‘No, I don’t,’ he said kindly, despairingly. She snuggled at him tentatively.
‘Don’t go. I’ve said I’m sorry.’
‘No, as a matter of fact, you haven’t,’ remarked Anthony, relenting. He knew he would not go, not so long as Piers was around. Typical of Piers to take advantage of the fact that she wasn’t entirely sober.
‘Well, I am. It was nothing, really, just a sort of joke. I do, do love you.’ And she pulled him into the darkness of her bedroom, closing the door behind them. Anthony wondered fleetingly, disturbingly, whether this would have been happening with Piers, if he hadn’t turned up. He could smell Piers’ expensive cologne on her hair.
‘No,’ he said in the darkness, leaning against the door.
‘No, you’re having a party, and you’ve got guests. Come on.’ He opened the door and steered her out along the passageway to the living room. Julia went obediently, relieved to be forgiven. He decided that the matter of the calendar and next Friday night was best left until some other time.
While Anthony worked away, trying to make a favourable impression on the other members of chambers, Michael had been doing his bit for the cause, in a quiet way.
‘What do you think of Anthony?’ he asked David and William one evening in El Vino’s.
‘Very good,’ remarked David, raising his eyebrows and scratching the back of his neck. ‘Reminds me of myself at his age.’
William let out a burst of laughter. ‘That’s a joke! You did next to nothing, half the time. You certainly never asked
me
for work.’ David looked at William.
‘You never had any, that’s why.’
William laughed again.
‘I really think he’s remarkably good,’ said Michael. ‘He has a first-class mind. He’ll do very well, if he gets the chance.’
‘Aha! The chance! That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?’ said David, smiling, leaning over the table. ‘Someone tells me that you’ve got money riding on young Mr Cross.’
‘Very bad form, Michael.’ William shook his head reprovingly. Michael looked annoyed and embarrassed.
‘Well, the fact is, I
do
think he should get his chance,’ he continued, frowning. At that moment, Stephen Bishop
joined them. He was a round, solid man, somewhat given to puffing as he spoke, and to wearing old-fashioned suits with pinstriped trousers.
‘Well, here’s another vote,’ remarked David, as William rose to fetch another glass.
‘What’s another vote? What are we voting for?’ enquired Stephen, looking round at them, the light glinting on his spectacles. ‘God, this Court of Appeal hearing has me finished! And it’s still got another week to run. Thanks.’ He sipped his wine.
‘Michael’s plugging his pupil for the great Junior Tenant Stakes,’ said William. ‘We’re lining up the votes.’
‘Oh, don’t ask me. I hate all this decision business. You know me – anything for a quiet life. What does the old man want? That’s the way I get my guidance. He is my spiritual mentor,’ said Stephen loftily, smiling. ‘I do whatever he wants. That’s the easiest way out.’
‘You’re not serious!’ exclaimed Michael.
‘Of course I am!’ said Stephen in surprise. ‘What is this? Australian Chardonnay?’ He leant over to look at the label. ‘It’s really rather good. Didn’t you get a couple of cases of this, David?’ he asked, turning towards him. ‘I thought I remembered having some at your place. Not bad at all. How much a case?’ He was trying, Michael saw, to change the subject. He found this sort of thing a bore. But Michael was not to be deflected.
‘You can’t, as a matter of principle, just go along with Basil in everything,’ he pursued. Stephen looked faintly annoyed, and put down his glass.
‘Look, I don’t know Cross. He may be very good. But
I gather that Basil’s nephew is perfectly competent, and I don’t see why we can’t all just go along with that. It’s hardly worth wasting good drinking time over. I don’t see why we should have a great chambers rumpus over it.’
‘There’s something in that,’ said David languidly. ‘Anyway, it’s more than just a question of how good he is. I mean, we have to get on with the man on a social level. He has to be one of us. I think Edward’s an excellent chap, very good company. He’s rather amusing, and I often think this set could do with a bit more amusement.’ He sighed.
‘You’re beginning to sound like Cameron,’ said William.
‘Ho ho,’ said David in reply. ‘Thanks for nothing. I hope I’m not an Oxbridge snob, at any rate.’
‘You can’t count on Cameron, Michael,’ remarked William. ‘There’s someone who could go either way. The fact that Edward’s a Cambridge man counts for a lot, but then he’s a great one for academic merit.’
