20. Guest v. Finbow Day Three
GUEST V. FINBOW: DAY THREE
On the day of Jean’s testimony, I am early. Even now, after everything that has happened, I can’t bear the thought of Jean noticing me come in late. That sickening feeling of having let her down.
But, as I reach Courtroom Six, I discover that the order of the day has been slightly delayed. We are not yet allowed in because the judge has granted someone permission to give evidence privately. I must have missed the announcement yesterday amid my shock at Mary’s news.
“I see you’re taking such detailed notes,” Mrs. Ayres comments shyly as she finds me by the locked gallery door.
“Oh,” I say, startled. “For Anna.”
“Of course.” She hesitates, then eyes me carefully. “And how are the Finbows getting on?”
My voice wobbles. “Frightened,” I say. “Mary. The baby.” Lucy continues staring at me, but tenderly now. Across her face, an expression of gentle disbelief grows. I keep on talking, speculating about who the father might be. Lucy shrugs.
“The important thing is, there’s now a he , and not just a she. It’s a positive sign. A crack of light in the tomb.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Mary’s got someone else in her life besides the witch. When Oriel was working with Jean, all relationships were prohibited. She wasn’t allowed any social contact, boy or girl.”
“And now?” I ask, hearing hope in my voice. I want to hear of her daughter’s recovery. I am desperate to hear the story I was always told of Oriel: She’s thriving . Lucy gazes warily at me, her lower lip quivering. But, before she can answer, the door to the gallery opens and we are ushered in.
As Jean reads the oath, a nervous hush falls over the gallery.
Her appearance is altered from those elegant Roman outfits.
Now, she is in drab high street, wearing a long-sleeved navy cotton top with a keyhole feature at her neck.
Her bob is more severe as well, though the ends of it are still neatly curled under.
With a jolt of revulsion, I see how frumpish her jewelry really is: At her neck is a string of orange beads, the kind of resinous material that might trap a fly.
Then Jean glances upward, her eyes scanning the gallery, before her attention is called away again.
Although she has not seen me, my view of the witness box wobbles, and a hot lump moves up and down my throat.
I lean forward to conceal the tears that are now streaking down my face and which fall onto the wiry carpet below.
The mere presence of Jean in the stand has dissolved me.
Almost instantly, a knot of anxious longing has formed in my stomach.
I try to fix my mind on the lies she has told and the homes she has taken over.
I conjure images of Mary, pregnant and sleeping on the floor.
But I am far from comfortable with this public execution.
Now, as I observe her in the courtroom below, I still desperately miss the beam of Jean’s attention.
Her tender acceptance of who I am. All the comfort she once stood for.
It shames me how much I still love her. How, despite all her false promises and everything she used me for, there is still a part of me who wants her to love me, too.