‘The red folder! Where’s the red folder?’ Anthony was startled. Their Lordships were attentively and politely pretending to look with interest through their documents. Lord Seaton began to blink and look round. Counsel on the other side tried to look preoccupied and nonchalant.
‘I – he said the blue folder. He’s
got
the blue folder,’ said Anthony in a low voice.
‘I know he’s got the
blue
folder. It’s the red folder he wants. Didn’t you bring it?’ Anthony felt his hands beginning to sweat.
‘No!’ he muttered, frantic. ‘He said to bring the blue one!’
Lawrence rose in a half-crouch and gave Roderick the news in an undertone. Oh, Christ, oh, Christ, thought Anthony. He stared down at the table; the documents swam before him in a white blur. He felt the blood begin
to pound beneath his wig, which became unbearably hot. He breathed steadily, trying to recollect. Then he fished hopelessly in his briefcase and among the documents. Roderick was straightening up.
‘If it please your Lordships, I intend to proceed to that other matter—’
‘But Mr Hayter,’ said Lord Ennersdale snappishly, ‘have you completed your remarks in this regard?’
‘My Lord, no – but I think it appropriate to return to them at another … juncture. If your Lordships will be so good as to turn to—’
‘But Mr Hayter,’ persisted his Lordship, ‘wishing no discourtesy, I believe we may find it rather inconvenient to have to pursue the argument in this circuitous fashion. If perhaps …’
Anthony was barely listening. His fingernails were pressed tight into the palms of his hands, and he was aware only that some awful blunder had been made. He had left some vital document behind. The whole case would founder because of it. He was living his worst nightmare.
In fact, the lack of the folder, while an inconvenience to Roderick, merely forced him to abandon his carefully prepared dissertation and take up another tack. It was clumsy and did not assist the smooth exposition of the argument but, in substance, it was of a minor nature. He was far too experienced to be unduly thrown by the mishap, but Anthony was sure, with the self-centred certainty of the young, that he had somehow upset the case. He did not know what was in the red folder – in fact, it contained merely a few sheets of paper setting out ancillary points
which Roderick had intended to bring in should things not be going their way, and which he was now making in any event – but he was sure that it must be something vital.
Lawrence managed to compound Anthony’s certainty by his very manner, as they packed up their belongings at the end of the afternoon. Anthony’s morale sank lower and lower. Roderick, in fact, had forgotten the matter entirely, until Lawrence mentioned it as they walked back through Caper Court, Anthony trailing in their wake in the miserable silence which he had maintained all afternoon.
‘The red folder? Oh, that wasn’t in the least important – probably my fault that we left it behind, anyway.’
But Anthony was walking too far behind to hear.
The following day, Roderick’s grim silence merely served to convince Anthony that the matter of the red folder had not been forgotten, and that it was at the forefront of Roderick’s mind. But Roderick was habitually grim and silent during an important case, and what Anthony mistook for wordless wrath was purely concentration. Suffering under his own conceit, Anthony robed and took his place next to Lawrence. Their Lordships sat as before, giving the impression that they might have been sitting there all through the dark night and the slow break of day, like so many morose grey dolls.
Lawrence rose and spent twenty minutes dealing with subsidiary points, and then counsel for the respondents rose. Earnest Slattery was an imposing man of sixty or so, tall, of a rather rubbery thinness, whose naturally laconic self-confidence was improved by the indications given by
the court the previous day that they might not be wholly sympathetic to the appellants’ case. Slattery started off in an upright posture, but as his discourse gathered momentum and his eloquence rose to ever more satisfactory heights – to his own ear, at least – he began to lean on the lectern and gradually to drape himself over it, only now and then drawing his body back slowly so that he could glance down at his notes, then leaning forward again. He gave the impression, after a while, of a swaying eel. Slattery always smiled slightly as he spoke, which enhanced his air of confidence and imparted a sense of it to his audience.
Their Lordships reacted benevolently to Mr Slattery. From time to time, Lord Ennersdale would nod swiftly and approvingly at the polished surface of the table, and even Lord Buckhurst was seen to give a wry nod once or twice in the direction of his fountain pen. This became infectious, in that Lawrence took to giving occasional, furious little shakes of his head, as though appalled at the audacity of their opponents in putting forward such spurious and manifestly wrong-headed arguments. Roderick merely sat gazing at the table before him, occasionally glancing up at Slattery.
