‘And therefore I do submit strongly, my Lord,’ Farrant
was saying, well into his stride now, ‘that the fact that your Lordship may be persuaded to grant a certificate does not necessarily mean that your Lordship should grant leave. And that must be the case, because subsection 7A contemplates that division; and that is why I would urge on your Lordship …’
Even Michael was yawning discreetly, and the judge thumbed absently through the documents before him. A fly had found its way into the court and buzzed dazedly about; the clerk flapped at it in a muted manner, frowning, whenever it came near her.
It wasn’t as though he could come to some sort of arrangement with her, seeing her only every other weekend, and not at all during the week. It simply wouldn’t work. He’d asked her, in an offhand way, if she had seen Piers at all during the time that they had been apart, and she had replied, equally offhandedly, ‘Now and again.’ It gave Anthony no clue as to what, if anything, might have happened. It wasn’t his business, he supposed; she had been free to do what she liked. But he found the thought of Piers particularly detestable. The fact was that while he, Anthony, was around, Julia did not see Piers. Not so far as he knew, at any rate. A change in voices brought Anthony back to the present.
‘Mmm. I have always wondered whether that was the right approach. Yes,’ Mr Justice Cox was murmuring. Encouraged, Mr Farrant pressed on.
‘Indeed, my Lord, one speculates about the costs to date in this case and in the future. But I would respectfully submit that finality does demand that a time has come …’
She couldn’t, could she? She couldn’t be seeing Piers as well … It was possible. With Julia, anything was possible, he was beginning to realise. He closed his eyes. But she wouldn’t
sleep
with two people at once, would she? If he thought that she and Piers – that would be the end of it. Still, that didn’t seem possible. Very unlike Julia. Reflecting on the physical aspect of things, it was beginning to occur to Anthony that, out of bed, they perhaps had less in common than he had at first supposed. The conversation of her friends – friends whom he had once cultivated for the sake of being with her – had begun to bore him. It was gossip, mainly, not a thing he cared for, especially when it concerned people whose lives and doings did not interest him.
He glanced across at Farrant’s pupil, Colin Potterton. Boiler Potterton. What a twit. He was one of Julia’s charmed circle. Looking across at him as he murmured self-importantly over his shoulder to the instructing solicitor, nodding very fast in that pursed-lip, frowning way that he had picked up from Farrant, Anthony realised that he was one of a type that he had done his best to avoid at university. So why did he now spend so much time with Potterton and his like, and so little with Geoffrey and Simon, his friends from university? Because of Julia. And because of his own spinelessness.
‘In individual terms,’ Mr Farrant said, in tones of great dismissiveness, ‘fifty thousand dollars may be a large sum, but in my respectful submission—’
‘That has not prevented many cases from going so far as the House of Lords, has it?’ interrupted the judge, dashing Mr Farrant slightly.
‘Well, my Lord, I see that. But I always think that the cases that go that far are very often the cases where there is a very small amount involved indeed. One wonders whether that is the right approach, especially after the 1979 Act.’
Anthony scratched his head beneath his wig. The air in the courtroom was stale and warm. One of the overhead fluorescent lights had begun to fail, and was now flickering imperceptibly. The judge and the court clerk both glanced up at it.
From thinking about Julia, he fell to thinking about Leo, and the hours they had spent together in conversation, amusing and delightful hours. They had talked, talked properly. With Julia, her glance would eternally wander to other tables, other people. She had an irritating habit, he had recently realised, of interrupting one in mid sentence with some observation utterly unrelated to what one had said. She had a butterfly quality that was initially endearing and ultimately infuriating. Maybe all women were like that, he pondered; maybe only with other men did one achieve any strength of understanding, some proper exchange of ideas. He tried to concentrate on the case again as Farrant drew his arguments to their conclusion.
‘… and that being the case, I would submit that there is no basis whatsoever for granting any certificate at all in relation to those last two points, nor, even less, in granting leave to appeal. Unless I can assist your Lordship further, those are my submissions.’ Mr Farrant sat down with plump satisfaction. Anthony looked at him speculatively, wondering what it was about the Bar that made a man of thirty-eight adopt the manner of a man of fifty. Boiler
Potterton was just as bad, he thought, watching him mutter importantly to Farrant as he arranged his papers with a sharp edgewise tap. Michael cleared his throat and rose slowly. His voice was gentle and reedy by contrast with Farrant’s round, polished tones.
‘My Lord, might I then deal, first of all, with the “unsafe port” point. Nothing that my friend has said can, in my submission—’
Mr Justice Cox interrupted brusquely with an impatient shake of his head. ‘No, you need not trouble me about that point, in either aspect.’
