That afternoon did little to dispel his doubts. It was the custom of chambers to convene in the common room at Inner Temple for tea in the afternoon. Anthony, still somewhat reticent, rarely made any contribution to the conversation, except in response to a question or remark from Michael or David Liphook who, as the youngest member of chambers, enjoyed exercising his benevolence to those his junior. Edward, however, seemed quite at his
ease. Sir Basil was, after all, his dear and familiar uncle, and he already knew Roderick Hayter, the senior tenant, and a couple of others socially. Darkly, Anthony watched Edward making easy, amiable conversation, wondering what his real ambitions in chambers were.
Edward understood dimly that it was felt that at some time in the far future he should become the brilliant successor in chambers to his uncle. On this he had no real views. He was perfectly happy to be disposed of as others saw fit, provided life was tolerably comfortable and money and good times plentiful, and provided that no undue exertions were required of him. So far, his experience that day as Jeremy Vane’s pupil had not been particularly taxing. He had been given a desk to sit at and some stuff to read. He didn’t understand much of it, but then, that was Jeremy’s business, not his.
To Anthony, however, Edward had suddenly appeared as a rival, someone capable of blighting his precious hopes. How could he possibly hope to compete with the favoured nephew of Sir Basil Bunting? Nursing these fears, he went unhappily that evening from chambers to his meeting with Bridget at a wine bar in the City.
His gathering gloom deepened when he caught sight of Bridget sitting on her own in a corner of the wine bar. It was never a light, social event, having a drink with Bridget; it always had the air of a serious assignation.
‘Hullo,’ he said, sitting down opposite her. She was wearing her invariable blue two-piece suit, with a high-necked Laura Ashley blouse, pearl earrings, and the
small string of pearls that her father had given her for her eighteenth birthday. This, plus a pair of low-heeled Bally shoes, seemed to Anthony to be the uniform of every female articled clerk in London. She had an earnest expression on her face, and a glass of Perrier in front of her. Anthony wished that, just sometimes, since she was actually earning something, she would buy him a drink. She never did. She thought it was one of those things that men did for girls, never the other way round. He grubbed around in his small change, found he had enough for a half-pint of bitter, and then remembered that this was a wine bar.
‘God,’ he groaned, ‘I wish we could meet somewhere where I could get a decent pint.’
‘I like this place,’ said Bridget, glancing around. ‘Anyway, you know I don’t like pubs. They’re too smokey and it’s bad for my asthma.’ Anthony stared at her.
‘Can you lend me a quid?’ he asked. ‘For a drink?’ Surely,
surely
, she would offer to buy him one. She fished in her handbag and handed him a pound. He knew there was no question that this was anything but a loan.
‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ she announced, as he got up to go to the bar. When he came back with his glass of wine and sat down, she looked at him expectantly, as though it were he who had some news.
‘Well?’ he said dutifully.
‘Claire’s moving out of the flat soon. She’s got a job in Cambridge with a community law project.’ Claire was Bridget’s flatmate, a large feminist who didn’t like Anthony and, so far as Anthony could see, didn’t much like Bridget
either. Anthony took a sip of wine and winced; he thought he could see where this was leading.
‘Are you going to advertise for someone to share?’ he enquired innocently. Bridget looked at him for a moment.
‘I thought that – that maybe this would be a good opportunity for us to …’ She hesitated. ‘Well, since it’s bound to happen sooner or later—’ Anthony saw that this was becoming difficult for her. She fortified herself with a sip of mineral water, and tried again. ‘You always said that we never had the chance to spend much time alone together.’ Anthony recollected saying something to this effect three years ago, when they were sharing a squalid three-bedroom flat with five other students; what he had actually meant was that he, Anthony, rarely got any peace. Bridget went on. ‘So I wondered if you thought it would be a good idea if
you
moved in.’ She looked trustingly, hopefully at him, which inclined him to be brutal.
‘No way,’ he replied quickly, taking a drink of his wine. ‘For a start, I can’t afford to, and for another thing, your mother would go berserk.’ Bridget leant forward intently, and Anthony realised his error in making it sound as though there were no other objections beyond these.