Eloquent though he was, Mr Slattery failed to rivet Anthony’s attention. His glance wandered to the back of the room, where he saw, sitting amongst the clerks and assistants, a middle-aged woman, wearing a dress and a cardigan and rather good shoes, and knitting. She, like Earnest Slattery, was smiling faintly to herself. When she came to the end of a row she would look up, still smiling, turn her needles around, and continue knitting at a furious
pace. When they rose for lunch, Roderick noticed her, too.
‘Ah, is
she
here? That bodes ill for us. That’s Earnest Slattery’s wife. Whenever he’s speaking in the House of Lords, if he thinks the case is going well for their side she comes along to listen to him. I think she’s very proud of him. She can’t understand a word of what’s going on, mind you. It seems they share a mutual enjoyment of the sound of his voice.’ It was perhaps the only time that Anthony saw him smile that day.
During the afternoon, Slattery continued. Mrs Slattery finished one ball of wool and started another. Just as the thing began to seem to Anthony to be interminable, Lord Buckhurst leant forward to interrupt.
‘I think, Mr Slattery, that I can safely say that we shall not need to hear from you on that point.’ He glanced enquiringly at his fellow Law Lords. Lord Ennersdale looked up; the light fell on his glasses so that one could not see his eyes. He shook his head slightly, as did Lord Fenton, although Anthony guessed that he probably didn’t know what he was shaking his head at, and could well have nodded if anyone else had done so. Lord Cole murmured something inaudible and stifled a yawn, and Lord Seaton merely clasped his hands and blinked crossly. This was bad, Anthony knew. It meant that they did not need to hear Earnest Slattery’s arguments in opposition to Roderick’s, since they had already made up their minds. Anthony glanced at Roderick, who merely dipped his head and pursed his lips. Lawrence was busy looking very grim.
Although disappointed that the flow of his eloquence was to be prematurely stemmed in this way, Mr Slattery
graciously and rather wordily acceded to their Lordships’ request and closed his argument. Mr Slattery’s junior rose, opened his mouth, only to hear Lord Buckhurst say that they did not think they needed to trouble Mr Polson, thank you. This was galling to young Mr Polson, who had been working up his points for some days now, but a good omen for their case. He murmured his thanks and sat down.
It was over, and Anthony knew that, even though judgment would not be delivered for some weeks, possibly months, they had in all probability lost. He could not bear to contemplate the possibility that the red folder might have been in any way vital. While Roderick and Earnest Slattery moved off together down the corridor, talking and laughing in low voices, Anthony followed, ignored by the two self-important juniors, once again feeling shut out from the world to which he so wished to belong. He had blundered. Worse still, he had blundered on behalf of the most important person in chambers, next to Sir Basil. He felt that he could never redeem himself, and that he would almost certainly not receive any support from Roderick Hayter when it came to choosing the next tenant. So much for displaying his serious endeavour and hard-working abilities to the rest of chambers.
Mr Slee was standing behind the counter, opening the mail, when Anthony and Roderick returned to chambers. He looked up and glanced at Anthony’s face, following him with his eyes as he made his way upstairs. The junior clerk, Henry, caught his glance.
‘He never seems too happy these days,’ Henry remarked.
‘Who?’ murmured Mr Slee, slicing into an envelope.
Henry jerked a thumb. ‘Mr Gibbon’s pupil.’
Mr Slee smiled, drawing out a letter, perusing its contents, and placing it in Sir Basil’s tray. ‘House of Lords can get you that way,’ he said. ‘Depressin’ bunch of old buggers, by and large.’
‘I reckon he’s got the wind up because of Sir Basil’s nephew,’ said Henry.
‘You never can tell,’ murmured Mr Slee, ‘you never can tell. And that’s the truth.’ He whistled briefly and softly as he slit open a large envelope. ‘He’s a perseverin’ sort of chap, Mr Cross. Not something you could exactly say about Mr Choke.’
‘Ah, but he’s not the head of chambers’ nephew, is he?’ said Henry wisely, tossing into the bin the envelopes that Mr Slee was discarding.
‘There again, Henry, family can be more of a hindrance than a help.’ Some recollection of Anthony’s father may have occurred to him then, for a censorious expression crossed his face as he gravely laid a set of papers in Cameron Renshaw’s tray. ‘But like I said, you never can tell.’
Later that week, Roderick was having a sherry with Michael Gibbon at the end of the day. Anthony had already left.
