‘That won’t take you far on a nasty night,’ observed Barry, abstractedly trying to mash the remains of his food into as small a lump as possible. Jocasta was staring at his plate.
Anthony changed the subject by telling his father about his new pupillage. Chay looked laid-back and amused. His contempt for the world of commerce, and for lawyers, bankers and stockbrokers, was well known.
‘A web of corruption, greed and deceit. Still, if that’s what you want, I wish you well of it.’
Anthony would have liked to point out to his father that he, Chay, had never seriously contemplated any real form of work in his life, simply squandering other people’s money to stay alive, but he didn’t. He knew too well the pointlessness of such an exercise.
‘What about you, Barry?’ said Chay, turning to his younger son. ‘You going to become one of Thatcher’s children?’
‘No,’ said Barry, pouring more wine into everyone’s glass, ‘I’m hoping for a sixties revival, so that I can fart about in a pair of flared jeans with some joss sticks, doing nothing.’ Anthony laughed. Chay got up to fetch his tobacco tin.
‘What about you, Dad?’ asked Barry. ‘What’s the latest craze? What’s next in the line-up of loony doings?’
‘Well, since you ask,’ replied Chay tolerantly, lighting an after-dinner joint, ‘I’m undertaking fire-walking. At the moment, I’m involved in mental and physical preparation for the experience.’
‘How d’you prepare yourself – drop lighted matches down your socks?’
Chay ignored him, taking a deep drag on the joint and passing it to Jocasta, who took it reverently. ‘It’s a process of cleansing the mind and body,’ he continued, ‘hence the veganism.’ Hence the drugs, thought Anthony. ‘Over a period of weeks one elevates the spirit to a condition where pain can be transcended. Then one is ready.’ Jocasta’s eyes glowed as she listened to him, a sweet, holy smile on her lips. ‘All physical sensation can be sublimated if the spirit is in harmony with the elements that surround us. Earth, fire, water.’
‘Are you going to try it?’ Anthony asked Jocasta, shaking his head as she offered him the joint. She looked worried and rather shocked at the question.
‘No. I don’t think so, anyhow.’ She looked over at Chay.
‘Why not? Don’t you believe you can transcend pain?’ asked Barry. ‘No thanks,’ he added, refusing the joint.
‘Jocasta’s very young,’ said Chay, with a condescending smile. ‘She hasn’t undergone the years of intellectual discipline and physical tempering required to undertake such a test of the spirit, and of one’s faith.’ He took the joint from Jocasta and inhaled; the tobacco glowed redly. The gesture suddenly swept Anthony with irritation. They
bored him; their drugs bored him; his father’s posing bored him. None of this was real – their food, their attitudes, their absurd posturing.
‘I’ve got to be going,’ he said, and got up. Barry joined him. They thanked Jocasta for the meal and Chay promised Barry he would let him know when the fire-walking was to take place.
Out in the street, Barry counted his change. ‘Good. Enough for a quick pint and a McDonald’s. She was a bit of all right, wasn’t she?’ They walked on for a bit. ‘Can you imagine him in bed with her?’
‘Don’t,’ pleaded Anthony. He thought of Chay’s shaven skull, and wished Barry hadn’t said that.
On Monday the 14th of September, a day shimmering with the promise of an Indian summer, Anthony set off in his Marks & Spencer suit to join the world of commerce and litigation. He left plenty of time for his journey and arrived early, then spent half an hour or so idling around the Temple, watching the barristers arriving at their chambers, envying them their sure place in the world.
When he eventually mounted the few steps to the entrance to 5 Caper Court, scanning with brief reverence the illustrious names listed on the hand-painted board, sharp with envy at the name of the youngest tenant at the bottom, his mouth was dry and his heart was in his throat. He had no idea why he was so nervous. He entered through a door marked
CLERKS’ ROOM – ENQUIRIES
and found himself standing at a low wooden counter, behind which buzzed an array of computers and telex machines. A burly man in shirtsleeves approached him.
‘Can I help you, sir?’
