Unforgotten

by Clare Francis

  Ray rolled his eyes. ‘God, you can say that again!’

  ‘But if the performance-related lobby felt so strongly why didn’t they fight their corner?’

  ‘I think it was more of a kite-flying exercise at the beginning. Yes . . . definitely,’ Ray said, as if this made the whole thing more acceptable. ‘But the young lions had their finger on the pulse all right, because since then, well . . . the idea’s really gained ground, Hugh. A lot of people feel, with the best will in the world, that it’s the right way to go.’

  Hugh thought back to the old days when he and Ray and their fellow partners had agreed the firm’s business over a beer and a sandwich at the Old Bell. Differences of opinion – and they’d had a few, not least about the wisdom of merging with Marsh & Co – had been hammered out face to face, sometimes over several sessions, occasionally with some heat, but always openly and with good grace. Since the formation of Dimmock Marsh, however, decision making had become decidedly more opaque, to Hugh at least. A number of people, and it was usually the same lot, seemed to turn up at partners’ meetings in mysterious agreement with each other, their arguments ready polished to match. But if Ray was right, and feelings had been running strong, Hugh couldn’t understand how he had missed the murmurings of discontent. He hunted back through his memory but he was sure no one had mentioned the remuneration issue in any of the time-honoured ways, casually over lunch, or on leaving a meeting, or drifting into his office on other business. But perhaps he had been too busy to pick up on the signs. Out of the loop . . . yes, that seemed to sum it up.

  He said, ‘Why didn’t you tell me before, Ray?’

  Ray made one of those gestures that were so characteristic of him, a sweep of one hand that could have indicated anything from regret to denial. ‘Truth be told, Hugh, I didn’t really appreciate how things were going myself, not until just the other day. And knowing how you felt . . . Well, I didn’t want to stir things up unnecessarily.’

  Trying not to dwell on the inconsistencies in this statement, Hugh said, ‘And they think I won’t budge, is that it?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Well, they’ve got that right at least.’

  ‘A lot of up-and-coming firms are going for it, you know.’

  ‘Well, that’s their choice, isn’t it? But in my view they’re going in the wrong direction. You know how I feel. The whole point of a partnership is to work as a team. Share the load and share the income. Allow for the fact that everyone has a bad year from time to time.’

  ‘But people’s basic salary would be protected, obviously.’

  ‘I don’t care. If we went for performance-related bonuses the whole ethos of the firm would change. It would become every man for himself. And then we might as well get shot of the whole partnership and go off and work on our own.’

  ‘I’m not sure it would be as bad as that,’ Ray murmured.

  Hugh asked, ‘So what’s your view, Ray? Do you think it’s a good idea?’

  ‘Me?’ Ray blew out his cheeks. ‘God, Hugh – what can I say? I mean, I can see that it has points in its favour. Some of the younger partners are bringing in huge amounts of work – really huge – and you can’t entirely blame them for wanting to see more of the proceeds. Age and seniority will always count, of course they will. But it’s a sharper, profit-related world out there, isn’t it? Everything’s getting performance-linked.’ He gave a heavy sigh. ‘At the same time . . . Well, I hear what you say, Hugh. I really do . . .’

  ‘It’ll come up at the next partners’ meeting, will it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And will it get voted in?’

  ‘Christ . . .’ Ray gave an elaborate shrug. ‘I really couldn’t say.’

  Yet something in his manner suggested this wasn’t quite true. With a descent into disappointment, Hugh asked, ‘Which way will you vote?’

  ‘Haven’t got that far.’

  But I think you’ve got that far, thought Hugh with another dart of disappointment; maybe even farther. ‘Well, keep me in touch.’

  ‘Christ, everyone’s going to be kept in touch from now on, I can tell you,’ Ray protested with a rough emphatic laugh. ‘Whether they bloody well like it or not! Full particulars spelt out in bold and underlined. No more of this skulking about in the bloody undergrowth.’ He drank morosely before looking at his watch and sitting up with a jerk. ‘Christ, the time!’ He scrabbled in his pocket. ‘Could you make it down in record time, Hugh? Sorry to rush you but there’re a helluva lot of people I need to talk to before we sit down to dinner.’