‘Look,’ said Bridget with a smile; her calm, managing smile. ‘I can afford to help you out until you start earning.’ You could buy me a drink for a start, thought Anthony. ‘And as for Mummy …’ Bridget looked down and smiled even more. Anthony began to feel uneasy. ‘If we were – engaged …’ She glanced up at Anthony and then looked quickly away again. He wondered what expression was
on his face. ‘Then I know she would be all right about it. Daddy would probably even help out with a mortgage on a house. I’ve told them all about your pupillage and everything, and that you’re bound to be successful very soon.’
So here we are, thought Anthony. He looked at Bridget for a moment. He looked at her face, pretty and blank, at her thin mouth and her anxious brown eyes, at her straight, mousy hair pulled back under its tight velvet band. He had looked at her face for so many years, he thought, that he didn’t see it any more. He had no desire to kiss her, or touch her – the whole thing wearied him. The prospect of living with her, of
marrying
her, was awful, deadly. She must know that, too, he thought. Surely she must. He couldn’t give out so many wrong signals, could he? How could two people sit and talk regularly with each other and fail constantly to make themselves understood? Well, that wasn’t quite it – Bridget had made herself understood perfectly. For a second, Anthony considered the possibility of articulating his thoughts. He had to say something. She looked at him questioningly.
‘Bridget, I don’t want to get married,’ he heard himself say. He knew that wasn’t the right reply.
‘Oh, we don’t have to get married right away,’ she said brightly. No, no, he thought – she must be more perceptive than this. Try again.
‘And you don’t want to marry me. Honestly.’ This was a poser for her. Any reply in the affirmative would sound a trifle desperate. He went on, seizing his chance. ‘It would
be awful. We’re just not right for each other. I mean, I love you as a friend … but I don’t think getting married is a very good idea. Really.’
There was a silence. Bridget looked at her Perrier water. ‘I thought the four years we’ve been together meant something to you,’ she said, faintly accusingly.
‘They do,’ Anthony reassured her. No they don’t, he thought.
‘No they don’t,’ said Bridget, beginning to look a little damp around the eyes. ‘I simply don’t see where it’s all meant to be going, Anthony.’ Any minute now, he thought, and there would be serious tears.
‘Look,’ he said brightly, ‘let’s go and get something to eat – no, on second thoughts, let’s not. Let’s just sit here and talk about something else. We don’t have to make any decisions right now.’ No, no, no. That was the wrong thing to say. Christ, what was the right thing?
‘But Claire’s moving out in two months,’ moaned Bridget.
‘Well,’ said Anthony, striving to find some words that would simply stop this conversation, knock the whole subject on the head. ‘Well – let’s think about it, shall we? There’s plenty of time. We’ll forget about it for the moment.’
‘You promise you’ll think about it?’ she asked in a small voice. Anthony promised, wretched with the knowledge that they were destined to have this awful conversation – no, in fact a much worse one – again in the near future. Mollified, Bridget dabbed her eyes and, to Anthony’s amazement, offered to buy them both a pizza.
The evening improved, and over supper Anthony confided in Bridget his fears about Edward Choke. Bridget, in her best womanly way, reassured her man, massaged his ego, and brought him round to the sincere belief that he probably didn’t have anything to worry about. The glow of her affection warmed him. At the end of the evening, Anthony kissed her quite kindly at the bus stop and went home thinking well of himself.
In many ways, given the manner in which he regarded his pupillage, Edward was very lucky to have Jeremy Vane as his pupilmaster. In Vane’s world there was room for very little else besides Vane’s ego and Vane’s affairs. These affairs were of towering importance, naturally enough. He was a man in his mid forties, a formidable if somewhat bullying advocate, dark, heavy-faced, loud-voiced, a man who managed to convey the impression that he was under constant pressure. With the arrogance of the hard-working and meticulously thorough barrister, he believed that no one could attend properly to his affairs except Jeremy Vane himself. He detested holidays, and if obliged by his family to take one, would ring chambers daily to make sure that his practice was not collapsing, as he was convinced it must without his guiding hand.