‘My name’s Anthony Cross. I’m Mr Gibbon’s new pupil.’
‘Oh, Mr Cross. Yes, sir. We
are
expecting you today. It’s rather unfortunate, though, because it seems that Mr Gibbon’s gone up to an arbitration in the City. Won’t be back till this evening, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh.’ Anthony’s heart sank. He was uncertain what to do next. Should he go home? Walk around the Temple? Sit in the library until evening? The clerk waited the requisite thirty seconds or so while Anthony’s discomfiture registered, and then smiled the bland, supercilious smile of the gifted barrister’s clerk.
‘Not to worry, sir. I’m sure Mr Gibbon would want you to go up and make yourself at home. We’ve a desk set up in there for you. Maybe you could help yourself to a few briefs while you’re waiting.’ The clerk lifted his chin slightly and smiled, as though giving a signal. Anthony recognised the little pleasantry and laughed.
‘That’s very kind of you.’
‘Not at all, sir,’ replied the clerk, lifting up a wooden flap in the counter and walking past Anthony to show him up to his new quarters. Anthony wished the man would stop calling him ‘sir’. Its slightly mocking deference made him feel clumsy and ill at ease.
‘By the way, my name’s Mr Slee, sir. I’m the head clerk.’ Following him up the narrow wooden staircase, Anthony fumbled around for a suitable response, and finally murmured something inaudible in the direction of Mr Slee’s broad posterior. Mr Slee unlocked the door of Michael’s room.
‘Everything you want is there, sir. Make yourself comfortable. That’s your desk’ – he pointed to a small, worn desk with a faded green leather top and a pretty patina – ‘and if you don’t mind closing the door
firmly
behind you, sir, when you go out for lunch, and I’ll unlock it for you when you come back in. I expect you’ll be getting your own key in a couple of days or so, only Mr Gibbon hasn’t said anything yet.’
Anthony murmured his thanks, and the door then closed, leaving him alone to survey his new surroundings.
The first thing he did was to open the window; although it was only nine-forty, the September sun made the air in the room warm and close. He began by examining Michael’s desk, his bottle of ink, his blotter; he looked long and silently at the few pictures on the walls, which were mainly of ships of the last century; and then he considered with growing boredom the familiar array of law reports on the shelves of the bookcase that occupied one wall of the room. He grew mildly interested in the two cases of wine which stood just behind the door, and then flung himself into his chair in exasperation and ennui. It was ten-fifteen. He picked up the latest of the unbound law reports and read listlessly for a while, until the chatter of the autumn birds and the occasional sound of voices in the courtyard below drew him to the window.
The forlorn light that belongs to a warm September day gilded the courtyard. He leant out and watched the figures come and go, some sauntering in the dappled light of the plane trees near the car park, farther off; some stepping out briskly from the cloisters, their arms laden
with documents, deep in conversation, voices rising and then dying on the soft air; some clattering noisily down the wooden stairs of chambers and running off through the archway into the Temple; then silence for a spell. There was an archaic sundial set into the brickwork of the building directly opposite, and for a while Anthony watched it, trying to catch the imperceptible movement of the shadow across the intricate metal dial. A bluebottle buzzed in briefly, enlivening the room with its sound, then buzzed out again, leaving an even more melancholy silence behind it.
Eventually Anthony drew in his head, having watched a shirtsleeved figure through a window over the way as it perused a brief, answered the telephone, moved around the room, and generally behaved with the ease and remoteness of the distant and envied. Everyone in the world seemed to be occupied and useful, while he felt forgotten and alone. Deciding to try out the amusement value of Mr Slee’s little joke, Anthony dared to pick up one of the briefs from a shelf and settled himself into his chair with a sense of purpose. After all, as he was Michael’s pupil he would have to work on some of these cases, so he might as well make a start.