Michael sighed, gazing into the depths of his empty glass. Should he care? he wondered.
‘You’re right,’ he said to Stephen. ‘Not worth wasting good drinking time over. Let’s have another bottle.’
As it turned out, Anthony was extremely glad that he had read the documents thoroughly over the weekend. He had managed by great effort of will, once Piers had roared safely off to Barnes, to leave Julia’s at two-thirty and go back home, so that he had been able to work through Sunday. On Monday, just before lunch, he returned the folders to Roderick, who rattled off several questions concerning
the judgment at first instance. Anthony was startled, but managed to answer them.
‘Well, at least you’ve read that much,’ Roderick remarked dryly, returning the folders to the shelf and hauling out the larger bundle of documents. ‘I won’t ask you about the Court of Appeal judgment, because it makes me furious even to discuss it. A complete travesty. But, of course, that fool Greenwood shouldn’t even
be
in the Court of Appeal, certainly not sitting on shipping cases.’ He pushed the bundle towards Anthony. ‘They’re far too heavy for you to carry, and anyway, I don’t want you losing any, so you can work over there.’ He indicated a small table in the corner of the room. ‘I’ve told Michael, so you won’t need to trail around after him and Mr Khan.’
This was a disappointment. Mr Khan was a litigious Indian merchant who had become enmeshed in a rather fascinating way with some Syrians over a cargo of steel piping. This unsuccessful venture was presently the subject of an extremely complex fraud case, whose machinations Anthony had been looking forward to following. Better still, Mr Khan was a generous man who liked to live well, and who insisted on hosting excellent lunches for his counsel and instructing solicitors while the case was in progress. Now Anthony was to be denied these pleasures, toiling away instead over unspeakably tedious documents in Roderick’s gloomy room. Perhaps if he worked fast enough, he reflected, he’d be able to join Michael’s case again by Friday.
But Roderick worked Anthony at a grinding pace. By Thursday evening Anthony had ploughed his way through
the documents and felt that he was able to give Roderick a pretty concise exposition of all the salient points and the relative strengths and weaknesses of their case.
‘Excellent,’ said Roderick. ‘But since all the evidential questions were disposed of at first instance and in the Court of Appeal, you may find that it’s of little practical value next week. Still, it’s always useful to have the fullest possible background to a case, wouldn’t you say? What the House of Lords will be dealing with are the points of law upon which we base our appeal. There are four of these. Two of them utterly useless, as everybody involved is aware, but this is a belt and braces job.’
Roderick then gave Anthony more points to research and lists of cases upon which to make notes. By the time Friday evening came, Anthony was grateful to be excused by Roderick, and went back to Michael’s room.
‘Had a good week?’ asked Michael with a grin, as Anthony dropped into his chair.
‘Don’t talk about it,’ replied Anthony, groaning. ‘That man never stops working! And he expects everyone else to keep up with him.’
‘That’s why he’s as good as he is.’
‘Well, yes – but he’s a bit—’ Anthony hesitated.
‘Arrogant? You could say. You may have noticed that there are certain members of the judiciary for whom he hasn’t a great deal of time. He’s usually right. But he does run a case for all it’s worth.’
‘Well, I’m just glad it’s the weekend.’ He sighed, rose, bade Michael goodnight, and went out. On his way downstairs, he put his head round the door of Jeremy Vane’s room.
He found Edward still there. Jeremy was in the City, and Edward was taking the opportunity to arrange his social life and do a bit of serious telephoning.
‘Fancy a drink?’ asked Anthony. ‘I’ve just had the most appalling week with Roderick.’
‘Yes, I heard you’d been putting it about a bit,’ retorted Edward, a trifle coldly. Anthony felt a slight pang; he supposed his tactics must be glaringly obvious. He was somewhat at a loss.
‘Yes, well, you know how it is,’ he said. ‘How about that drink?’
‘Can’t, I’m afraid. Piers Hunt-Thompson is having a drinks party. It’s at his father’s house in Upper Brook Street, the swank. Aren’t you coming?’
‘I haven’t been invited,’ replied Anthony, somewhat discomfited. Then he remembered Julia’s entry on her calendar. He’d forgotten to ask her about it, but here was the answer.
