Kathleen stirred as the sounds from outside the house filtered through the bedroom window. It was a hot summer and despite the window being wide open, she’d been too warm throughout the night to do anything other than sleep lightly.
She glanced at the bedside clock. 5.02am. She woke earlier these days and often heard the binmen making their collection, but she didn’t expect a commotion at this time in the morning.
Sliding out of bed quietly she moved to the window, pulling the net curtains aside and looking down to the street below. As she did so, the doorbell rang and a loud knocking came from the door. Shaken, she had to catch herself on the windowsill.
On her drive were four police cars and multiple police officers in uniform.
“David, there’s police at the door!” she called out to her husband, who had sat up in bed and was reaching for his glasses.
The knocking started again, louder this time, and now they were both awake they could make sense of the shouts from outside.
“David Whitfield. Police. Open the door.” Knock-knock-knock. “David Whitfield!”
“I’m coming!” David shouted as he started getting out of bed. It took him longer these days, and he grimaced in pain as his legs were forced into action quicker than they would normally allow.
“What do they want, David?” Kathleen asked.
“I’ve no idea, love” he replied calmly as he left the bedroom to head downstairs. “I’m not a mind-reader.”
Kathleen felt a pit in her stomach. What would the neighbours think? Police, at this time in the morning, in their quiet cul-de-sac.
David opened the door to find two police officers, one holding up a piece of paper. Behind them he could see more officers, standing near their cars.
“David Whitfield?” the officer with the paper asked. David nodded. “We’d like you to escort us down to the station please, for questioning.” He motioned to the paper he was holding. “And this is a search warrant for your property.”
David nodded again, unable to speak.
“David, what do they want?” Kathleen asked again, from the top of the staircase.
He didn’t answer.
—————
The trial took place in the Old Bailey. It was a high-profile case and had been covered on both the local and national news. Reporters had been outside Kathleen’s home in the run-up to the date, and she hadn’t been able to go outside without a microphone or camera being pushed into her face.
Over the last few months, she’d found out the reason for the early morning visit. There had been an accusation – more than one – about David’s behaviour when he was a schoolteacher in the seventies and eighties.
It was wrapped up in the #metoo movement, and Operation Yewtree, and all those historical inquiries that were taking place. People were coming out of the woodwork and talking about things that had happened years ago.
But how could they remember all that detail? She didn’t know what she was doing on a rainy Thursday in March in 1979. How could they?
David had told her that it wasn’t true, and she believed him. She believed him because she knew who he was; she’d been married to him for almost 50 years, and it was their Diamond anniversary in June. She knew him better than he knew himself.
Besides, no-one had made any mention of it at the time, and they were prominent people in the local community. It would have come up much earlier if any of it was true. Someone would have said something.
Kathleen sat there in the gallery, watching as the prosecution told their version of events, bringing up witness after witness. Some had good memories, others were less clear. They all spoke about not wanting to come to terms with it. Keeping it hidden for years before getting the courage to speak up.
She despaired. David was a good man. He’d worked at St Barnabas School all his life, starting as a teacher, then Head of Year, and finally Headmaster. He was a pillar of the community. He raised money for charity. He was Chair of the Rotary Club for goodness’ sake. And since he retired, he’d been working with young homeless people to get them back on the road to recovery.
But repeatedly, witnesses took the stand to recount their stories. Some were middle-aged men who went to St Barnabas, other were young teenagers that David had worked with more recently. They all talked of inappropriate behaviour; of how they felt powerless, of the shame that they felt.
Inside, Kathleen felt angry. Not at David, of course. She believed in his innocence. But at these, these…cowards…that were determined to hurt him and ruin his reputation. All he’d worked for. All she’d worked for.
They’d clearly agreed between themselves that this would be how they would do it. And as for the Crown Prosecution Service – well, how they fell for their pack of lies, she didn’t know.
—————
She rarely went out now. Not because of the reporters and the TV cameras. They’d gone, onto the next story. No, it was because of the shame. And because she was left alone to deal with it herself.
On her own at night, in bed, trying to sleep, she wondered how she’d been so stupid. How she’d fallen for his lies, his proclamations of innocence.
“Of course I didn’t do what they’re saying!” he’d shouted at her during a visit to the prison where he was being held. “Do you really think I’d do that?”
“No, of course not David,” she said in a strained voice, “but they all have the same story.” She paused. “I just don’t know what to believe.” She looked down at her lap.
“Believe me, Kathleen. I’m your husband. Believe me.” He pleaded. “Why would I lie to you?” He reached out and touched the glass.
She couldn’t raise her head and look him in the eyes.
Not because of the tears dropping into her lap. But because at that point, she knew. She knew she didn’t believe him. She couldn’t believe him. Not anymore, not after what she’d heard in court.
And that was the last time she’d seen him face-to-face. She still attended the rest of the trial, but she knew how it would end. And the pit in her stomach grew wider each day.
Now she stayed at home alone, thinking and wondering how much of her life had been a fiction. The times he’d been late home from work. The parties where they and their friends had laughed and joked. The society events where he gave speeches and thanked others for their hard work.
And all that time, behind the façade of their perfect life, people had talked amongst themselves, passing rumours secretly from neighbour to neighbour. Talking about David and wondering how much she knew.
It was the way things were, they had said during the trial. There were always stories and gossip. It was the period. It was common. People knew what was happening, but the authorities turned a blind eye.
But they care now, Kathleen thought. The world has changed, and now they care. About things that happened in a different time, almost a different life. “It was different back then,” had been David’s argument in court.
He wasn’t the only one.
‘David Whitfield is being unfairly judged on today’s standards’ was a headline from one of the more sympathetic columnists that wrote about the case. But supporters were few and far between, and when the news cycle moved on, so did they.
Not that it made a difference. She knew right from wrong, whether it was today, or last decade or last century. Just because you could get away with it didn’t make it right, then or now.
—————
Looking back, it was clear that both their lives ended that morning when the police knocked on the door.
David would outlive her of course, but in prison. They were good at keeping people alive in there. No governor wanted to a prisoner death on their CV, and especially one so high-profile. He was kept in solitary for most of his sentence, kept apart from inmates who had little to lose and a reputation to gain.
For Kathleen though, she made the decision on one of those sleepless nights. She was thankful they’d not managed to have children; it was one less thing to worry about. And her friendship circles had deserted her, so there was no-one to talk it through with, to reason with her, to remind her that this wasn’t her fault.
When the police knocked at the door again, at a more reasonable hour this time and in far smaller numbers, they didn’t get a response. No movement from the curtains, no calling out to say, “I’ll be there in a second.”
Just silence.
They found her upstairs in bed, looking for all the world like she’d finally managed to fall asleep. But there were pills on the side table, spilling out from the bottle, and next to that a note.
It didn’t give an explanation or a message. It was just a list of things that Kathleen knew someone else would have to clear up on her behalf when she was gone – like the fridge and the bins that needed to be put out.
In the local paper that week, there was a small note about her tucked away in the Obituaries column.
It passed by without further comment.