The brief seemed very complicated. It involved the purchase of a fleet of helicopters and the financial collapse of a subsidiary company which had, it seemed, been financing the purchase. All kinds of indemnities and back-to-back credit arrangements came into it, none of which Anthony felt he could possibly understand. Still, he ploughed relentlessly on, and by setting out the identities
of the various protagonists on a piece of paper, with little arrows and legends to show their relationships to each other, he felt by the time lunchtime came that he had made some progress.
On into the afternoon he worked on the problem, endeavouring to unravel the tangled skein, and when he heard the sound of a key in the door he was surprised to see by his watch that it was nearly six o’clock.
Michael looked rather startled to see Anthony, who rose and smiled.
‘Anthony Cross.’ There was a pause. ‘Your new pupil. We met a few weeks ago.’
Michael struck his forehead with the palm of his hand.
‘Of course! I completely forgot. I’m so wretchedly stupid about my diary. Please forgive me. The clerks must have known you were coming today. If they’d mentioned it to me this morning, I could have left the address and you could have joined us at lunchtime. Still, I was in a hurry.’ Michael was heaping a bundle of files and documents onto his desk and reaching into the cupboard with one spider-like arm for the sherry bottle and some glasses. He dragged them out, and then came over to see what Anthony was doing.
‘What’s this? You haven’t been working on that helicopter thing, have you? I finished it last week. Still, it’s quite interesting, isn’t it?’ Michael sounded so sincere that Anthony could only politely agree. ‘Well, that kept you off the streets, at any rate. Let’s see what you made of it.’ He scanned the piece of paper while Anthony grew red and uncomfortable next to him. ‘Mmm. That’s about the gist
of it. But what’s the answer, eh?’ Anthony felt ashamed to admit that he didn’t know, but said as much.
‘Well, that makes two of us,’ said Michael, turning to the sherry bottle. ‘Three, if you count the instructing solicitor. You can tell from the brief that he hasn’t got a clue. If they ever
do
think they know anything, they stick it into the brief, no matter how glaringly obvious or redundant the information …’
Michael was staring dispiritedly at the sherry bottle when a light tap sounded on the door. A handsome, lean-faced man with grey hair came in. He glanced at Anthony, then smiled at Michael.
‘Leo!’ said Michael, looking up. ‘Thank God. You’ve saved our lives. I was just about to inflict some of this fino sherry on my young friend here. Anthony Cross, my new pupil. Anthony, this is Leo Davies, one of litigation’s legends.’
Leo shook Anthony’s hand. Anthony saw that, despite the silver-grey hair, the man was no more than a few years older than Michael. His smile, although cool, lit up his blue eyes.
‘Welcome to Caper Court,’ he said. ‘Come on, man,’ turning to Michael, ‘let’s take the lad up the road for a proper drink. I need it. I’ve had a filthy day.’ Anthony could detect a faint Welsh accent.
They set off together, Anthony in proud silence in the wake of Leo and Michael. They stood in the bar at El Vino’s with their glasses of wine, Anthony listening and watching, glancing round from time to time to take in the atmosphere. He glanced at the two men as they talked,
happy to be in their company. Leo Davies he found both charismatic and intimidating. He was an elegant man, his clothes expensively cut, in contrast to Michael’s somewhat unkempt appearance, and his manner was indolent and cool, as though to temper the natural aggression and impatience betrayed by his quick gestures and arresting voice. Anthony could see why Michael had been so glad to see Leo; he was a quick-witted and amusing man. He gave, however, the curious impression of keeping himself slightly in check, so that when his natural good humour began to shine through with too much warmth, his cold demeanour would return to close upon it like a steel trap, as though at some reminder. He glanced at Anthony from time to time with his appraising blue gaze, as though to invite him into the conversation, but Anthony felt that there was nothing he could contribute. He was a very new boy indeed.
By the time he found the fresh air of Fleet Street, three glasses of wine and an hour later, Anthony felt elated, uplifted. Although he had contributed scarcely more than ten words to the conversation, the company, to say nothing of the wine, had filled him with a sense of glorious purpose. As he stood at the bus stop, gazing unseeingly at the traffic, he imagined a future when he, too, would talk with the brilliance and ease of Leo Davies.