‘Well, look, I’ve got to dash,’ said Edward, gathering his things together. ‘Have a good weekend, Tony.’
‘Thanks. Oh, if you see Julia, tell her to give me a ring later.’ Anthony went home disconsolately.
When Julia failed to ring that evening, Anthony called her the following morning and went over to see her. She had been rather short on the telephone, and Anthony was suppressing a faint dread as he sat morosely on the Piccadilly Line on the way to her flat.
It was midday when he arrived and she was alone in the flat, still wearing one of the large, crumpled men’s shirts that she slept in, and that always seemed to Anthony to make her appear tiny and vulnerable. She looked cross and had mascara smudges under her eyes.
‘Want a coffee?’ she asked, as he followed her into the kitchen.
‘Thanks.’ He wondered what to say next, how to broach the subject of the previous night. ‘You seem a bit the worse for wear,’ he remarked, as she handed him his coffee.
‘Do I? Thanks,’ she said shortly, taking her coffee off to the living room.
Anthony’s sense of impotence grew and, without wanting to, he said, ‘Have a good time with Piers last night?’
She gave him a cold glance and sat down at the far end of the sofa, tucking her legs up beneath her and pulling the shirt tail down over her bare thighs.
‘Don’t start that again. You were bad enough last week.’
‘Was I? Well, perhaps I had some cause to be.’ He decided against pursuing the subject of the party. ‘Why didn’t you tell me that you were going to Piers’ drinks party?’ Anthony was still standing in the middle of the room, his coffee untasted. Julia raised her eyebrows and took a sip of hers.
‘Why should I? Anyway, I did, didn’t I?’
‘If you recall, you said you wouldn’t be seeing me last night because you were having dinner with your parents.’
‘Good grief, this is like the Spanish Inquisition. So what if I did? I probably just said that because I thought you might be hurt that Piers didn’t invite you.’
‘Hurt? You wouldn’t expect Piers to invite me, would you? Not when he’s been sniffing after you for the last God knows how long. He’ll jump at any opportunity to get me out of the way, and you’ll jump right back, so far as I can see.’
Julia banged her coffee cup down on the table and stalked past him to the window, where she folded her arms and stood looking down at the street. Anthony went on, goaded by her silence.
‘That’s about right, isn’t it? Look at the way you were behaving with him at your party, when you knew I wouldn’t be there – God knows what would have happened if I hadn’t shown up!’
‘Thank you, Anthony,’ she said in a low, hard voice, ‘for
showing such complete trust in me.’ Still she did not turn round.
‘What do you expect me to think? And where did you go after the drinks party last night? Or did you stay at Upper Brook Street?’
‘Since you insist on cross-examining me, we went to dinner – six of us, if that will set your mind at rest.’
Anthony stood sullenly, not knowing what to say. He felt again that sense of exclusion that seemed to dog him in all his doings.
‘I’d rather you didn’t see so much of Piers,’ he said at last. It sounded pompous and unnatural, but he could think of no other way of saying it, particularly when he was talking to her nightshirt-clad back.
‘Piers is one of my oldest friends,’ she replied tightly, and then turned round. He could see tears glinting in her eyes. Allowing for her natural tendency to emotional exaggeration, Julia felt persecuted. ‘I’ve known him since school. He’s funny and sweet, I like being with him …’
‘And he’s got plenty of money, hasn’t he? Which is one thing you certainly like,’ pursued Anthony.
‘I can’t help it if you never have any money!’ she exclaimed. ‘I
like
going out to nice restaurants, I
like
being with people who don’t have to keep counting their small change to see if they can afford the tube fare home—’
‘Thanks,’ said Anthony shortly. He chose his moment, knowing that tears were a sign that her defences were slipping. ‘You won’t have much further use for me, then.’ And he put his coffee mug gently on the windowsill and turned to go.
‘Oh, Anthony,’ she said with a sob, pulling at his hand, ‘I’m sorry. That was a rotten thing to say.’ He turned round. ‘It’s just that … he is my friend, and he does care for me.’ She put her face against his shoulder. ‘I would hate not to see him. But I do love you,’ she added softly.
Anthony found her irresistible when she wept, and now he put his arms round her and hushed her.
‘Just don’t go out with him on your own, if he asks you,’ he said, kissing her hair. ‘Please?’