‘I rather like your pupil, you know. He worked very hard on the
Lindos
. Seems extremely keen.’ Roderick took a sip of his sherry. ‘Miserable little sod, though. You’d have thought from his face that it was he who was losing the case, not I.’
The year progressed, the clocks went forward, and spring’s soft green mantle fell over the legal world. The antiquated gas lamps around the Temple were no longer lit at four o’clock, barristers no longer scurried through the cloisters with their jacket collars up and scarves wound round their necks, and beneath the budding trees in Fountain Court the sparkling waters played. Bicycles reappeared in the bicycle rack in Brick Court, little breezes crept in through half-opened windows and ruffled the corners of weighty documents. Mr Slee began to work with his jacket off, and judgment was given in the
Lindos
.
They had lost, of course, and although Anthony had put the matter of the red folder behind him, he still felt that he had failed, through his carelessness, to acquit himself well with Roderick. He had, accordingly, given up looking for work from other members of chambers for the time being, and instead worked steadily away on Michael’s cases. He had
spent rather a jading morning listening to one of Michael’s clients, a very tall, loquacious American businessman, talking of his case in terms of ‘yes and no issues’, referring to rival businessmen who ‘headed up’ companies, or were ‘the moving minds’ in various operations. It took the client, with his jargon, an hour longer to explain his position than it otherwise would have, and Anthony, meeting Edward on the staircase at lunchtime, felt relieved to rejoin the English-speaking world.
‘You doing anything the weekend after next?’ asked Edward as they crossed the lane to go into the hall.
‘Easter weekend? No, I don’t think so. Why?’
‘Oh, my mother suggested I should have some people down. I thought you and Julia and Piers might want to come along. I might see if David Liphook is interested, too.’ They lined up at the long tables in the hall, each taking a plate.
‘Yes, I’d like to. Thank you. I’ll mention it to Julia.’ Anthony was surprised; he hadn’t imagined that Mrs Choke would be particularly anxious to extend hospitality to her son’s rival in chambers. More probably, thought Anthony gloomily, the family regarded the question of the tenancy as settled and thought that Anthony was of no real significance, apart from being a colleague of Edward’s.
‘I’ve already asked her,’ said Edward, watching the maid spoon some nameless casserole onto his plate. ‘No peas, thanks. She’s definitely coming – she and Piers have been down a few times.’
Uncertain as to whether he felt included or excluded by this piece of information, Anthony pondered the fact
that Julia had already agreed to go. He had been careful not to mention Piers recently, but he knew that Piers still telephoned her and met her in the bar occasionally in the evenings. He made her laugh – and Julia loved to laugh. No doubt she relished rather more than Anthony the prospect of spending three whole days in his company.
On the Thursday evening before Good Friday, they had all planned to meet in the bar in Middle Temple and then take a taxi to Waterloo. David and Piers were in particularly hilarious spirits, which only served to deepen Anthony’s sense of depression over the argument that he and Julia had had the previous evening. She had wanted to go with some friends for supper in Covent Garden, but Anthony had refused, saying that he couldn’t afford it. He was determined to manage that term’s finances carefully; he still didn’t know how he was going to pay Len back. He had thought that he might be able to pay it in a lump out of his scholarship money, but that now looked impossible. In exasperation, Julia had offered to pay for him; he had refused.
‘Oh, come on, Anthony!’ she had exclaimed. ‘I don’t
mind
paying for you.’
‘Well, I mind being paid for,’ Anthony had replied. Some instinct told him that if she began to pay for things, it would somehow undermine him, that she would begin to feel sorry for him, or regard him as a bit of a nuisance.
‘I honestly don’t know why you make all this fuss.’
‘It’s not me that’s making the fuss,’ said Anthony.
‘Well, I want to go. I haven’t seen Louise since she came back from Italy.’
‘I thought you were meant to be spending the evening with me?’
‘And do what? Sit around the flat with a cup of coffee, or mope over a half-pint in the pub? No thanks. If you won’t let me pay for one meal for you, you can sulk at home. I’m going.’
And she had gone. The atmosphere between them had not improved by the time they met in the bar. Anthony had determined that he would not appear to be short of money this weekend, and had set aside forty pounds, which was as much as he could spare. The train fare to Edward’s would set him back almost half that amount.
