And I got something from him too, after a couple of weeks. It was a copy of a reply from the Commander of the submarine base, and pretty weaselly and apologetic it was too (though there was no mention of chipping in for the dry-cleaning of the suit). Mum said he only bothered to reply at all because Gerald made a point of sending copies of his complaint both to his Member of Parliament and to the First Sea Lord of the Admiralty. But that was just sour grapes. After all, if enough people took the time, like Gerald, to complain loudly and bitterly all round whenever they were splattered with mud by the police or the armed forces, some people’s desks would soon be armpit high in disgruntled taxpayers’ letters, and in the end the men in charge would probably find it less trouble to order their underlings to be more civil.
Mum’s mouth set like a trap when I said this, but she was in a bad mood anyhow. Mind you, she had an excuse. Each day her court case crept a little nearer, and she was getting dead nervous. You see, she didn’t know whether to plead guilty or not. Pleading not guilty was a lot more bother, but it’s the only way to get to say your piece. And, apprehensive as she was, Mum felt she ought to stand up in Sheriff Court and defend her actions. So day after day round the house we’d come across her delivering impassioned speeches to herself like a mad bag-lady, insisting these weapons were ‘a potential crime against humanity as wrong as the gas chambers of Auschwitz’, or that ‘the citizen of a free country has both a right and a duty to act by his or her own conscience’, or ‘silence implies consent, so I won’t stay silent’. She should have been a lawyer, honestly. She was very convincing. You’d sneak up on her in the kitchen, and she’d be standing with her arms in the sink, telling the geranium on the window silclass="underline" ‘No! It can never be morally right to use these ghastly weapons at any time, whether first, or as unthinkable retaliation after we ourselves are doomed!’ Or, making the bed, she’d ask the pillows as she plumped them up: ‘Tell me – a child dies of hunger every few seconds while we spend a million a day on nuclear weapons. Do you think that’s right? Is that what you want?’
After a couple of weeks of this, I reckoned our house plants and our pillows must, like those sheep round the submarine base, know more about nuclear issues than the average Scottish voter. But in the end all these imaginative rehearsals of her few glorious moments in court had quite the opposite effect. By the big morning, she was for chickening out.
‘Chickening out?’
‘That’s right.’ She slammed my breakfast down in front of me as if I’d been arguing, not just asking. ‘I’m going to go there, plead guilty, pay the fine, and come straight home. I’ve done my bit.’
‘Fair enough.’ (She’d been so ratty stamping round the house making political speeches that part of me was quite relieved. And it would be lovely to come home from school and find Mum her old self again, interested in my day at school, not too distracted to help Jude with her homework, happy to sit and watch the news without muttering darkly whenever some malefactor’s face flashed on the screen: ‘That’s who the police should be watching, you know – not upright citizens like me!’)
I really enjoyed that day. It went so fast. Between lessons I kept thinking about Mum, imagining her case going through court like clockwork, thinking how glad she’d be that the whole business was over at last, how lovely it would be to charge through the front door yelling ‘Mum! Mum! Are you back?’ and see her poking her head round the kitchen door, grinning her head off.
I couldn’t wait to get home. I even jumped off the bus at the stop by the roundabout and ran across the park, because it’s quicker. I belted up the path and flung myself against the front door, tugging at the catch.
It was still locked. I was a bit surprised. It didn’t matter, since I could let myself in with my own key; but all the same it was unsettling. And though I still hoped that for some reason she’d gone all the way round the house and let herself in at the back door, really I knew however loudly I called through the echoing hall and up the stairs, she wasn’t going to be there to answer.
It seemed a very long wait. It was lonely, too. Jude wasn’t coming home – she’d been sent to a friend’s house, just in case – and I couldn’t settle. I spread my homework books across the table, and stealing handful after handful of currants from the dried fruit jar, I watched the clock.
Four-thirty. Five. No sign of her. No phone call. At five-fifteen I cracked, and rang Gerald’s workplace. The secretary would have let me speak to him, I know. But Gerald wasn’t there.
‘Hasn’t been in all day,’ he said cheerfully.
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ And then he added: ‘All I can tell you is that Mr Faulkner said it was something special, and he was not sure when he would be back.’
I put the phone down slowly. Something special… In the mirror when I looked up, I saw I was grinning. I knew where Gerald was. Gerald – so steady and reliable and, yes, predictable. Not at all the sort of person to stop caring for someone just because she is in a mega huff about some serious issue they disagree on, and extra jumpy waiting to go to court. No. Gerald’s the sort of person who can wait.
I sat down in front of my books, and did my homework without so much as another sideways glance at the clock. I didn’t have to worry about Mum any longer. Even if she was still hopping mad at him (and, knowing her, she probably was) it didn’t matter. He would still be there, sitting at the back of the court, making quite sure that everything went as it should – checking no one told lies about what she did, or bullied her; lending her money to pay her fine if she’d forgotten her chequebook; making sure she got home safe…
She didn’t get home till a quarter to seven. Her entrance was as immodest as usual.
‘Ta-ra! Enter the heroine! Crack open the champagne!’
I pushed my books away, and ran to hug her.
‘Are you all right?’
‘All right?’ She swirled around, skirts flying. ‘Am I all right? I’m better than all right. I am magnificent!’
‘What happened? Why are you so excited?’
(I wondered suddenly if Goggle-eyes had captured her outside the court, shoved a ring on her finger, and made her agree to marry him.)
‘What happened? I’ll tell you what happened. I was wonderful.’
‘Were you acquitted?’
‘Acquitted?’ She looked blank for a moment. ‘No, I don’t think I was acquitted. I think I was discharged.’
‘What’s the difference?’
She reached out for my hands, and spun me round. ‘Oh, how should I know, Kitty? I’m not a lawyer.’ Then, dropping my hands, she kept on spinning round by herself. ‘But I should be. I made the best speech in the world!’
‘How come?’ I interrupted her. ‘How come you got to make a speech at all? I thought you told me you were going to plead guilty.’
She blushed. (That’s not like her.)
‘I was. But then I got a bit confused, and pleaded the wrong way.’
‘That’s not like you.’
‘I told you, I got confused.’
‘Why?’ I asked suddenly. She’s not the only one who’d make a good lawyer. I myself have a pretty cunning line in subtle prosecution questions. ‘Why did you get confused? Was there anyone sitting in court you were surprised to see?’