  The moment Hugh reached the room he checked his phone for messages, but there was nothing from Lizzie. He’d already left one message on her voicemail and, getting no answer again now, debated whether to leave another. She was probably driving or at the supermarket. Or – he couldn’t escape the thought – visiting the Carstairs Estate, walking the concrete passageways alone and unprotected. When she’d first started going there in the early days of the Free Denzel Lewis campaign he’d buried his worries, or at least persuaded himself the risk was minimal, but last night his fears had come roaring to the surface, and he wasn’t sure why. Because she’d admitted going there after dark? Her alarming belief that it was safe? Or was it linked to his failure to catch the hoodie, who seemed then and now to personify the relentless march of the yob culture? A bit of everything perhaps. Also, if he was entirely honest, he hadn’t liked arriving back at an empty house, not knowing how long it would be before she got home. It was entirely selfish, he knew, but when he’d imagined life after the kids had gone to college he’d seen the two of them having more time together, not less.

  He had showered and was pulling on his evening shirt when his phone rang and showed ‘Lizzie mobile’ in the display.

  She greeted him over the din of conversation.

  ‘You sound as though you’re out on the town.’

  She laughed. ‘What else?’

  ‘The moment my back’s turned. So where are you?’

  ‘Seeing a colleague.’

  ‘Some colleague.’

  ‘She’s female and fifty.’

  ‘Well, take it easy on the cocktails.’

  ‘Fat chance. I brought the car.’

  ‘Have you had a good day?’

  ‘Yes, actually. Very good. And you?’

  ‘I’ve known better.’

  ‘What happened?’

  He could only just hear her above the din, and instinctively raised his voice. ‘Tom’s doing his best to score an own goal.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘An own goal.’

  ‘Hang on . . .’ A pause, then the crowd sound diminished a little and when she spoke again he could hear her better. ‘Is there anything you can do?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Bad luck. Oh, Charlie called.’

  ‘How was he?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘He got our text okay?’

  ‘Oh yes . . . yes. A change to his holiday plans, though. He wants to go to Spain immediately after Christmas.’

  ‘Spain? But why?’

  ‘Two of his mates are going to Barcelona and he’s never been, and well, he thought it would be fun.’

  ‘But he’s meant to stay in a safe environment, not go off on trips whenever he feels like it. Spain’s full of drugs and God knows what else. It’s just asking for trouble.’

  ‘But these friends don’t do drugs.’

  ‘I don’t care. He’d be away from his counsellor and his NA meetings and all the things that keep him on the straight and narrow. And in a place riddled with temptation. No, I’m sorry, it’s not on.’

  In the pause that followed, he could picture her standing outside a wine bar, hunched against the cold, wearing the slight frown she always wore when confronting a difficult problem. ‘Let’s talk about it when you get back,’ she said.

  ‘The answer’s still going to be no. I’m sorry, the idea’s completely crazy.’

  An
other pause. ‘All right. Shall I call Charlie and tell him how you feel? Or do you want to call him yourself?’

  Hugh’s anger subsided a little. ‘No, you call him. I’d only make a mess of it.’

  ‘I’ll see if I can get him tonight.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Lizzie, but I really think it’s madness.’

  ‘I’m not sure you give him enough credit, darling, really I’m not. He’s thought it through, you know. He’s worked out how to manage. And it would only be for a week.’

  ‘Thought it through? If he’d thought it through he’d have realised that he’s just trying to run away and avoid reality, just like before.’ Into the silence that followed, he sighed, ‘I’ll phone him myself.’

  ‘No, let me do it. But Hugh? When you do eventually speak to him, don’t get angry, will you?’

  ‘Of course I won’t. Why would I get angry?’

  ‘Well, you’re angry now.’

  He was about to protest when he played the sound of his own voice back to himself. ‘I worry, that’s all.’

  ‘I know you do.’

  He sighed. ‘I wish I wasn’t going to this bloody dinner tonight.’

  ‘You’ll enjoy it once you’re there.’

  ‘And I’m getting a cold,’ he said dolefully. ‘I have the feeling it’s going to be a real stinker.’