Michael had expected no more nor less than this.
‘My Lord, I am grateful for that indication,’ he replied serenely, glancing down at his notes and turning a page with spidery fingers. ‘May I then turn to make my submissions on the other two points and deal, first of all …’
Anthony hitched his gown a little and sat forward, trying to concentrate. Mr Justice Cox poured a glass of water from the flask before him, carefully replacing the little cloth weighted with beads that covered its mouth, took a drink, and glanced at the clock. Then he sat back, put the tips of his fingers together and sighed, listening patiently to Michael and looking exactly as a judge should look. From reflecting on Michael’s habitual nervousness, and on whether all Wykehamists were similarly afflicted, Anthony found himself wondering whether he was so drawn to Leo by the very fact that he was not an ex-public schoolboy, that he was not cluttered with the affectations and ponderous affability of the Old Marlburian, or the breezy raffishness of a Salopian, or the arrogant cut of an
old Etonian. He had noticed at Bar School how so many of these types seemed to be clearly marked, like birds clucking on a lawn. Leo was none of those. Leo’s charm and grace were utterly, wonderfully unique.
Mr Justice Cox leant forward, pulling his robe around him. ‘If you have leave to appeal on the second point,’ he was saying, ‘I do not think it is actually going to hold you up in terms of time.’
‘Well, my Lord, it might have that result,’ replied Michael in his well-modulated tones. He sounded almost propitiating. ‘The lists of the Court of Appeal are well known to be very congested—’
‘Yes.’ The judge nodded.
‘—and appeals do have difficulty in coming on.’
But Leo, Anthony had to acknowledge to himself, was evidently homosexual – wasn’t he? – and Anthony, so far as he knew, was not. Something in him – it was not any sense of revulsion – refused to accept this idea. He could not imagine Leo in love with another man. In love. The words struck him. What else could have been meant by his words, his touch? Suddenly the recollection of the events of that evening made his pulse beat faster. His cheeks burned. He looked up at Michael’s gaunt figure, trying to clear a space in his mind where he could focus on what was being said.
‘My Lord, there is perhaps one further matter. If your Lordship is minded to order a variation of the Award—’
‘Yes?’ said Mr Justice Cox, glancing up at Michael and then glancing down again.
‘—might I ask your Lordship to stay that order varying the Award, pending the progress of the appeal?’
Mr Farrant rose, flashing a quick smile at Michael. ‘I was waiting for my learned friend to tell your Lordship the reason for that. I can see no reason for it whatsoever, and if my friend can tell either your Lordship or myself, I will listen with interest.’
Boiler Potterton smirked with complicit satisfaction at Anthony. Michael, however, carried smoothly on, without looking at his learned friend, who kept darting him satisfied smiles and pulling his robe happily round his large bottom.
‘My Lord, the reason is simply this: that the Award, as varied, will give my friend an entitlement for costs which he may seek to enforce straight away, and we would submit that it is appropriate that that be held in abeyance pending the decision of the Court of Appeal.’
Mr Farrant now positively sprang up, and said with stiff good humour, ‘My Lord, I have never heard a better reason for your Lordship amending the Award.’
Anthony wondered if Leo would be back when they returned to chambers. He would know by glancing at the car park. He remembered, with pleasure, the piece of work that Leo had left him, and over which he had taken such pains. At least he had an excuse to go and see him. But what was the point of all this speculation, this hope?
‘No,’ Mr Justice Cox was saying, gathering his papers together and uncapping his fountain pen to write, ‘I make the usual order. I will give Mr Farrant his costs of the appeal.’
Mr Farrant bobbed up. ‘I am obliged, my Lord.’
Maybe they could put that evening behind them, as though it had not happened, and start again. Leo had himself told him to forget it. Perhaps it didn’t matter.
‘As to the terms of the certificate,’ continued the judge, finishing what he was writing and glancing up at Michael, ‘it will have to reach me in the course of post, I think, because you will need my initial to it, will you not?’
‘My Lord, yes,’ said Michael. ‘Will your Lordship be available tomorrow?’
But that poem, the sense of it. Whatever Leo envisaged between them, it was not mere friendship, or the occasional game of squash.
‘No, I will not,’ Mr Justice Cox was saying, again glancing at the clock. Boiler Potterton was stuffing papers into a folder in preparation to leave. ‘I think it will have to reach me in the post, I’m afraid.’
