'It would,' said Lester.

'After she came out she seemed much better, and we truly believed she was getting the right treatment at last. She headed back to London, completed the drama course-imagine the courage that took!-then lived on acting and waitressing. She even began to get telly work. We weren't naive to hope, were we? People have episodes of depression and get well again, don't they? They never look back. That's what we hoped for.'

'Prayed for,' I added.

'Which was when she met Joseph Scott.' Frederick emphasised each syllable of the name, as though to highlight the tragic significance. 'And that was a black day indeed. That was . . .' He broke off, shaking his head.

'Newcastle boy,' I continued, wanting to make sure Lester understood about Scott. 'I suppose to Zoe he seemed an intriguing mix of back-street brawler and academic. His ancestors were Lithuanian Jews, apparently.'

Lester nodded. 'Quite likely. Many did settle in that area, I believe.'

'Well, I think it appealed to the romantic in Zoe-though the man's a lapsed Presbyterian himself. She brought him here to meet us, and to us he appeared . . . well, a lout. He had an ugly black eye, and cuts on his knuckles, and was openly proud of the fact that he'd got them in a fight! I immediately recognised an inverted snob, ready to dislike me on sight.'

'He and Hannah didn't hit it off,' admitted Freddie. 'But to be fair, I think he was suffering from nerves.'

'I'd imagined someone so very different for her,' I said, and sighed. 'But they were married within months. We couldn't stop them. We urged Zoe to tell Joseph she'd been sectioned, and she refused point-blank. "It's all in the past," she said. "This is my future." Her wedding dress hung on the back of what is now Scarlet's bedroom door. Seems like yesterday.'

I could clearly see Zoe showing me the dress, a stunning piece of style and simplicity made especially by one of the costume designers she'd met at drama school. Sunshine streamed in through her bedroom window, and the ivory fabric seemed to blaze in a spotlight. I lent her my diamond earrings-something borrowed-and the veil that my own mother wore on her wedding day and I had worn on mine.

'Have a good life,' I said, before I left for the church. She and Freddie were standing in the hall, taking nervous sips of champagne as they waited for their car. He had his speech in his breast pocket. He looked exquisite in his tailcoat, and very proud. Zoe looked simply breathtaking.

'It's like escorting a film star onto the red carpet,' said Freddie.

She smudged her lipstick as she kissed his cheek. 'Thanks, Mum and Dad. Thanks for loving me no matter how awful I've been.'

'Never awful,' I whispered.

Her smile was radiant. 'I'm so happy. I can't believe I'm this happy. I definitely don't deserve to be this happy!'

I'd spilled a drop of coffee on the sofa, and dabbed at it with my sleeve. Then I saw that Lester Hardy was watching, and pulled myself together. 'The next minute, Scarlet was on the way.'

He waited, eyebrows lowered. He looked unhappy, as though he knew what was coming.

'It was disastrous,' said Freddie. 'Hormonal changes, the birth, breastfeeding, lack of sleep . . . it was all too much for Zoe's system. She had a massive breakdown. It was unimaginably terrifying.'

'I'm sure it was,' murmured Lester.

'We were slow to catch on. Joseph was taken unawares and he didn't ask us for help. If he'd only asked! Actually, I don't know what we'd have done if he had. She became psychotic and he found her threatening to drown herself and the baby in a pond. Scarlet was just a few days old.'

'How did he handle that?'

'He called an ambulance. So . . . Zoe was admitted to hospital in London, and we finally got a diagnosis.' Freddie paused to catch his breath. 'Our lovely girl was bipolar. Manic depression, they used to call it.'

My poor husband was overwhelmed by the memory. He slumped with his hands flat on his knees, mouth sagging, staring straight ahead.

'It was a relief,' I said. 'Alongside the grieving. At least we knew it wasn't our fault. There was a physiological explanation, and things that could be done. Lithium, mainly. It was hard to get the cocktail balanced-took a long time-but when she had the right drugs, and did everything else she needed to do to stay well, she was stable. That diagnosis gave her a new lease of life. She had amazing courage.'

'And the marriage survived?'

'She stuck with him,' I conceded bitterly, 'and eventually it led to her death. God knows he made life harder for her-hypercritical, forever undermining and questioning her judgement. They came to Yorkshire, partly to be nearer to us and partly because Joseph got the job at Tetlow. The boys were both born here.'

'I expect you were able to support them more, when they lived locally.'

He'd touched a nerve. Ever since Zoe died, I'd been haunted by the appalling fear that I hadn't done enough. 'She hated living up here,' I said, not quite answering his question. 'She wanted to move back to London, but he refused. He never appreciated how difficult each day was for Zoe. He had no idea. She was worth a thousand of him!'

I sprang to my feet in my agitation and stood with my hands on the back of the sofa, not knowing where to go next, or what to do.

Lester drained his coffee. 'I'd love to see your garden,' he said. 'I caught a glimpse as I was coming in. And I'd also like to hear about the children. Could we combine the two?'