At exactly the same moment, in a taverna in Naxos, Edward Choke was attempting, for a bet, to drink three more glasses of ouzo. The clamour from the table where he was dining with three college friends rose and filled the soft Greek night air.
‘And I,’ Edward was saying, as he slopped a little water into his ouzo, watching it turn milky, ‘am going to be an absolutely brilliant barrister. Ab-so-lute-ly bloody brilliant.’ He leant forward solemnly, his blonde hair falling over his flushed, tanned face. ‘And then I’m going to be a High Court judge.’ He took a swig of his ouzo, then tipped his head back and finished it. One of his friends banged on the table with his fist and someone filled Edward’s glass again. ‘And
then
,’ he continued, ‘I’m going to be a Court of Appeal judge.’ He swallowed the second glass and contemplated his friends sternly. His glass was filled again. ‘And then – I’ll become a Law Lord.’ He drank the third glass off. ‘Lord Choke of Chiswick.’ He belched unexpectedly, and his companions laughed long and loud at this provocative wit.
The rest of Anthony’s first week was a sobering experience. It was spent sitting in the arbitration rooms of the Baltic Exchange in the company of Michael, two other lawyers, and the appeal tribunal of the Livestock and Animal Feeds Trade Association. This body consisted of nine elderly, irascible men, two of whom appeared, to Anthony, to be certifiable, none of whom was possessed of one iota of legal understanding, and all of whom were convened to decide upon issues of blinding legal complexity. All in all, Michael explained to Anthony, it was probably just as well that it happened this way; they would come to a decision based upon common sense, how bored they were getting, and what time they wanted to get away for the weekend.
The most enlivening interludes occurred when the tea lady came round. It seemed to Anthony that teatime in a geriatric ward must be like this. By the time the clinking cups had been passed around, and everyone had settled back down with the right amounts of milk and sugar and Rich Tea fingers, the entire tribunal would have forgotten what had been discussed in the previous fifteen minutes, and counsel would have to begin all over again. No one ever had the right number of pages in their bundle, documents constantly had to be re-photocopied (one of Anthony’s tasks), and squabbles would break out over charts and diagrams.
Anthony was dismayed. Was this to be his brilliant career: sitting in dusty arbitration rooms, mulling through endless documents relating to guano shipments of a decade ago? Over an early-evening drink, Michael assured him that a barrister’s time was not always spent thus, and indeed, once the arbitration was finished, life brightened considerably. Michael gave him one or two straightforward briefs to work on, and as he toiled away in Middle Temple library, flanked by the rows of silent, ever-present Far Eastern students, Anthony felt that he was getting somewhere.
On the Tuesday morning of that second week, as he clattered cheerfully down the chambers’ stairs, Anthony bumped into the stocky, suntanned figure of Edward Choke. They had been friendly at Bar School, and Anthony greeted him with some surprise.
‘Hello! What are you up to these days?’
‘Just got back from Greece. Brilliant holiday. Have you
been there? No? Really excellent – got to watch out for the ouzo, though. I’m starting my pupillage today.’
‘I’ve been at it for a week now,’ replied Anthony. ‘We’ll have to have a drink one evening. Where are you doing your pupillage?’
‘Here, of course. Sir Basil Bunting’s my uncle, which is a bit useful.’ Edward had a cheerful awareness of his own probable merits, and was quick to acknowledge the fortuitous connection which had brought him to 5 Caper Court.
Anthony was momentarily taken aback. He had already formed some idea in the past of Edward’s intellectual capabilities, and was frankly surprised to find him as his fellow-pupil. He managed to prevent himself from betraying his surprise, reflecting that anyone with such a useful connection would naturally put it to good use. The chances were that Edward didn’t seriously aspire to a permanent place at 5 Caper Court. They chatted for a few moments, arranged to meet for a drink, and then Anthony hurried off. A small seed of doubt had been planted in his mind, and the imagined brilliance of his future career had lost a little of its lustre.