‘I will put it in hand straight away,’ replied Michael, and sat down. The judge looked round, assembling his papers, glanced up at Michael and Mr Farrant and smiled politely.
‘Yes. Well, thank you both very much.’ And he rose and left through a side door. Michael and Anthony began to collect their belongings, Anthony hoping that the blue Porsche would be in its place in the car park.
Anthony changed into his evening dress in Michael’s room the following evening. He could only judge his appearance by the small mirror above the wash-hand basin in the lavatory, but he knew from the fitting at the shop that his suit hung tolerably well on him, and he rather liked the dashing effect of his bow tie and dress shirt. He combed his hair carefully and gazed at himself blankly for a few seconds, wondering if he should have brought a razor. Humming, he wandered back into Michael’s room. It was a quarter to seven, and he had arranged to meet Edward and David and Julia for sherry in the minstrels’ gallery in Middle Temple Hall at seven.
Idly, he wandered to the window and looked out. Most people had already made their way home or were getting ready for the Ball, and the courtyard was empty. He pulled up the sash window and leant out into the warm evening air. There was no breeze, and the new leaves on the tree below
hung motionless. He could hear from far away the hum of traffic on the Embankment. Then he heard footsteps, and a figure came into the courtyard. Anthony recognised it with a sudden thrill of surprise that seemed to electrify his body. Since his car had not been in the car park that afternoon, Anthony had assumed that Leo had not yet returned.
He drew his head quickly in from the window, bumping it on the sash; Leo did not look up as he made his way towards chambers. He was not dressed with his usual dark formality, but was wearing green corduroy trousers and a light shirt, the sleeves rolled up. Anthony had never seen him dressed informally before, and the sight made a curiously tender impression upon him. Leo’s figure disappeared from sight as he entered the chambers. Anthony heard his key in the lock, then his footsteps on the wooden stairs. He was whistling. Anthony stood motionless, gazing at the sundial on the wall of the building opposite, waiting and willing the footsteps to stop outside Michael’s door. But they passed on up the stairs. After a moment he heard voices, those of Leo and Stephen, faint and far away. Then the footsteps came downstairs again, passing Michael’s door without pause, down, out and away. Anthony’s heart was thumping with disappointment and longing. He sat down at Michael’s desk and buried his face in his hands, willing his heart to stop.
‘Anthony, you’re late! Where have you been?’ exclaimed Julia, as he hurried up the little wooden staircase to the minstrels’ gallery. Her voice sounded bright and rapid with excitement.
‘Sorry,’ said Anthony, ‘I had some last-minute work to
finish off. Thanks.’ He took the small glass of sherry that David passed to him, sipped and said appreciatively to Julia, ‘You look quite stunning!’
Julia’s smile sparkled with pleasure; in truth, Anthony felt that he was looking at her from far away. He saw her expensive gown, from which her soft shoulders and slender arms emerged with a peach-like freshness, saw her soft blonde hair framing her happy face, her expensive little trinkets of jewellery, and felt as though he were trying to bring her into focus from some other plane. The thought of Leo was blazing in his mind like some light that would not be turned off. He greeted Edward’s cousin, Anthea, who stood looking serene and willowy next to a proud and animated David, and Hermione, who was Edward’s latest girlfriend and who looked to Anthony very much like the last one.
‘God, this is disgusting,’ he remarked of the sherry to Edward, in an attempt to bring himself back to reality.
‘Yes, well, you’ve got the sweet stuff. They ran out of fino before you got here.’
The crush was enormous, as people foregathered for the Ball, the air stifling and heady with different perfumes, voices growing louder and louder. Gradually, with conversation, the thought, or feeling, of Leo faded.
‘It’s bloody hot in here,’ said Edward, as Julia was bumped towards him by someone shouldering past. He steadied her. ‘Why don’t we make our way over to the gardens? I don’t want to drink any more of this stuff, anyway.’
The others murmured in agreement, and began to make
their way slowly towards the top of the staircase. They were met by the tall, easy figure of Piers as he mounted the steps. He paused when he saw them.
‘Hullo, boys and girls,’ he said languidly, as they all, except Anthony, greeted him enthusiastically. He and Piers had not met since the weekend at Edward’s, although they had glimpsed one another occasionally at their business around the courts. Now Piers glanced at him, reached out a large arm, and slapped him slowly and heavily on the back. ‘Haven’t seen you about for a bit. Jolly good, Tony.’ He sounded bored.
‘We’re getting out of here,’ Julia said to Piers. ‘It’s far too hot.’ She pulled at his sleeve. ‘Watch out, you’re in everyone’s way.’ People on the narrow staircase were peering around Piers’ large thighs, trying to get past.