As a result, he regarded Edward as little more than a mild physical inconvenience, taking up valuable space in
his room. He had long forgotten his own apprenticeship, his only perception of himself being that which he presently held – of an extremely important and highly regarded barrister, shortly, no doubt, to be made a Queen’s Counsel, with a flourishing practice and little time for those of weaker talents or fewer abilities. He found Edward useful for carrying books to and from court, or for running messages, but he took little time to set him work and oversee it, or to explain the dizzying machinations of the commercial court as he moved majestically from one important case to another, with Edward in tow.
Edward, although vaguely aware that he wasn’t picking up quite as much as he perhaps ought to, was not unduly disturbed by any of this. David Liphook and William Cooper, who shared a room on the same floor as Jeremy, treated him kindly, for he was an eminently likeable, cheerful and amusing young person. When they thought he was insufficiently occupied, they would send him off to look up cases and make notes on them, and when Edward was doing this he felt that he was getting along fairly well. In fact, he was doing little more, and on many days a great deal less, than he had done at university.
Still, life pleased him. He was doing what a young man of his age was supposed to be doing. He shared a flat in a square just off the Brompton Road with three other young men. They gave rowdy dinner parties attended by other young ex-public schoolchildren, all largely indistinguishable in conversation one from the other, except that the girls squealed and the men roared; he played the occasional game of rugby, swam at the RAC Club (generally regarded as
more amusing than the Oxford and Cambridge) and went to long and boisterous parties at the weekends. He had several girlfriends, enough money, and went home to his family every third or fourth weekend, where he would shout authoritatively at the dogs and delight his parents with his young, masculine presence. He was supremely content.
One day in early December, Edward and his pupilmaster were sitting in their room at 5 Caper Court. All was still. Outside the air was foggy and the gas lamps were being lit around the Temple, although it was only four o’clock in the afternoon. Jeremy was employed in researching some procedural points of law, which any moderately competent pupil should have been able to do for him, had they been allowed, while Edward, ostensibly reading a textbook, was making impressively little headway with the
Telegraph
crossword. There was a knock at the door, Jeremy called ‘Come!’, as men of his type will, and Leo Davies came in.
Leo and Jeremy did not get on especially well with one another, although they managed to conceal this fact. Leo found Jeremy humourless and pedantic, while Jeremy mistrusted Leo’s glib elegance and charm. He disliked hearing Leo’s laugher echoing round the building, as it so often did, suspecting, without foundation, that some of it might be directed at him. What irked him most was that Leo had an informality of manner that made Jeremy feel stuffy and constrained. In the blustering uncertainty of his twenties, Jeremy had found it useful, especially in court, to assume an air of unbecoming pomposity, which he now found impossible to discard.
‘Jeremy, I was wondering if I might borrow Edward for a while. I’m fairly snowed under and I thought he might be able to help me with some pleadings. Good practice for him, eh?’ he added, a little questioning Welsh lift to his voice.
Edward’s heart sank a little. This sounded suspiciously like work. Pleadings – yes, they’d done a bit of that at Bar School and in the exams. That was a long time ago, though. Months. Jeremy sighed impatiently and leant back in his chair, as though reluctant to lose his valuable assistant.
‘Of course, of course.’ Then he carried on with his work as if to suggest that he did not wish to be interrupted by any more trivia.
‘Right,’ said Leo lightly. ‘Pop along in about ten minutes, then,’ he said to Edward, and left.
Edward tidied his books away, went for a pee, and set off for Leo’s room with a quaking heart. On the stairs he met Anthony. He had noticed over the weeks that Anthony’s manner had seemed a little distant, but his present nervousness obliterated the recollection and he collared Anthony confidingly.
‘God, Anthony, Leo Davies has just asked Jeremy if he could borrow me. He wants me to do some work for him!’ Edward practically squeaked.
‘Well, is that such a problem?’ asked Anthony, on a note of genuine enquiry.
‘It could be! It could be bloody awful. He mentioned something about pleadings. I haven’t done any of those for yonks, and I wasn’t much good when I did them. Jeremy never asks me to do anything like that.’