‘Oh, I won’t. I don’t want to! I couldn’t help it if he didn’t ask you to his stupid party last—’ He stopped her mouth with a kiss, then led her back to her bedroom and the unmade bed, and drew the curtains.
On Monday morning, Anthony arrived breathlessly at Roderick’s room, where Roderick was busily sorting out papers with the help of his junior counsel, Lawrence Ross. Anthony was not particularly fond of Lawrence, who was a bright-eyed Scot with a rasping voice and eager manner. The kind, Anthony guessed, whose hand had always shot up first at school when a teacher asked a question.
‘Anthony, you’re late. Lawrence, this is Michael Gibbon’s pupil. He’s been working with me for the past week and will be following the case. Anthony, bring that red folder – no, the blue – and you’d better ask the boy to bring these. There’s too much for you to carry.’ He heaped books and documents into Anthony’s arms and slung the red velvet bag containing his robes over his shoulder.
They met the instructing solicitors in the waiting room downstairs, and Anthony was given his security pass for
the House of Lords. The five of them were rather cramped in the taxi on their way from the Temple to Westminster. Anthony tried to follow the cursory conversation between Roderick and the solicitors, while Lawrence interjected what he hoped were serious-sounding, coherent remarks. When they arrived, Roderick set off at a tremendous pace, Anthony and Lawrence scuttling behind him through the long archway, past the security men, up the winding stone stairs and along the carpeted corridors to the robing room. The postboy had somehow mysteriously manifested himself and was handing books to an usher as they sped past.
Anthony found that he was unaccountably nervous as he put on his robes; he had trouble fastening his collar. He could do no more than briefly admire himself in the small, square mirror – the sight of himself in his snowy wig never failed to arouse in him a faint thrill of self-admiration.
Although he spoke very little, Roderick seemed to do everything at double-quick speed, largely to suppress his habitual nervousness, and Anthony was almost forced to run after him as he whisked out of the robing room. Anthony tried to take in his surroundings as he trotted along. They proceeded down a long corridor, on one side of which arched windows were set into the stone wall, with hard stone benches below; on the other was high wooden panelling punctuated by various portraits of long-dead peers, with doors to the various chambers. As they rounded a corner, Anthony was startled to see a small television screen jutting out above his head from the wall. It bore some sort of message in green letters, but they were walking too fast for him to read it.
Roderick slowed down as they approached a mob of people milling in small knots in the corridor. There were barristers, solicitors and clients, and among them, stately and to all appearances oblivious of the hum around him, stalked the usher, grey-haired, beautifully attired, watchful and majestic.
Roderick and Lawrence were studying the court list on the wall, and the solicitors went to sit on one of the benches under the high window. Anthony looked around uncertainly, then joined Lawrence and Roderick as they moved away from the list.
‘That couldn’t be worse,’ Roderick was saying. Anthony looked enquiringly at Lawrence.
‘Lord Allen is sitting in the Barker-Bentley case, so we won’t have him,’ he explained. Roderick bit his nails and said nothing. Anthony was aware that the composition of the court and the inclinations of the various Law Lords would affect the case radically. Roderick Hayter had been counting heavily on the influence of Lord Allen, who had often given judgment in cases of a similar nature and whose thinking was in line with Roderick’s own argument in this case, to sway the rest of the court.
At a signal from the usher, the knot of people outside the chamber fell silent and stood back as an untidy little procession of old men trooped along the corridor and filed into the room. Anthony went in behind Roderick and Lawrence. He had no idea of what to expect. Perhaps the chamber of the House of Lords itself, with the rows of benches and the Woolsack at one end. Instead, he found himself in a large room, high ceilinged and panelled in
dark wood, with high arched windows looking out over the sluggish grey waters of the Thames. The old men had seated themselves behind a large horseshoe-shaped table, on which were arranged bundles of paper and neat stacks of books, an identical stack and bundle for each Law Lord. Lawrence and Roderick sat down at a long table arranged on the left of the room, facing their Lordships, and opposing counsel sat at a similar table on the right-hand side of the room. There was a central lectern from which counsel would address the court. The solicitors sat at a table behind Roderick and his retinue, and at the back of the room was a row of chairs for the various assistants and hangers-on.