‘Oops, sorry,’ said Piers casually, moving a couple of inches so that a stocky, red-faced young man still had to squeeze past, glaring at Piers. Piers’ eyes followed his annoyed figure with lazy amusement. ‘Little shit,’ he murmured, then said, ‘Well, love to join you, but I’ve got to meet my – ah – companion for the evening.’ And he prepared to move on.
‘Who’s that?’ asked Julia.
‘No one you know, precious,’ said Piers, stroking her lightly under the chin with a dismissive forefinger.
Julia jerked her chin up in annoyance and pulled away crossly, following Edward and David down the stairs. Anthony glanced after Piers, his tall figure making its assured way through the crowd. He bet Piers didn’t have to hire his dinner jacket. Bastard.
In the gardens, women in long dresses and men in evening suits were milling about on the lawn, sipping at glasses of champagne. Assured, cultivated voices carried clearly in the soft evening air. Anthony and his friends made their way to the marquee; the little pennants that ornamented its top drifted in the faint breeze that was picking up. Maids stood at the entrance with large silver salvers of champagne in glasses. Edward popped inside the tent for a moment to look at the seating plan, then re-emerged.
‘Good stuff,’ he said. ‘Piers is on our table.’
‘Oh,’ said Anthony, ‘wonderful.’ Julia glanced at him.
‘Anthony!’ she murmured warningly. He moved away with her from the others.
‘Well, I can’t stand the sight of the man. He’s a shit.’
‘You’re still jealous!’
Anthony laughed. ‘Tell me what I’ve got to be jealous of, then. You still haven’t exactly enlightened me as to how you spent your time when you weren’t seeing me.’ Some malevolent demon seemed to have possessed him; he felt quarrelsome and impatient.
‘I don’t believe you!’ exclaimed Julia. ‘You – you suddenly announce that we’re not going out together any more, and then you expect me to account for my behaviour while I’m not seeing you! That’s a bit thick!’ She glared at him. ‘Look, I want to enjoy this evening. I don’t want to hear you carping on about Piers any more. Right? Now, if you can’t behave cheerfully, don’t talk to me!’ She stalked off to fetch herself another glass of champagne. Anthony stared at the grass for a moment. It wasn’t that he was
jealous of Piers at all, he thought. He frankly didn’t care.
They wandered about the lawn, making conversation with various people. Anthony found himself buttonholed by Earnest Slattery, who remembered him from the case in the House of Lords; his kind, enthusiastic conversation did something to restore Anthony’s spirits.
‘I don’t think you’ve met my wife, have you?’ He turned his thin, stooping figure to address her. ‘Margaret, this is Anthony Cross.’ He pronounced it ‘Crawss’. ‘He’s a very bright young man indeed, or so I’m given to understand.’ Anthony smiled and shook hands with Mrs Slattery. He wondered what she was knitting now. ‘Very interesting case, the
Lindos
, don’t you think?’ remarked Slattery conversationally.
Anthony murmured in agreement, hoping that he wasn’t going to be required to dredge up too much by way of specific recollection.
‘Now, I don’t think we really deserved to win that one,’ said Earnest Slattery thoughtfully. ‘You were there for that one, dear, I think?’ he asked his wife. Mrs Slattery said she thought that she recollected it, but couldn’t be sure.
‘I go to quite a few,’ she confided to Anthony. ‘Quite keeps my mind alert, you know.’ She nodded, smiling. Earnest Slattery nodded, too.
‘I thought it was jolly bad luck that you lost. Of course, Buckhurst was against you right from the start. That was your problem …’
They chatted for some minutes, and then the Slatterys excused themselves and drifted off. Anthony thought he heard Mrs Slattery say, ‘… nice young man,’ as she walked
away. He looked around for Julia, and caught sight of her talking to one of the Commercial Court judges, Mr Justice Coker, from whom he had recently earned a rebuke during an interlocutory application for bringing the wrong document. He didn’t feel like talking to him. He turned around quickly, and his heart jumped. Leo was walking across the grass towards him. He looked particularly well in evening dress, elegant and at ease. Anthony noticed that he was smoking a small cigar. He smiled at Anthony, his face a mask of social amiability.
‘Hello, Anthony,’ he said. ‘How’s life?’