Anthony couldn’t help smiling at the frantic concern on Edward’s normally cheerful face.
‘It won’t be so bad,’ he said sympathetically, wondering why on earth Edward was getting so worked up. ‘He’s a decent bloke. Tell you what. It’s half past four now. Whatever he gives you, he won’t expect you to do it this afternoon. Bring it to the bar at six and we’ll have a look at it together.’ Even though he ranked as a possible rival, Anthony genuinely liked Edward – one couldn’t help it – and was naturally ready to help him with things that Edward found difficult and Anthony found so easy.
‘Brilliant! I’ll buy you a pint!’ called Edward as he legged it up the stairs two at a time to Leo’s room.
Leo explained the salient facts of the case briskly and lucidly to Edward, to whom it all sounded far too brisk and not at all lucid. He kept nodding attentively, hoping this would pass for understanding. I can always read it up later, he thought. It was something to do with a steel cable snapping on a ship and hitting someone, and the someone’s family suing the ship – or, hold on, was it the ship or some insurance company? Leo was rattling on about something else now. Or maybe it was the chaps who made the cable that they were suing? He’d mentioned them at some point. Anyway, yes, it was a negligence claim against someone. Good, he remembered a bit about negligence pleadings. You just had to say things like, they were negligent in that they failed properly to tie up the cable, or provide a safe system of work, or—
‘So d’you think you can manage that?’ Leo was saying.
‘I’ll certainly give it my best shot,’ replied Edward, with
confident affability. ‘I’ll take the papers away and just go through them myself, shall I?’
‘Sure. Here, you can take this … and this,’ muttered Leo, thumbing through the documents. ‘Let’s see something on paper, say, tomorrow afternoon. OK?’ Leo knew little or nothing of Edward’s abilities, save that he was a relation of Sir Basil’s. Since he was a pupil at 5 Caper Court, no doubt he could handle the work. He gave Edward a smile and bade him goodnight.
Edward gulped as he glanced at the papers on the way back to Jeremy’s room. It looked fairly formidable. Still, Anthony would give him a hand. No point in reading these till he saw Anthony. He went back to his room to fetch his briefcase.
‘I’ll just take these papers that Leo’s given me to the library and – ah – look up a few cases,’ he said to Jeremy. Jeremy frowned.
‘I thought he wanted you to do some pleadings?’
‘Well, yes … but there’s a bit more to it than that.’
‘Hmmph. Monumentally busy, is he?’ Jeremy couldn’t help asking. Edward could think of no reply, smiled brightly, and headed off to the common room for a game of bridge before his drink with Anthony.
It was nearly a quarter to seven by the time Anthony got to the bar; his father had rung him (an unprecedented event) and asked him to call round later that evening, which didn’t leave much time for Edward.
By half past six, Edward had already consumed three large Scotches and was becoming quite hilarious with
several of his friends. When he saw Anthony, he rose to greet him with outstretched arms.
‘Here he is, my saviour!’ he announced. ‘What’ll you have? I’ve got the papers here,’ he added, fumbling in his briefcase. ‘Oh, now, Tony, these are some people. This is Hugh, and Alex’ – Anthony nodded and smiled; he already knew their faces from one of the rowdier coteries – ‘and Julia.’ Anthony said hello to Julia. He had not met her before; he knew that if he had, he would not have forgotten. Curled up in one of the bar’s capacious old armchairs, she appeared quite diminutive, but it seemed to Anthony that she had the longest legs he had ever seen. Perhaps they just seemed that way because of the length of her skirt. Or perhaps because, whereas most of the female members of the Bar wore black stockings, she wore stockings of some very sheer, dark mauve stuff. Her hair was short and soft and blonde, and her smile, Anthony thought, was devastating. He sat down beside her.
‘I’ll have a pint of bitter, thanks,’ he replied to Edward, and then turned back to look at Julia. Hugh and Alex were engaged in some form of horseplay which involved one of them striking the other over the head with a rolled-up newspaper.
‘I’m Anthony, by the way. I don’t think Edward said.’
‘No, he didn’t. Hello, Anthony. So, why are you his saviour? You haven’t agreed to buy that clapped-out Metro of his, have you?’
