Women Are Bloody Marvellous! And Other Stories

by Betty Burton

  Eighty-six offences this twentieth of November.

  The Police are Informing against William SMITH, Stephen HOLLOWAY, Susan COLLINS, Jacqueline WlLLSON, and the DHSS Complain of Leslie HARRIS, Henry STUART, Barbara CHARLESWORTH and sixteen others who made false statements to obtain supplementary benefit — and pages of A Like Offence. Roy SMITH has exposed his person. William WILLIAMS rode a pedal cycle on a road otherwise than in the specified direction, and the police are Informing the Courts.

  Fifty or so citizens who cut up rough ... well, fifty who were found out, anyhow.

  I've never been found out. And that's a lie. But it was a local traffic policeman who stopped me. Don't I know you? He's severe at first, thinking he's booked me before. Yes, I say, Traffic Court. I smile. Recognition shows on his face. To say yes I am a local JP would put him on the spot — like offering a bribe. I smile. Of course, he says. Funny how people look different when you see them in different surroundings. He smiles. I smile. I don't remember seeing him anywhere except in the witness box. He puts his notebook away. He smiles. There might come a day when he's got evidence that is a bit thin and I'm in charge of his case. He plays safe. Uses his discretion. Wags his finger playfully. Well Ma'am, you don't want to have to fine yourself for speeding. We smile. He touches his cap. He does not inform anybody of the Nature of My Offence.

  Second busiest court in the country. That's what somebody has just said. A kind of pride, as though we expect one day to win the cup. It gives us importance. Ours is the second in the league of lawless cities. A look at the fist is like watching bees in a glass-sided hive. You can see into the little cells of power. The Council is clamping down on Rates Defaulters. The Vice Squad has had a complaint about the lavatories in the Rose Gardens. Somebody in the DHSS decided to have a go at Cohabiting Women.

  Barbara Charlesworth. I shall remember you to the day I die. She shouts at us. She is a magnificent twenty stone with two plastic carriers full of shopping. You can all sod off, she shouts. He brought some groceries and some toys for the kids, I never said he didn't. But I never slept with him. They're his kids an't they? There an't nothing wrong with buying your own kids toys is there? And the groceries he bought was for him — if you thinks I can afford to give him his dinner out of supplementary, you must be daft. The Solicitor, mouthpiece for the DHSS, the Complainant, is giving her enough rope. Christ! She even bangs the table. I bang my table in reply. No need to shout Mrs Charlesworth. Miss! she shouts, not Missis — MISS Charlesworth. Yes, he did stop in the house. He slept on the bloody sofa. It was raining and he only had his jacket, what did you expect me to do, tell him to clear off? The DHSS man looks at us expecting to elicit sympathy. He sat outside Miss Charlesworth's house all night, waiting for the father of her children to get on his bike and ride off to work at the docks — they followed him and sent a woman in to tackle her about the illegal cohabiting ... Pity he's a dockie and not a Lesbian lover paying for the odd bag of groceries and toys out of her good job in the Rates Office. I don't have sex with nobody no more. Christ! I got eight bloody kids already. He slept on the sofa. The DHSS solicitor compliments the good neighbour who informed on Miss Charlesworth in an anonymous letter, asks us what we would do without these concerned citizens ... and Miss Charlesworth? What would he do without the Legal Aid scheme? On his bike? Down the docks? I'm no good at this job. If I were any good, I wouldn't think like that. The DHSS man is on Special Assignment. Like Store Detectives and other Informants or Complainants he believes promotion depends on the number of convictions that are down to him on his file in the Personnel Office.

  There was a time, not that long ago either, when a spare communal hat was kept in a dusty cupboard for women magistrates who turned up without one. To do with dignity and respect, the sight of a woman's uncovered hair bringing discredit upon a court, a place of Brylcreem and bald heads. It took a strong lady who spent good money on hair colour to tell them what they could do with their hats. Nobody told me it was a condition of being a Magistrate she said. And nobody had. And it wasn't anyway. So out went hats. It was a legal nicety in the Magistrates' Room. Nobody said she had to wear a hat. You didn't need to refer to a Stone's Justices' Manual to see that she had a good case against hats. That was before my time. It is one of the legends. Something to talk about when solicitors are keeping you waiting, as they juggle the system to get as many fees out of one morning as possible. Legal Aid is a gold-mine for them we say, but what can you do? If you make a fuss...