  But the conversation had risen to a roar again, as if a door had opened, and she shouted, ‘Sorry, darling, what did you say?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Look, I—’ Her voice was lost in the general hubbub or else she had turned to speak to someone. Then she was back, shouting, ‘Sorry. Got to go. I’ll call you tomorrow.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said reluctantly.

  She rang off so abruptly, without a goodbye, that he stared at the phone, thinking they must have been cut off.

  FOUR

  At first Hugh waited as he had waited the previous day, restlessly, pacing the passage to the balcony overlooking the Great Hall and back to the doors of Court 12. But as ten thirty passed and the court went into session he slowed down, finally stopping altogether at the far end of the passage and gazing out of the window. When he’d arrived that morning it had been drizzling, but now the rain rattled against the glass and guttered down the roofs, while the tips of the ornate spires and pinnacles that rose from every corner and ridge of the rambling building were lost in gloom. He stood there for some time, wondering at the ambition of the Victorian architects, until with sinking heart he accepted that Tom wasn’t just late, he wasn’t coming at all. It would have been nice to imagine he was taking time to think things through, but more likely he was lying low, nursing a sense of injustice, directing his resentment at Hugh.

  Before going into court Hugh left him a message, asking if he was okay, hoping there wasn’t a problem, telling him to call, knowing he wouldn’t. At lunchtime he called again to relay the news that Desmond definitely wanted him in the witness box the next morning, but if Tom was picking up his messages he wasn’t letting on.

  ‘So, can we expect Tom tomorrow?’ Desmond asked when court rose for the day.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ Hugh freely admitted. ‘He’s not communicating with me at the moment.’

  ‘Would it be wise to make alternative plans then, just in case?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  Isabel declared, ‘Oh, but Tom’ll be here, I know he will.’ She faltered momentarily under Desmond’s gaze before adding, ‘He’s been longing to get back into the witness box. He won’t miss it for the world, I know he won’t.’

  Desmond tipped Hugh an enquiring look.

  ‘Nothing’s that certain with Tom,’ Hugh said.

  Desmond nodded philosophically and packed his tote bag. After he’d gone, Isabel eyed Hugh with concern.

  ‘You’ve caught my cold,’ she said apologetically. ‘Can I get you anything?’

  ‘I’m all right.’ He was croaking badly, his throat was on fire.

  ‘What about some Day Nurse?’ She delved into her bag and scrabbled around in the bottom. ‘I know I’ve got some . . . I’m sure I put it . . . Wait – oh, it’s Night Nurse. But perhaps you’d like some for later?’

  ‘No, really,’ he said more brusquely than he’d meant to.

  Isabel paused, the packet in her hand. Then, with the same insistence as before, she said, ‘Tom’s just in a sulk. It won’t last. He’ll be here tomorrow, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘I put him under too much pressure,’ Hugh said gloomily. ‘I don’t know what the hell I was thinking of, backing him into a corner like that. I should have played it straight, told him I’d have to resign and left him to make up his own mind. Now he’s probably on self-destruct, drinking himself into oblivion.’

  ‘But you’ve given him every chance, Hugh. You’ve explained it to him. He might be suffering from trauma, but he can still think for himself.’

  ‘Not when he’s stressed out he can’t.’

  ‘Well, if you ask me he’s a lot tougher than you give him credit for. A lot more—’ She broke off abruptly as if to choose a kinder word. ‘More rational.’

  At the doors of the Royal Courts they paused to find their umbrellas. ‘That stupid letter,’ Hugh sighed. ‘I wish I’d never read the bloody thing.’

  ‘But people who write letters like that don’t give up, do they? There’ll be more letters where that one came from.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Well, they don’t write out of the goodness of their hearts, do they? They write to cause trouble, and trouble doesn’t go away.’

  Hugh shivered suddenly and hunched his shoulders against the cold.

  ‘Here, why don’t you take this anyway, just in case?’ Isabel pressed the packet of Night Nurse into his hand.

  Hugh held it up and pretended to read the label. ‘I thought you didn’t believe in this sort of stuff.’