As he bought a round of drinks he realised, with distaste, that he was making mental calculations of ways to eke out his money. Edward was insisting that everyone should drink doubles, which didn’t help. He tried to raise his spirits by concentrating on Piers, who was being even more ridiculously funny than usual, but he was aware that Julia had said very little to him and was pointedly focusing all her attention on Edward.
In the taxi on the way to Waterloo, however, she sat next to him and responded with her soft, private smile when he surreptitiously ran his finger down her spine. After Piers had been extremely rude to the taxi driver and refused to tip him, so that he roared off into the night trailing a filthy stream of invective, they trooped to the ticket office. It seemed to Anthony that Piers’ voice rang unnecessarily loudly in the cavernous air of the station. Several people turned to watch his tall, noisy figure making its confident way through the crowds of weekend commuters.
‘Right,’ said Edward, as they joined the queue, ‘let’s pool our funds and I’ll get all the tickets. Five times thirty-six is … is … a hundred and sixty. Oh, is it? Well, all right, eighty. A hundred and eighty. Let’s see – has anyone got change of a tenner?’
‘Oh, don’t start all that!’ said Julia. ‘Let’s each pay for our own.’
‘How do you make it thirty-six?’ asked Anthony in surprise. ‘I thought the fare was only nineteen pounds?’
‘We’re not going
second
class, laddie!’ exclaimed Piers. ‘Good heavens, they’ll be drinking Tennent’s Pilsner and being sweaty.’
Anthony had not banked on this. For a moment, he thought of saying that he hadn’t enough money and was going to travel second class, but the thought of Julia and their argument the previous evening prevented him. He had a sudden vision of himself sitting in morose exclusion in second class while she and Piers hoorayed in their first-class privilege; it was unbearable. So he paid for the first-class ticket with his Barclaycard, thrusting aside the question of how it was eventually to be paid for. The very business of performing this, to him, reckless act served, however, to lighten his spirits, and he felt part of a very sociable, cheerful group as they boarded the train. Edward insisted on buying the drinks from the buffet, so that was all right, and Anthony felt himself to be really rather amusing as he described the near-death state of Lord Cole when he had attended the House of Lords to hear their judgment delivered. Piers laughed loudly and gratifyingly, and the sound of his approval, even though
Anthony suspected he rather disliked the man, was sweet to Anthony’s ears.
The journey continued in a very jolly fashion until, just after eight, the guard announced that dinner was being served in the restaurant car.
‘Excellent!’ said Piers. ‘I didn’t know we could eat properly on this train. Much better than the rubbish they serve in the buffet.’
A faint hope stirred in Anthony’s heart as Edward said, ‘Don’t bother. We’ll be there in an hour’s time and we can get some supper at home.’
But Piers was determined to extract every ounce of amusement from his weekend, and to impose his personality upon as many people as possible. The restaurant car would provide him with a new audience.
‘No, I’m travelling first class, and I’m bloody well going to have my dinner. Who’s coming?’
Julia, laughing, said she would go. David said he was too hungry to wait until they got to Edward’s, and Edward said oh, all right, since they were all going.
‘What about you, Tony?’ asked Edward, dropping a plastic cup upside down over an empty beer can. For a second, Anthony was about to refuse. Indeed, if he had been able to speak before either David or Edward, he would have done, and would have stuck to it. But now, being the last to speak, he felt that a refusal might seem too obvious an acknowledgement of his lack of money. So he said, casually, ‘Why not?’, knowing why not.
In the restaurant car, he picked up the menu. Even if he didn’t have a starter, the cheapest main course, fish, was
ten pounds. Even Edward was taken aback by the prices.
‘Bloody hell! That’s a bit steep for a lamb chop!’ he exclaimed. He was a little drunk, and a couple of heads turned.
‘Where’s the wine list? We want a wine list. Waiter!’ called Piers. ‘Waiter!’ Everyone said ‘Ssh!’ and when the waiter appeared Piers asked for the wine list in an ostentatious whisper. Edward ordered large gin and tonics for everyone.
‘Not for me, thanks,’ said Anthony quickly.
‘Oh, balls,’ said Edward. And balls it was. Anthony had a large gin and tonic.
‘Right. Let’s have two bottles of the Chablis,’ said Piers, after consulting the very bad wine list in its leatherette binding. Anthony was about to say that he didn’t want any wine, either, but he reckoned that it probably wouldn’t make much difference.