‘No,’ he laughed, ‘I said I’d look at some papers for him.’ Now she laughed; it seemed to Anthony to be one of the prettiest laughs he had heard.
‘Don’t be a mug. Eddie’s always asking other people to do his work for him. I know, I was at university with him. He hardly did a stroke of work. Don’t be a mug.’ Anthony realised that she, too, was a little drunk. He was somewhat lost for a reply. At that moment, Edward returned with his drink.
‘Here we go!’ he said heartily, setting down Anthony’s pint. ‘Now, where’s this stuff of Leo’s? Aha!’ He passed the papers to Anthony, who took a sip of his pint.
‘The thing is, Edward, I’m a bit pushed for time. I’ve got to go and see my father tonight—’
‘Oh, it won’t take you five minutes to have a look at them. Anthony’s a genius,’ he confided to Julia, who sipped her drink and tucked her legs up beneath her. They both looked expectantly at Anthony.
With a sigh, he picked up the papers and read through them in silence. When he had finished, he explained their contents to Edward in largely the same fashion as Leo had done.
‘Yes, yes, I know all
that
,’ said Edward impatiently. ‘It’s just – well, what do I
do
?’
‘Well,’ said Anthony slowly, ‘that’s a bit difficult to explain without actually setting it down on paper for you.’
Edward nodded; this seemed like the sort of thing he was after. Good man. There was a long pause. Eventually Edward broke it.
‘D’you think you could? I mean, just a rough sketch, something for me to work on? I’m utterly hopeless at this kind of thing. Just something very rough, an outline. You’re so good at this kind of thing, Tony.’ He turned to Julia. ‘He got a first. He’s a genius.’
‘Eddie, you’re such a sponger,’ remarked Julia, who rose from her chair, kissed him kindly on the top of his head, and left. Anthony watched her go. She wasn’t very tall, but her legs were very long and she was quite lovely.
‘I’ve never seen her here before,’ he said to Edward.
‘That’s ’cause you’re never
in
here, Tony. You work too hard. You want to get about a bit. Anyway, about this thing …’
‘Whose chambers is she in?’
‘I don’t know. Some Chancery lot. God, what a thought. Now, they
really
work hard. God. But, look, what do you say? Just this once. Help me out. If you just put the drift of what I’m meant to be doing down on paper, I can flesh it out. He wants something by tomorrow afternoon,’ Edward beseeched Anthony.
‘All right, just a rough outline.’
‘You’re a prince. Fancy another?’
‘No, thanks. I’ve got to go.’ Anthony tied up the papers and put them in his briefcase.
‘All right. Listen, thanks a million. See you tomorrow.’ And as Anthony was going, he added, ‘Nice girl, Julia, isn’t she?’
By the time he got to Islington it was eight o’clock. The door to the squat was open. He found his father packing clothing into a large duffel bag. Two battered and overfull suitcases stood in the hallway.
‘Off somewhere?’ he enquired. Chay straightened up. He was wearing a long, feminine batik robe and his feet were bare. Anthony was startled to see that, although his
father’s head was still shaved, a wispy sprout of grey hair, some three inches long, was growing from the point of his head. It gave him the appearance of a radish.
‘I’m going into a spiritual retreat,’ replied Chay, smiling his holy smile.
‘A retreat? Where?’
‘The West Coast.’
‘Which West Coast? Wales? Can I have a cup of tea?’ Anthony headed towards the kitchen. After rummaging around, he could find only a box of ginseng and a packet of peppermint tea. He sighed, looked in the fridge, found a bottle of Aqua Libra and poured some into a cup. There were no glasses.
‘California,’ explained Chay. ‘It’s called the San Fernando Holistic Outreach Centre. It’s a spiritual community of individuals seeking tranquillity and oneness with their own creativity and with God, whatever and wherever he may be. It’s a concaulescence of souls. People concentrate on art, and on prayer.’ Chay smiled kindly at Anthony.
‘Sounds like a good holiday,’ said Anthony. ‘How much is it costing you?’ Chay’s smile shortened a little.