  Eighty-six Offences. Number One Court. On a rota basis of senior magistrates, I get the chair, the throne. Who's been sitting in my chair? Five foot one, Goldilocks in Daddy Bear's chair. There have been women JPs for a long time now, but courts are like kitchens, entirely masculine in dimension and concept. In my kitchen I have a little stool to reach the low shelves, and tall men in the family to reach the others. There is a spare foam cushion under the throne for those of us who don't measure up: our shoes fall off, our feet dangle in mid-air, frozen, but from the waist up the dignity of the court is served.

  Mary MALLORY Found Drunk in Paradise Street. I avoid her eyes that watch below, in the Bridewell. I'm no good at this job, Mary Mallory. Who do we think we are? Who do I think I am, legs dangling in Daddy Bear's chair, gold crests, fine wood panelling? Fine, dirty, wood panelling. Sunshine opens the raincoat of the court and flashes us the human grime of years. Patches of solicitors' grease, sweat left by speeders, addicts, murderers, rapists, and the thousands who didn't know what came over them Sir/Madam/Your Honour. They hold on to bits of fine wood panelling and mouldings, trying to tell us their side of the story. In answers. Not the way they would tell it in a pub or over the garden fence. Except just occasionally a Barbara Charlesworth says sod off! and we see for a moment, before the solicitors and Court Clerks jump in and hedge us around with jargon, we see for a moment that here is just another room full of people saying things to one another. Mary Mallory is waiting below not knowing that she might be my last straw. Going soft? Menopause? PMT? Male colleagues understand. Roll their eyes and raise their brows behind my back, they make allowances for women JPs. Once one of them patted my hand, called me A Friday Dove — I could have hit him ... I should have hit him.

  'All stand.'

  All obey. Eleven o'clock. In the golden days — before Post Office Clerks, Co-op Managers, Union Convenors and women without hats — there used to be a coffee break. There have been time and motion studies of this court in the Premier League. Coffee is taken during work allocation before opening time. This 'All Stand' is for us to retire to consider the evidence.

  'Did you see this?' I say, to exorcize my dread of Mary Mallory. 'Drunk in Paradise Street.'

  'I used to Uve there,' says Uncle Fred, Grand Old Man, due to retire.

  'Thought they pulled it down,' says the new man.

  'Never miss a chance to go,' says Uncle Fred and goes off to the Gents.

  It only takes five minutes to decide that this time it is not the police witness who is lying, but the bloke who says that he never went faster than fifty, and if he's a first-time speeder we will fine him the minimum and costs. If not, throw the book at him. We are clamping down on speeders. Offence of the month.

  'All stand.'

  He's a speeder all right. Got a record as long as your arm. Speeders don't bother me in the night. One for the policeman's personal file.

  Mary Mallory sits beneath us, waiting for the call, 'Ma ... ry Ma ... 11 ... ory', to go echoing down the stairs. I've sussed the new man, it doesn't take long. One sitting and I know how he came to be a pillar of the community. A belt round the ear from his father. He is proud of his father ... My father gave us all a good belt round the ear. That's how to deal with drunks in Paradise Street. They know what they're doing. Take the consequences. A good belt round the ear. If only I could think like that when the Mary Mallorys appear. That's it! A good belt round the ear. Short, sharp, shocks. Bring back the birch.

  It sounds so good. Looks good in newsp
aper headlines, too. 'Local JP in Court Row — Bring Back Birch Call!' Hooray, say the readers. I could ask the new man what he will do when he gets a case of ear belting in his List ... Informant — Police. Nature of Offence — Assault. We aren't fools — not all of us, anyhow — we read reports on recidivism. Short, sharp, shocks don't actually work. Look at the figures, but it sounds good. Short, sharp, shocks. We all know a permanent pay-packet would have a better influence. But you have to be a Friday Dove to say so out loud. They chuckle indulgently knowing that I can always be outvoted. Give her the key and she'd let them all out. You are not a Social Worker — you are a Magistrate. You are not a Counsellor — you are a Magistrate, here to administrate the Law. You are wearing a CND badge in Court. You are no good at this job.