'A good idea,' said Frederick, hauling himself to his feet. 'Let's go.'

It was a device on Lester's part, but I was grateful because I needed time to compose myself. I went up to our bedroom to wash my blotchy face, and for some minutes I sat on the edge of our bed, feeling drained and wishing our visitor would simply leave. By the time I rejoined the men, they'd reached the cast-iron seats in the sheltered spot by the greenhouse, and were talking about religious faith.

'I'm good old C of E, technically.' Frederick's smile was self-deprecating. 'The older I get, the keener I am to believe in a beneficent God; preferably one with a soft spot for ageing luvvies. Hannah's beliefs are rather less self-centred.'

'Oh?' Lester raised his eyebrows at me. 'But you're a scientist.'

'Science isn't incompatible with religious conviction,' I countered hotly, taking a seat. 'The only people who claim it is are extremists from both sides. Creationism is a celebration of ignorance that brings Christianity into disrepute. The idea that the Bible is some sort of divine textbook-ridiculous! On the other hand, those who claim that science disproves the existence of God are equally blinkered. It doesn't, as long as you're prepared to be flexible in your view of Him or Her. Or It.'

'Or Them,' added Lester with a smile.

Frederick sighed. 'The bottom line for me is this: it's impossible to believe that Zoe has simply ceased to exist. She was so massive a personality, in terms of bending the universe around her. A punch, a fall, a bleed in the brain-that wouldn't stop Zoe. She has to be somewhere, and I'd rather believe she was happily dancing away in the Elysian Fields than any of the alternatives.'

'That's easy to imagine,' I said, laughing. 'She always seemed to be on the point of dancing, as though her world had a rhythm of its own.'

A blackbird hopped along the garden wall, scattering its wistful song. Even birdsong had seemed melancholy since Zoe died. Beauty was stained with loss.

'I've already made contact with Nanette Marsden,' said Lester, once we'd sat silently for a minute. 'I've met her before. She's excellent.'

'She must be on our side in all this?' Frederick sounded hopeful. 'She saw the mess we were in.'

'She has an open mind.'

We tried so hard to make him understand. We described all that we'd been through over the past three years-ever since the day Zoe died, leaving three shocked, bereft children. Lester listened, nodding sombrely.

'You have to remember that their last memory of him is as Zoe's killer,' I said. 'They were trying to save her.'

'Mm.' Lester glanced down at the table, running a plump finger along the cast-iron tracery. 'Perhaps that is not a good last memory for them to have of their father.'

'Well! He should have thought of that, shouldn't he?'

'All the same, we have to consider what is in their best interests. Now. Today. I don't yet know the answer to that question.'

'I know the answer.' I threw dignity to the wind. 'Please listen to us! Please. I'm actually begging you and-believe me-I rarely beg. Don't turn us upside down again. I don't think any of us could cope.'

Our visitor's elbows were resting on the table. He dropped his mouth onto his interlaced fingers, thinking. We held our breath, praying that he'd leave us in peace. The blackbird hopped closer, as though he too wanted to hear the answer.

It was some time before Lester stirred. 'When can I meet the children?' he asked.

It is to the Wildes' credit that they have felt able to put aside their unhappiness at Judge Cornwell's decision and engage with me.

Hannah, Frederick and the children live in a three-storey terraced house just inside the city wall. They have a large and well-kept garden and the benefit of a small park with swings and play equipment within a few seconds' walk. They have devoted themselves to their care of the children: this is evidenced in the abundance of toys, children's art on the walls and child-friendly furniture such as beanbags. Hannah Wilde is sixty-four years old. She works part time as a lecturer in physics at York University. Frederick is twelve years her senior. Although he is largely retired from his work in theatre, he tells me that he has one or two directing projects 'on the go'.

I have sincere admiration for this couple who, despite their intense grief at the tragic loss of their only child, have given three grandchildren a nurturing, vibrant and stable home. They are to be congratulated on the superb job they have done and continue to do. They have sacrificed much to achieve this, including their retirement plans. They had been saving for an extended world tour, but accept that this is unlikely ever to happen. Hannah cut her working hours radically in order to care for her grandchildren. Both Frederick and Hannah feel a high degree of mistrust of Joseph Scott. This is perfectly understandable, in the circumstances.

By all accounts, Zoe Scott was a talented and charismatic woman. On this the Wildes and Joseph Scott agree. It is also common ground that she had a diagnosis of bipolar disorder. While this was well managed for long periods of time, there were also episodes when it was not. At such times, her behaviour and moods could be extremely unpredictable.

I am aware of the intense distress exhibited by the children in the months after Zoe's death, which still impacts on the family on a daily basis. The Wildes impressed upon me that the present application is threatening to damage the stability which they have so carefully built up. They insist that the children do not want to see their father.