Nothing made any difference, as it turned out. Anthony didn’t have a starter, and ordered only the fish and, declining a pudding, some coffee. But when the bill came, Piers read out the total in a loud voice, divided it exactly by five, and announced, ‘Twenty-one pounds thirteen each – call it twenty-two, with service.’
Anthony felt hollow; he was never going to be able to afford this weekend. He should never have agreed to come. And then that bastard Piers would have had a field day.
An unfortunate thing then happened. It was discovered that Anthony didn’t have enough cash and didn’t have a chequebook.
‘Tell you what,’ said Piers, ‘you pay the whole bill with your Barclaycard, and we’ll give you the cash.’ There was
no way that Anthony could refuse. As he signed the credit card slip for the seemingly astronomical figure of one hundred and ten pounds, he eyed the pile of coins and notes that the others had thrust across the tablecloth to him, and wished that it didn’t exist. Perhaps he could just put it in the inside pocket of his jacket and pretend for the rest of the weekend that it wasn’t there. He knew he was being unduly optimistic.
Fortunately, everyone managed to persuade the very tipsy Edward, when they got out of the train at Foxhampton, that they didn’t need to call at the village pub for a quick one on the way home. Instead, they walked the mile or so along quiet, leafy lanes to Kepple House, where Edward’s parents lived, Piers’ loud voice and boisterous laughter filling the night. He never, in any circumstances, thought Anthony, moderated his voice. It seemed to be part and parcel of his manner, his class.
Instead of giving the noisy Piers the cautious reception that Anthony had anticipated, Edward’s parents seemed more than delighted to see him. He was utterly at home, and greeted Frederick and Cora Choke with easy familiarity. He called to the dogs, two bounding, slobbering black labradors, and bent down to slap and scratch them, muttering ‘Hello, girl! There’s a girl!’ in loving tones. Anthony felt uneasy, standing next to David in the hallway while Edward’s parents greeted Julia and asked after her family. Anthony wished he could imitate David, who confidently stepped forward and shook Frederick Choke’s hand, saying in his bright, enthusiastic voice, ‘How do you do, sir? I’m David Liphook, in chambers with Edward.’ Frederick and Cora
Choke made much of their son’s future fellow tenant. Then Edward introduced Anthony. They had less to say to him, but were polite and kind. Anthony felt awkward, and could think of little to say.
They had beer and cheese and biscuits in a kitchen that seemed to Anthony to be three times the size of his mother’s living room, Piers loudly encouraging the dogs, who stood trembling frantically by his thigh while he dropped chunks of cheese into their dripping jaws. One of the dogs mistakenly trotted round the table to Anthony’s side, nudging at his knee with its moist nose, and he gave it a surreptitious kick, which he hoped went unobserved by his host and hostess.
Mrs Choke showed them their rooms. She led them upstairs to a long gallery which overlooked the hall on one side, and whose windows on the other side looked down on dark laurel bushes gleaming in the moonlight. Anthony’s room was at the end of the corridor. He made a mental note of where Julia’s was, two doors back. The house seemed to him to be very large.
‘Piers, dear, you’re in your usual room,’ Mrs Choke said fondly to Piers. He would be, thought Anthony.
As he was busy thanking her and looking round the room, he heard Mrs Choke say in her bright voice, ‘Don’t be startled by any bumping and heavy breathing in the night – it’ll just be one of the dogs. They love to sleep in this room, you know.’
‘Great,’ said Anthony. ‘Thanks.’
The following morning, Anthony woke early. He stood at the window surveying the landscape. A cold mist hung
over the lawn and gardens, and upon the fields and woods that stretched in the far distance. Gradually the creeping warmth of the sun broke through, pearling the air. The peculiar stillness of early day hung over everything. Anthony thought that he had never seen anything more tranquilly lovely than the graceful descent of the three oval lawns, separated from each other by flower beds and shrubberies, their grass filmed with dew, to the glittering water of the river. The slow call of moorhens drifted from the riverbank, and through the mist up on the water he saw a swan slip from its reedy bed and glide soundlessly upriver. He opened the window and let the chilly air play around his face and naked chest.
He wondered, as he took deep breaths of the cold air, what it would be like to own such a place. When he had his tenancy, he thought, then his ambitions would have full rein. Perhaps one day he would have enough money to own such a house, to wake every morning to soul-healing loveliness. He closed the window, dressed, and went down to breakfast.