By the time the trial arrangements reached me, nearly a year had passed since the arrest and more than a year since the evening at the hall.
The letter did not arrive dramatically. It lay between a school circular and an offer for windows we didn’t need. I recognised the reference and sat down before opening it.
The case was listed for trial. I was to attend as a witness and would receive practical information through the witness-care arrangements. Dates could change; I needed to keep the contact informed about availability and difficulties.
I read the page twice, then wrote the date in the calendar.
Tom came home while I was still sitting there.
“It’s time?”
“It’s a date. At last.”
He pulled out a chair and asked what I needed him to take responsibility for. We started with Poppy’s school arrangements, travel and the possibility that I would spend time waiting without giving evidence that day.
He didn’t book something on my behalf before asking. The difference had become less remarkable because he had practised it for months.
At work, Marianne adjusted the rota around the information available. She asked me to update her if it changed and reminded me that uncertainty about timing was not something I had to apologise for.
The support information explained who could answer practical questions about court. I contacted them about travel, where to report and what would happen while I waited. I asked about visiting the building in advance. Familiarity with a room seemed useful, provided nobody confused it with practising a version of the truth.
Beth had her own arrangements. We did not sit down together to compare the evidence we expected to give. We talked about meals, transport and how to get through the days without making the case our only subject.
“I’ve bought shoes I can stand in,” she said.
“A sensible investment.”
“That may be the whole of my preparation for being looked at.”
I laughed, then admitted I was worried about getting something wrong in front of everybody.
“Then say if you don’t know,” she said.
It sounded obvious until I imagined a courtroom waiting for an answer.
At home, I checked that my retained material was safe. I did not rewrite old notes to make them consistent with the person I had become. The uncertain woman who wrote them in October and November had left a record worth more than a polished later reconstruction.
I would refresh my memory through the proper arrangements, ask about anything I didn’t understand and tell the truth about what I could and couldn’t recall. None of that required reading public commentary about the case.
I stopped opening the articles people sent me. When someone forwarded a theory, I asked them not to send more. Most complied. One told me I ought to know what I was up against. I repeated the request.
Vivienne called to confirm she had received her arrangements. Her voice shook, and she didn’t try to hide it.
“I keep thinking I could have prevented some of this by asking one more question in August.”
“You can answer the questions you’re asked now.”
“That doesn’t feel like enough.”
“It’s what you can do.”
She accepted that without asking me to promise how the court would regard her.
On the weekend before the trial, Tom and I took Poppy for a walk. She was nine now, taller and more exacting about the stories adults told her. We had explained the necessary part of my attendance without giving her details she hadn’t asked for.
“Will you have to speak loudly?” she asked.
“Clearly.”
“I can show you.”
She announced winter to a field full of sheep. They remained unimpressed.
I laughed until I had to stop walking.
That evening, I put the court information in my bag, checked the travel arrangements and left my old notebook where it could be found if needed.
The date was no longer an indefinite point beyond our lives.
Tomorrow, I would walk into a room where I could not make anyone like the truth before I said it.
I tried once to compose a perfect opening sentence, then stopped. There would be questions, and I would answer those rather than deliver a speech designed to establish what sort of woman I was. I could ask for clarification. I could take a moment. If I discovered an error, I could say so instead of defending it because other people were listening.
Tom came into the bedroom carrying the alarm clock we’d stopped using when our phones took over. He set it on his side and checked the time I wanted to leave. A second alarm was a small kindness, practical enough that I could accept it without crying. We turned out the lights. I lay awake for a while, hearing the house settle, then eventually slept.