by Caro Fraser
‘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 unseei
ngly 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.
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 opportuni
ty 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.