  Eleven forty-five. Most of the List is cleared. Drunks often come last. Gives them time to recover if it has been a blinder.

  'That's the lot, Madam.'

  'What about this Drunk charge?'

  Ah!

  Yes. The Clerk thinks it has been transferred to Court Number Nine.

  Ah, Mary Mallory, I shall not sit in judgement upon you. There but for the grace of God and all that kind of thing.

  'Like to retire for five minutes, Ma'am?' says the Clerk. He does not need to approach the Bench and murmur confidentially to me, it is nearly midday. The Public Gallery has gone back to its bedsits, or into the Library where it is nearly as warm as Number One Court. Not a Duty Solicitor to be seen, not in Court, anyway — Mario's Wine Bar? Twelve o'clock! See you.

  'All stand.'

  The Clerk and the Jailer stand and bow.

  We exit. Wilson, Kepple and Betty.

  'Never miss a chance to go,' says Uncle Fred.

  'Smoke?' says the new man. They used to ask if it was all right.

  In my capacity as Chairman I feel I should ask him something. Like where's your manners, Boy?

  'How did you get on with your training?'

  He says he is sorry it is over ... only joking of course ... and launches into a description of the hotel where they trained for a weekend. They did us proud. He says it over and over. Didn't get to bed till four in the morning.

  'We did our training here,' I say. I dare say he thinks I'm talking about the golden age when coffee was served mid-morning.

  'Ah, yes, they did us proud.'

  Uncle Fred comes back with the Clerk who is full of explanation about the transferring and re-transferring of Mary Mallory.

  'It was put into Number Nine, but their rape has gone on longer than they expected.'

  I think they try out these lines on us. Like the one about two Porsches totalling £5.90, property of Debenhams.

  'You could put that in the pantomime.'

  'Not this year I'm afraid, Ma'am. Second busiest court in the country.'

  I should not have opened my mouth when he said, That's about the lot, Ma'am. If I had not kept looking at the List I would not have blurted out, What about the drunk? and I would be queueing up for my subsidized omelette along with Uncle Fred.

  The Clerk goes back to arrange for Mary Mallory to be brought up to Number One.

  Wilson, Kepple and Betty go back. The Jailer bows. The Clerk bows. We bow.

  'Call Mary Mallory.'

  'Did you hear my belly rumble?' says Uncle Fred.

  'Get it over quick,' says the new man.

  Bloody cheek. This is my court! There is that one thing about being Chairman in court — no matter that they call you chairman — it is your court. You are the power and the glory. It's going to take a few years before the new man sits in Number One Court.

  'Don't count on it!' Uncle Fred says it before I can get it out. He's an old hand.

  A policeman with an aide-mémoire comes into the Court.

  You don't need to see what is going on down below. Rattle of keys. Clang of cell doors. Rattle of keys. Footsteps. Clatter along corridor. Up the steps. Jingle of keys. Mary Mallory appears in Number One Court.

  The Clerk reads the charge.

  'How do you plead?'

  She does not answer but stares into the space ten inches or so before her eyes.

  'Mrs Mallory?'

  It takes time for her to adjust.

  The policeman says, I swear by Almighty God that the evidence and so on and so on as though it were one word.

  'May I refer to my notes, Sir? Madam — sorry Madam.'

  Madam asks when they were made up as she is bound to, he replies as soon as possible after the incident as he is bound to.

  'You should have left me there and I'd have been all right.'

  Mary Mallory you haven't been all right for years. You smooth your dress. You are sobering up. You smooth back your hair. Christ, where am I? She looks at the Wardress ... one of the old school, she makes my 40C-cup appear flat in comparison, not like the pert, shining WPCs with chests like gymnasts. Officially PCs because they purged The Force of sexism ... The Wardress guides Mary Mallory through her paces. It is going all right. Uncle Fred and I usually agree about all the Mary Mallorys. A majority decision if the new man ... it suddenly occurs to me that he must be the one who was on the carpet for making statements to the press about cleaning up the city. There are three types who are dedicated to cleaning up the city: women who long for the old days of hats, retired naval officers who have spent the greater part of their lives dirtying up cities on the other side of the world, and working-class blokes whose fathers belted them into a better class of society. Uncle Fred, let us dismiss ... let her go ... then I shall be able to digest my subsidized omelette and get to sleep tonight.