Anthony examined the Law Lords curiously, as everyone sat coughing and shuffling and waiting for the proceedings to begin. They looked remarkably unimpressive in their everyday suits, without wigs and robes, and a couple even looked a little frail. At the extreme left, Anthony recognised Lord Buckhurst, one of the better-liked and well-seasoned commercial judges, on whom Roderick was now pinning his hopes. Next to him sat Lord Seaton, who was fidgeting and glancing around in apparent annoyance, although after watching him for a few minutes, Anthony deduced that this was a nervous tic, a sort of angry blink. It gave him the appearance, together with his distracted habit of looking all about him, of being about to rise impatiently and leave. In the middle, fat and smiling and genial, was Lord Fenton. Anthony knew from Roderick’s previous observations that, since he had little commercial experience, Lord Fenton’s views would carry almost no weight, although his cheerful appearance lightened the atmosphere somewhat. Of the
other two, Lords Cole and Ennersdale, Anthony could not tell which was which, and it took Lawrence’s impatiently whispered assistance to identify Lord Ennersdale as the one with the grey face and thick white hair, who looked gloomily out at the court through gold-rimmed glasses. It was generally understood that Lord Ennersdale was the least likely to be sympathetic to their case and Roderick, glancing at him that day, mistrusted the determined, malevolent look in his eye. On the far right sat Lord Cole, a very frail little man, almost completely bald, hunched over the table like a sad monkey.
Roderick rose to open the case for the appellants, standing square onto the lectern, twitching at the sides of his robe with thin, nervous fingers as he addressed their Lordships. The morning did not go well for him. He got no further than ten minutes into his carefully prepared exposition of their first ground of appeal, when Lord Ennersdale interrupted him.
‘Do I take it, Mr Hayter, that we are dealing first with that point with which Lord Justice Greenwood dealt in the final part of his judgment?’
‘That was my intention, my Lord.’
‘Well, I find this—’ There was a long pause, and then an irascible sigh. ‘Please go on, Mr Hayter.’
Roderick continued. Five minutes later, Lord Ennersdale interrupted him to take issue with him on his argument. A brief exchange took place, Roderick was about to resume, when Lord Fenton interposed an observation of no relevance whatsoever. Lord Fenton, however, made his remarks so genially and with such evident satisfaction that
Roderick dealt with the interruption quite politely, and then endeavoured to carry on. But they were all bitten by the bug now. Lord Buckhurst came in with some questions that indicated that his views might not be running in quite the same direction as Roderick’s, and then Lord Ennersdale picked up the ball and ran with it, rather tetchily, for several minutes. Roderick, Anthony could see, was becoming impatient and vexed. He managed, however, to deal with the next two grounds of appeal without interruption, except for one sad enquiry from Lord Cole, and things settled down again for a while. The mood was not good.
Anthony watched the court, wondering what was in their minds. Lord Ennersdale was taking in every word, Anthony knew, though he rarely raised his eyes to Roderick, but sat staring at the papers on the table before him, running one leathery hand over and over his long jaw. Lord Seaton had sat from the outset with both elbows on the table and his hands shading his eyes. Anthony wondered if he was asleep. Lord Fenton seemed to be doing his best to appear imposing and benign, but he looked rather bored and probably wished he were somewhere else. Lord Buckhurst looked singularly grave, and interrupted Roderick with a deadening regularity. His interruptions always prompted Lord Fenton to throw in a word or two, just to show that he counted. As for Lord Cole, he seemed to have given up after his first intervention and was dozing quietly on the sidelines – or apparently so, for his eyes were closed.
Lunchtime came, and Roderick expressed himself not well pleased with the morning’s proceedings.
‘I can’t understand Buckhurst. I cannot
think
why he is
taking this line. Greenwood must have been speaking to him. Or else,’ he sighed, ‘we are doomed to be sacrificed to policy.’
In the afternoon Roderick resumed his argument. He droned on for some ten minutes or so, and though Anthony tried to concentrate, he found himself gazing through the far windows at the river cruisers on the Thames, plodding along under the leaden spring sky. Then he became aware that Roderick’s voice had stopped. The pause became uncomfortable as Roderick thumbed through his papers.
‘If your Lordships will bear with me for one moment …’ Roderick leant down and muttered something to Lawrence, who riffled hurriedly through the documents in front of him, then shook his head. Lawrence in turn hissed to Anthony: