We take apart the morning’s evidence as we pick over our lunch, Tony and Denise, Bea and me. We keep revisiting the fact that you were a wife-beater, that we never knew. Still so hard to believe. The café is on one of the side streets near the law courts. There’s a preponderance of legal types, dark-suited, well groomed, lugging heavy briefcases or bags and laptops about. Other people, like the four of us, are aliens to this world, swept up in it all.
Miss Dixon smiles her orange smile and begins her cross-examination. ‘On the occasion in 2005 when the deceased told you about Mr Tennyson beating her, did you see any physical evidence of that?’
Rebecca doesn’t answer immediately, then says, ‘No.’
‘No bruises or grazes, burns, anything of that nature?’
‘No.’
‘Did Mrs Tennyson say where Mr Tennyson had hit her, what parts of the body?’
‘No.’
‘Did she say how many times he had hit her?’ Miss Dixon says.
A dozen blows at least.
‘No,’ Rebecca says.
‘Did she say how long the alleged attack had lasted?’
‘No.’
‘So the deceased gave you absolutely no details whatsoever about the attack? Nothing at all?’
‘No,’ Rebecca says; she is trembling.
‘Mrs Tennyson was pregnant then; how was she finding the pregnancy?’
‘She was excited about it.’
‘Anything else?’ says Miss Dixon.
‘She found it hard to sleep. I think she had bad heartburn. And she was a bit moody.’
‘Moody how?’
‘Just up and down with the hormones,’ Rebecca says.
‘So although she was excited, there were times when she felt unhappy, dissatisfied?’
‘Not really.’ Rebecca tries to correct the impression. ‘More weepy, I think. I don’t know,’ she adds.
‘You don’t know,’ the barrister echoes, and it’s a horrible undermining of Rebecca. ‘Miss Thornton, you were her maid of honour, her oldest friend… Were you pleased to see Lizzie Sutton and Jack Tennyson get married?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ve already told the court you were surprised at her allegation of physical maltreatment. Did it occur to you that Mrs Tennyson might have been making it up?’
‘No. Why would she?’ Rebecca is alarmed.
‘To gain sympathy?’
‘She wouldn’t need to do that. We were friends.’
‘When did you last see Mrs Tennyson?’ says Miss Dixon briskly.
‘Early July last year.’
‘And before that?’
‘In April.’
‘Three months earlier. So would it be fair to say you weren’t in frequent contact any more?’
‘I live in London,’ Rebecca says.
‘Please answer the question.’
‘We texted, we spoke on the phone in between.’
‘The deceased’s phone records show that she contacted you a total of four times in that period,’ says Miss Dixon.
‘She was busy.’
‘Too busy for her best friend?’
Rebecca looks wounded. I am reminded of her mother’s cutting criticism and want to shield her from all this, but I am impotent.
‘Did Mrs Tennyson tell you about her recent pregnancy?’
‘No, she didn’t,’ says Rebecca.
‘No, she didn’t.’ Miss Dixon lets the words resound with disapproval. ‘She didn’t confide in you about that. Isn’t it fair to say that your friendship had dwindled? That you had drifted apart, that you were no longer best friends.’
‘No, it’s not,’ Rebecca says.
‘She barely bothered to keep in touch; you lived and worked two hundred miles away. You told us that Mrs Tennyson was busy, too busy to maintain her friendship, it appears to me. You’re not married?’ Miss Dixon says after a pause.
‘No.’
‘You don’t have children?’
‘No.’
‘I put it to you that Mrs Tennyson had found all she needed in her marriage, in her child and her career. Is that not the case?’
‘No… I don’t know,’ Rebecca says, muddy with misery.
‘On the occasion you refer to last summer, you didn’t see any physical signs of abuse, no bruises, no marks or burns?’
‘No.’
‘At any point since 2005 have you seen any concrete evidence of physical harm?’ says Miss Dixon.
‘No.’
‘You assert that Mrs Tennyson spoke to you about domestic violence in 2005. When was it mentioned again?’
Rebecca falters. ‘What?’
‘When?’
‘Never. She didn’t.’
‘All those months, years, and no repetition. So we might conclude that she didn’t say anything because there wasn’t anything to say. Because Jack Tennyson was treating her well. Do you agree?’
‘Yes,’ Rebecca says in a small voice.
She’s good, your barrister. Do your hopes rise each time she pulls a stunt like that? Taking something potentially damning and removing the sting from it. Reasonable doubt, that’s her brief. If she produces enough of it, you will be freed.
‘And the time you refer to, last summer, your interpretation was that Mrs Tennyson was in pain?’
‘She was,’ says Rebecca.
‘But there could be other explanations for that, could there not?’
‘Maybe.’
‘If Florence had caught a nerve as she clambered on to her mother’s lap, or even simpler, if Mrs Tennyson had a gastric complaint as she had told you, that could have been the reason, couldn’t it?’ says Miss Dixon.
‘Yes.’
‘Yet you chose to see Mrs Tennyson as a victim of marital violence as a result of your prejudice towards Mr Tennyson.’
‘No,’ Rebecca protests.
‘Is it not true that instead of believing your friend, your best friend for many years, you leapt to far-fetched conclusions?’
‘I thought-’
‘You were disappointed that she hadn’t joined you on your night out, and when she told you all was well, you thought she was lying? Is that the case?’
‘I don’t know,’ Rebecca says.
‘Did it occur to you that perhaps Mrs Tennyson did not want to see you, was happier spending time with her husband?’
‘No.’ Rebecca’s face is quivering; she is close to tears.
‘It’s possible that Mrs Tennyson thought the friendship had run its course. Time to move on. But you couldn’t accept that, so you turned up uninvited, and rather than accept her word, you invented a fantasy.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘True?’ Miss Dixon spits the word like it is toxic. ‘Is it true that Mrs Tennyson said she had a stomach bug?’
‘Yes, but-’
‘Is it true that you turned up unannounced?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it true that when you asked her afterwards by text if all was well, she said it was?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you think your friend was a liar? A dishonest person?’
‘No… yes… you’re twisting it all up,’ Rebecca says, colour flooding her face and neck.
There’s an awkward pause, then Miss Dixon says, ‘I realize that answering questions can be difficult at times, but a man’s future, his liberty and reputation hang in the balance here and I must ensure that the jury are in full possession of the facts. I am not twisting anything, but trying to disentangle fact from fiction, sound evidence from hearsay and speculation.’
The judge stirs and says, ‘A question, please, Miss Dixon.’
‘Your honour.’ She inclines, a little bow, then turns to Rebecca. ‘Would you say Mrs Tennyson was an honest person?’
‘Yes.’ Rebecca is stony-faced now; her eyes barely glance off the barrister.
‘You trusted what she told you?’
‘Yes,’ Rebecca says.
‘And in the summer, she told you everything was fine, that’s what you said?’
‘Yes.’
‘When you called unannounced to visit her, how was Mr Tennyson?’
‘Charming.’
This charming man.
‘He invited you in?’ says Miss Dixon.
‘Yes.’
‘He appeared quite happy for you to talk with Mrs Tennyson?’