I have been assisted by a telephone conversation with Gilda Grayson, Scarlet's headmistress at St Mary's College. She expressed concern about the effect of these proceedings on Scarlet, whose previously exemplary behaviour has deteriorated. I have spoken also to Theo's teacher, Nuala Brennan at Fossbridge Junior School. In recent weeks Theo has appeared distracted in class, has withdrawn from his peers and has been involved in violent altercations in the playground. According to school records he exhibited similar behaviour in the year after his mother died.

Ben has only recently begun attending Fossbridge. Staff report that he is a lively boy who has settled in well, and appears to have a warm and loving relationship with his grandparents.

I have had the benefit of speaking to Nanette Marsden, a bereavement counsellor who worked with the family after Zoe's death. She described patterns of behaviour clearly indicative of trauma and bereavement. Scarlet and Theo, through play, expressed profound guilt and helplessness at their inability to protect their mother in her last moments. Even Ben, who was twelve months old, was observed to make dolls attack one another in an enactment of a violent scene. Ms Marsden assisted the children to work through a grieving process while providing channels for their need to nurture memories of their mother.

It is of note that the children's attitude to their father was a significant concern to Ms Marsden. She felt that Scarlet and Theo were extremely conflicted. On the one hand they felt anger towards their father and strong ties of loyalty to their mother and grandparents; however, these emotions clashed with grief for the loss of their father, their old home and their family life.

Ms Marsden described the Wildes as caring and dedicated. However she expressed concern that Joseph Scott was afforded no contact with the family whatsoever after Zoe's death. The grandparents felt unable to accept even indirect contact from him in the form of letters or cards.

I did discuss with Nanette Marsden the possibility of her playing a part in introducing their father into the children's lives. She felt that this would not be appropriate. The work she did with the children was specifically around their bereavement. That work is now over and the family have been assisted to move to another stage. She believes it would be confusing for the children to involve her now.

The Wildes asked me to see Scarlet by herself before meeting her brothers. They were keen that she should have the opportunity to express her feelings openly. Therefore, I arranged to meet Scarlet at her home.

Eighteen.

Scarlet I couldn't believe it when they told me this guy wanted to see me by myself. I was nervous. I was sick-stomach nervous, but I agreed all the same because I actually wanted to speak to him. There were things I needed to say.

I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't a weirdie beardie with a shirt the colour of Ribena, carrying a carpet bag in great big sausagey fingers. He looked a bit like Babar the elephant, all oversized and forced to wear tidy clothes. He shook my hand, and he had this rumbling voice. He said I could call him Lester, but I really didn't want to. I hate calling adults by their first names, unless they're very close to me. Gramps tactfully headed out to the garden while Hannah steered Mr Hardy and me into the sitting room.

'May I stay?' she asked, and plonked herself onto the sofa without waiting for a reply. She'd spent hours tidying up. Poor Hannah. She just can't keep the house tidy; she isn't that sort of person, and she worries that people will think she isn't fit to have us. The fake log fire was flickering away. Mr Hardy started by going on about who he was and why he was there. Then he spent ages asking me about school and my hobbies. I knew he was just softening me up. I could feel myself getting closer and closer to yelling at him. Finally, I had to interrupt.

'Can we please get to the point?' I burst out.

'If you like.'

'I have a message for my father, and I'd like you to pass it on.'

'Go ahead.'

I looked him in the eye. 'Piss off.'

He looked right back at me. 'That's the message?'

'That's the message. Piss off and die.'

'Why do you want to send him that message?'

'Why? I'd have thought that was obvious!'

'Sounds as though you're very angry with your father.'

I waggled my head sarcastically. 'Well, hello! I think it's normal to hate the person who kills your mum. I think you'd be pretty effing angry.'

'Scarlet!' warned Hannah, sounding shocked. 'Language.'

Mr Hardy waved at her, probably to show that he didn't care about my language. 'Wouldn't you like to give him the message yourself?'

There was a long silence, and I wasn't going to be the first to break it. I don't know whether Mr Hardy signalled to her somehow, but Hannah got up and started muttering about making tea.

He thanked her and let her go.

'Well,' he said, once she'd disappeared, 'since you want to get to the point, would you like to tell me about your mother?'

I shrugged. 'She was my mum.'

'Yes. And what else?'

'I don't really want to say any more.'

'Why not?'

'Because what's the point? Just tell him to piss off. That's all I want to say.'

He fished in his bag before passing some paper and felt tips to me across the coffee table. 'How about you write down three memories of your mother, and three of your father? They can each be very short, just a few words. Or even just one word, if you like.'

He didn't wait to see whether I would do it. He got up and stood at the mantelpiece, looking at our photographs. I was pleased when he bent his head to stare more closely at one of Mum and me. It was a copy of the one in my memories box, the one taken near our caravan with our faces pressed together. I could hear Hannah in the kitchen, filling the kettle.

I picked up the pen. 'Three things?'

'Three.'

It took me ten seconds. 'Finished,' I said in a bored voice, dropping the pen.

He came over and looked at what I'd written.

MUM SCREAMING DEAD CREMATED.

DAD BASHING BASHING BASHING.