  ‘It’ll help you sleep.’

  ‘Help me pass out, more like.’ He slipped it into his coat pocket, to join the vitamin pastille she’d given him on Monday. Putting up his umbrella, he said, ‘The awful thing is, I don’t even know where Tom’s staying. I can’t even go and find out if he’s all right.’

  ‘Well, that’s Tom all over, isn’t it? Not wanting anyone to know where he is.’

  ‘But I should have got his address.’

  ‘I’m not sure he’d have told you. I asked him three times for contact details and he kept saying he didn’t have them.’

  ‘Perhaps he didn’t, not till the last minute.’

  ‘Oh, I think he had them all right,’ said Isabel quietly. ‘He just likes to keep things back.’

  Two days ago Hugh would have challenged this remark, but now he could only gaze out into the rain and wonder what else Tom might be holding back.

  The faded blue front door swung open to reveal the substantial figure of Mike Gabbay. ‘For God’s sake!’ he said. ‘How are you doing, you old pagan?’ Throwing an arm over Hugh’s shoulder he gave him a bear hug. ‘God, this rain! Here, give me those!’ Hanging up Hugh’s coat and umbrella, he urged him deeper into the house. ‘How long has it been, for heaven’s sake? Two years? Three? Too bloody long anyway. And look at you’ – he threw out an accusatory hand – ‘you must tell me how you do it. Sneak off to the gym? Practise some kind of Celtic witchcraft? Take a Welsh potion?’

  ‘I don’t do anything.’

  ‘What – nothing?’

  ‘Just the garden. And a bit of walking.’

  ‘No justice!’ Mike exclaimed contentedly.

  Mike’s weight battle had been lost in childhood, he had been bald since his early thirties, but his dark eyes, set in the plump smooth-skinned face, glowed with a keen intelligence and love of life. The two of them had been articled to the same firm, but while Hugh had taken the well-travelled route into high street law Mike had set up on his own in what was then the frontier territory of asylum, immigration and human rights, an area which, he liked to complain proudly, was as badly paid then as
it was now.

  ‘No justice,’ Mike repeated. ‘How’s Lizzie?’

  ‘Very well, thanks.’

  ‘Glad to hear it! Come and see Rachel. She’s in the kitchen.’

  The house was Victorian and terraced and had the lived-in look of long occupation, with well-trodden carpets and bulging bookshelves and chipped paint.

  ‘What do you think of this?’ asked Mike, indicating the kitchen, which in stark contrast to the rest of the house had undergone a make-over, with modern units, halogen lighting and a tiled floor.

  ‘Looks very nice.’

  Rachel broke off from her cooking to greet Hugh. She taught French and greeted him in the French style, with four rapid kisses to the cheeks.

  ‘My wife demanded a new kitchen after twenty-four years of marriage. I ask you!’ said Mike in mock dejection. ‘Fact is, we needed a project. You know how it is when the kids disappear.’

  Rachel shot Hugh a quick smile which suggested that Mike’s need for a project had been rather greater than hers.

  Mike pressed his hands together and said urgently, ‘Now, what’ll it be? I’ve got a nice unassuming little Bordeaux . . .’ He was already reaching for the bottle with one hand, a corkscrew with the other. ‘Bought it on the off-chance ten years ago and it’s done me proud ever since.’ Mike had always loved his wine, and when Hugh thought back to their days as articled clerks he always thought of suppers at Mike’s flat off the Harrow Road, with spaghetti bolognese washed down by Mike’s latest find, and meals at cheap restaurants which suddenly became rather less cheap after the discovery of something worth trying on the wine list. But if Hugh had sometimes had to survive the rest of the month on fish fingers and baked beans, he had always considered it a good bargain.

  In another fluid movement Mike placed three wine glasses and a bowl of cashew nuts on the kitchen table. ‘First glass for the cook,’ he declared, pouring it rapidly.

  ‘Wise plan,’ said Rachel.

  Mike waved Hugh to a chair at the kitchen table and sat opposite. ‘Right, young Hugh Gwynne,’ he said, filling their glasses. ‘A complete update, if you will. And no time off for good behaviour.’