A Game of Proof by Tim Vicary

came down she was surprised to see Simon talking to a witness, Graham Dewar. As she approached they moved apart. She took Simon’s arm and went out into the sunshine.
    ‘Do you know that man?’
    ‘Yeah, a bit. Met him on a building site.’
    ‘He’s a friend of Gary’s, you know. Witness for the defence.’
    ‘Yeah?’ Simon’s uninterested response forced Sarah to suppress a slight jolt of irritation. It was a mannerism which had provoked many quarrels between them over the years. But she had no intention of nagging him today.
    ‘What do you fancy? Sandwich? Pizza hut? Burger?’
    ‘A sandwich’ll do fine. I thought all you barristers ate posh. You know - fine linen, champagne, pass the port?’
    ‘Not my style. Anyway, you know what wine does to me, Simon - do you want to see me weaving into court all tipsy with my notes upside down?’
    ‘That’ll be the day. They’ll not catch you with your buttons undone, no way.’
    ‘I should hope not.’
    They bought sandwiches, fruit and mineral water in Marks and Spencers. All the benches in the park by the river were occupied by tourists or shoppers, so they sat with their feet dangling over the quay, watching the river buses and rowing boats pass on the water.
    ‘So how come you’ve got a day off?’ she asked.
    ‘I just took it. Most o’t labourin’s finished, any road. It’s nowt but tidyin’ up today, so I mitched it.’
    Sarah sighed. Everything about the answer depressed her. It was bad enough to have a son whose ambitions extended no further than labouring on building sites, but it seemed Simon couldn’t even manage that without skiving. And then he had to use this exaggerated broad accent, to emphasise how he was moving in exactly the opposite social direction from her.
    But I won’t nag, she told herself. It does no good - that’s how we lost him before.
    ‘How’s Jasmine?’
    Jasmine was Simon’s girlfriend, a startlingly beautiful young woman who he had lived with for the past ten months. Sarah had hated her at first, partly because she seemed to have no more ambition than Simon, but also in the way that all mothers find it hard to relate to the girl their son has chosen to replace them. But as time passed and she seemed to make him happy, Sarah had begun to resign herself to the situation and search for good qualities in the girl that she hadn’t noticed before. So his answer distressed her further.
    ‘She’s gone.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Left me - weeks ago. Ran off with a bloody male nurse from the hospital. Namby-pamby little wuss who loves trees.’
    ‘Oh Simon, no!’ She touched his arm but he shrugged her off.
    ‘Oh Simon, yes. You’re too messy, Simon, your home’s a tip. I’m off to get meself a life.’
    ‘She said that?’
    ‘Summat like it, yeah.’ He slung the crust of his sandwich to a seagull on the water. ‘Course there was mess, I’d been painting. And putting up shelves.’
    ‘ You, Simon, decorating?’ The squalor of Simon’s house was legendary in their family.
    ‘Yeah. I thought that’s what she wanted. What all women want, in’t it - a nice home?’ He looked at her sideways, as though this might be the answer he had come for. What is it women want, mum? How can I get Jasmine back? Of course he would never ask these questions so explicitly but that was what he wanted, she felt sure.
    Sarah felt touched, flattered, and afraid. Touched and flattered that he should come to her, afraid that she had no idea of the answers. How could she know, who paid so little attention to her own home and marriage, these days? It was, she knew, somehow unsatisfactory despite all the efforts she and Bob had made over the years. Years in which Bob had put up shelves and units and wallpaper in every house they had had. And now Simon had for once tried to copy his stepfather, and Jasmine - his one spectacular achievement - had walked out on him. I could weep, she thought.
    ‘When did she go?’
    ‘Six weeks ago. I know where