saying hello when she was the same age as the girls, shutting her bedroom door. He’d never questioned her either. He’d always assumed she’d grow out of it too.
‘I blame Isobel entirely. I could never have guessed she’d go this far, though,’ Peter says. He hasn’t been asked a question and the advocate depute holds up his hand.
‘Please wait until I’ve asked another question, Mr Shaw.’
The witness snorts, an irritated sound. But he does stop.
‘Did you speak to anyone at the school about your concerns?’
‘Not until after the half-term fiasco,’ he says. ‘I didn’t raise it with anyone until then.’
‘What was the school’s response?’
‘They told me that they would speak to the girls’ parents, and that they would break up the dormitory.
I understood from Christian that this is what happened.
She was very angry with me about the fact that I told the school – she said I’d ruined everything, made her life impossible.
I didn’t take it seriously, though. I was sure she’d get over it. ’
‘How was she at Christmas?’
‘Quiet. A bit subdued. But essentially herself. At least I thought so. In retrospect . . .’
‘In retrospect?’
‘I think she was a lot more unhappy than she was letting on. But she wanted to make her own decisions. She hadn’t been allowed much independence growing up – it was hard, with her mother’s concerns for her health.
Our concerns. But in retrospect I think that she was hiding a lot of unhappiness from us.
And come the new term in January, she didn’t tell me that the girls were put back into the same dormitory as her.
’ He pauses. ‘She stopped telling me anything at all.’
Words that could break your heart. Matthew’s chest is tight with sympathy. While the circumstances of Christian’s death are not the most standard, it’s not too much of a stretch for him to imagine himself up there, a bereaved father, alone.
There isn’t much more for Christian’s father to say.
Peter reiterates his point wherever possible that it’s Isobel he holds primarily responsible for Christian’s metamorphosis from mummy’s girl to full-blown goth.
The prosecution makes a point of showing a photograph of her from the year before, fresh-faced and smiling beside a group of different school friends – it’s clear that something has changed her from that child to the facially pierced, sullen young woman that had flashed up on the jury’s screen at the start of the trial.
Looking at Isobel, her badly dyed black hair, her lip stud, the hoops running up each ear, Matthew knows the answer is probably staring him straight in the face.
Cross-examination takes a moment to get going.
While Miss Brodie shuffles through her papers, Matthew picks at the skin on his left thumb.
There’s been a weird burning sensation in it all day, the area at first just red, but now he can see that small, round blisters are starting to form.
Not just on his thumb, either, across the palm of his hand.
But mostly his thumb. Decades-old Macbeth creeps into his mind, By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.
Wicked. Such a harsh word to use for a schoolgirl. However badly dyed their hair.
Miss Brodie doesn’t baulk at the sentiment, though. ‘You’re clear that Christian was the target of systematic bullying, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I am,’ Peter says.
‘And that this campaign was waged despite the fact that you asked Isobel to lay off?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re equally clear that you told Isobel about Christian’s heart condition?’
‘Yes. I was trying to appeal to her better nature.’ A bitter laugh.
‘You did not at any point communicate this information to Eliza?’
An emphatic shake of the head. ‘No. I did not.’
‘No further questions, my lady.’ Miss Brodie returns to her seat. A brief exchange, but her point has been rammed home.
To Matthew’s surprise, Miss Goodly takes her place at the lectern. Then he remembers Isobel’s outburst. You’re lying. Even this advocate would have to put that point across. She doesn’t look comfortable, though.
‘Mr Shaw, I am sorry to put such a point to you, but I have my instructions. Isn’t it the case that you are lying about the fact that you told Isobel about Christian’s heart condition?’
‘It most certainly is not,’ Mr Shaw says. ‘I am outraged at the very suggestion.’
‘And that the person you told was in fact Eliza?’
He shakes his head, his face red. ‘I am telling the court exactly what happened here. I told your client in specific terms that she should leave my daughter the fuck alone.’
The court collectively takes a sharp intake of breath. Not at the language per se – Matthew knows that no one is that naive. But the sound of the swear word coming from this man’s mouth has the force of a gunshot.
And in its aftermath, a quiet sobbing from Christian’s mother the only sound.
The rest of the jury look over at her in sympathy. Not Matthew, though. It’s falling on deaf ears to him. He glares over at her, unimpressed by the performativity. She’s too perfect a bereaved mother, playing the part far too well.
There’s more to it than this. And whatever it is, he’s going to find it out.