  'Why didn't you leave me to sleep it off? I wasn't doing anybody any harm.'

  There is an informal atmosphere in the huge, empty courtroom. I raise my eyebrows in query at the policeman. It is nearly one o'clock. Uncle Fred's stomach protests its emptiness — it expected a glass of beer at twelve o'clock. Everybody is hungry except Mary Mallory.

  'We did at first, Ma'am, in Paradise Street. She seemed to be all right. I thought I would keep an eye on her.'

  'What did you want to charge me for then?'

  The policeman shrugs his shoulders.

  'Next time I saw her, she had fallen down.' He pauses, knowing how it will sound. 'She went to sleep in the entrance of the Central Police Station.'

  The day has come. I have gone along with things that were for the best, because if I didn't they might get somebody like the new man. Send some old bloke to prison for Christmas because that's the only place where anybody will keep him from sleeping rough, frozen to the ground in his own urine? Try the short, sharp shocks on kids from decrepit council estates because it's better than prison? Let millionaire drug pushers out on bail because they can afford Surrey houses and London barristers? I hear Mary Mallory pushing me off the fence where I have been sitting till my brain went numb.

  'Is there anything you would like to tell the Court?' There is a long silence.

  There always is when you ask any of the Mary Mallorys this question. How can you tell anything to a Court? Perhaps if we were in the little room behind the wood panelling. She's there to be Bound Over. My Kenny's only two, he kept on crying see, and we lives in married quarters. I never knew what was the matter with him, and when you're married to a sailor they an't never there — you got a fag love? ta — and when the kids keeps on and on grizzling and they says there an't nothing wrong you starts shouting at them. You'd think she'd a known, she got kids of her own, instead she comes round saying she'll knock the little bugger's head off if he don't stop grizzling. I said to her, you an't the only one who an't seen her husband for a year. She hit her neighbour, she doesn't deny it. Is there anything you would like to tell the Court?

  'Have you any family?'

  'Somewhere.'

  'Do you work?'

  'No.'

  'What did you do ... what was your job?'

  'I used to be a nurse.'

  That hurt ... used to be.

  She wants to say sod off what's it
got to do with you but she's only at the beginning of her career as a woman without grace. When she's been down as long as Barbara Charlesworth she will say it, or she will stand there bemused, her brain-cells picked off by anything remotely alcoholic, so stinking of her own body fluids and so pickled, that the new man will say I sometimes think Hitler had the right idea.

  'Have you got any money?'

  'Look,' she says, 'I'm an alcoholic, aren't I!'

  It is her plea — she pleads Guilty/Not Guilty, her reason, her excuse. There is no more to be said. She knows, Uncle Fred knows, I know, we all know except the new man. There is nothing we can do. I know, I know. I must put her out of my mind. I must stop thinking I am a Social Worker. I am not a Counsellor. I must not get involved. If the rehabilitation centres are closed down, it is within the Law Of The Land to do so. I am here to administer the Law Of The Land.

  And I'm sick to the stomach of it.

  A sailor will buy her a double, perhaps she will pal up with another girl who will give her a shake-down for the night. Tomorrow ... I'm an alcoholic, aren't I!

  'You are down as No Permanent Address.'

  'Yes.'

  'Have you got somewhere to go?'

  'No.'

  'Have you any money at all?'

  She smiles. 'After last night?'

  Uncle Fred passes me a note. 'Give her a pound from funds and get her out of here. No costs.'

  'Where will you go when you leave the Court?'

  'I don't know, for God's sake. I'm an alcoholic, aren't I?'

  Mary Mallory. Barbara Charlesworth. The verdict of the Court is that you shall henceforth be at the mercy of the New Man. The Wardress guides her back down to the Bridewell where she will be officially disposed of.