‘Fine,’ replied Anthony, trying to collect himself. His eyes traced every one of Leo’s features, the blue, amused eyes, the prominent lines of his cheekbones, the square jaw and smiling mouth. Leo took a small puff of his cigar and blew a little smoke into the air above Anthony’s head. Anthony found the gesture a little ridiculous, touching. Over Leo’s shoulder, he noticed the pink edge of evening beginning to creep across the sky. He felt himself grow calmer, and smiled at Leo, happy to be with him again.
‘How was your trip?’ he asked.
‘Very good,’ replied Leo, taking another little puff of his cigar and glancing at it. ‘I’d never been to Japan before. It’s a fascinating place.’ He talked to Anthony about Japan for a minute or two, apparently with his mind on the subject, but his eyes intently absorbed the features of the face that he had tried so often to summon to mind while away. Memory could not possibly hope to reproduce such vivid charm, he now realised. He stopped talking, the better to enjoy the delight of Anthony’s presence.
‘I finished that piece of work you left me,’ remarked Anthony, to fill the little pause between them.
‘Good, good,’ said Leo vaguely. He couldn’t even remember what it was. Against his better judgment, Anthony added, ‘I found the piece of paper you left me.’
Leo looked at him. ‘Piece of paper?’
Anthony knew it was too late to retrace the step. ‘The poem,’ he said uncertainly, his voice low. Leo frowned at him; then his face grew suddenly cold.
‘I don’t know what on earth you’re talking about.’ Anthony felt himself flush, and looked away. There was a frigid pause. ‘Excuse me,’ said Leo. He chucked his cigar into the grass and strolled away. He knew very well what Anthony was talking about, but it had come as a shock. He remembered jotting the lines down as he sat at home, thinking of Anthony, putting the papers in order for him before his trip. He had forgotten about it entirely, and Anthony must have found it mixed up with the documents. He was filled with a cold fury at himself, at allowing this charade to begin again. And so must follow, he thought savagely, more indiscretions, more humiliations, more deceit, and all the indignities that his position must entail. If he allowed it. If he allowed it. I shall not, he told himself as he strode across the grass, allow it. I shall not.
Anthony stood for a moment, uncertain, filled with a sudden flaring of humiliation. Why had he mentioned it? What a ludicrous thing to have done! What had he expected Leo to say? Yes, it was for you, because I adore you? God, what a thing to have done. He stood for an unhappy few
seconds, staring at the glass in his hand. Maybe he had been mistaken, the poem a misplaced irrelevance.
He recovered himself at the sound of the voice of his head of chambers.
‘Anthony! Good evening,’ said Sir Basil. Anthony managed a feeble smile. This was all he needed.
‘Good evening, sir.’
Sir Basil was feeling silkily happy, still glowing with the warmth of the little private sherry party given by the Benchers earlier. He smiled benevolently at Anthony.
‘I don’t think we’ve really had much of an opportunity for conversation since you joined us, have we?’ Anthony wondered if this was always going to be his opening line.
‘No,’ he replied, keeping his smile fixed. ‘Not since Christmas, or thereabouts.’ He added the last two words to make it sound less challenging. He felt wretched and on edge.
‘Ah, yes,’ said Sir Basil, rosy with recollection. He had entirely forgotten Anthony’s father. ‘Oh, yes, thank you,’ he murmured to a passing maid, who replenished his glass and Anthony’s, then passed on. ‘Yes, Christmas. I think we had a little chat about your future plans, didn’t we? I think I mentioned something about Dover Court, if I recall.’ He frowned. ‘Mmm. Time is pressing on. You’ll have to start thinking seriously about where you’re going next. You have considerable talent, I understand,’ he said gravely, shaking his head, ‘and we mustn’t let you waste it.’
‘Oh, I shan’t waste it,’ said Anthony.
‘No, indeed you mustn’t. Michael tells me you have great ability. I hope you feel that your time with us has been valuably spent?’
‘Michael has given me every encouragement,’ replied Anthony. ‘He has persuaded me that I have every chance of – of becoming the next tenant.’ It occurred to Anthony that it might have been better not to have said that. But listening to that pompous old windbag, full of sherry and his own unquestionable ability to dictate everyone else’s lives for them, had become too much. Full of sherry he might be, but Sir Basil was too fast on his feet to be
wrong-footed
by anyone. He smiled sagely at Anthony.
‘Just so, young man,’ he replied, and raised his glass a little. ‘It is important, of course, that you should continue to think so. My every good wish for your endeavours.’ He took a sip, nodded at Anthony, and moved away.
It was with relief that Anthony heard dinner being announced and saw Julia shimmering towards him, her humour improved by the success of her appearance and the gratifying masculine attention she was commanding.