by Caro Fraser
‘What brings you ’ere, then, Tone? You’re not often down my manor.’ He took a long pull at his cigarette.
‘There was something I wanted to see you about,’ said Anthony, beginning to wonder if this was a good idea. He hadn’t seen Len for several months, and although they had been friends in the market, Anthony did not feel at ease with him in these surroundings. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘let me buy you a drink. Do you want to come with me to the bar, and we can talk?’
Len nodded. ‘Be back in a tick, Baz. Watch me gear for us,’ he said to one of his friends as he rose. Baz watched Len and Anthony as they walked to the bar, gazing after them with the peculiar, unblinking, animal stare that an Eastender gives to strangers.
‘What’s up?’ asked Len, as he took a sip from his pint. Anthony paused. There had been no preliminary exchange of pleasantries, how’s the job, how’s your mum – Anthony felt that it would have been easier if there had. As it was, he had no alternative but to make his request cold.
‘Well, the fact is, Len, I was wondering if you could lend me a few quid. Just for a month or two, until my scholarship money comes through, you know.’ Len stared at Anthony for a second or two, and Anthony wondered if he’d committed some obscure breach of Old Kent Road etiquette.
‘I’d like to help you, my son,’ replied Len, ‘but I don’t know.’ He eyed Anthony; Anthony was about to say that it didn’t matter, when Len continued. ‘Wait here a mo,’ he said, and went back over to his friends. Anthony sipped his pint and watched as Len bent over to talk to one of them. Then he came back over.
‘’Ere you go,’ he said easily, handing Anthony five twenty-pound notes. Anthony looked at them and across at Len’s friends.
‘Look, if this makes things difficult—’ he began. Len waved a dismissive hand.
‘Don’t worry, Tone. They’re good mates. Anyway, you said a couple of months, and I know you’re as good as your word. You barristers ’ave to be.’ He laughed. ‘Anyway, I know where to come looking for you if you’re not, don’t I?’ He gave Anthony a slight, friendly punch on the shoulder, and Anthony managed to laugh with him. He hoped Len was joking.
‘Look, that’s really great of you, man,’ said Anthony gratefully. ‘You’ll get it back very soon, I promise.’
For form’s sake, they stood chatting as they finished their drinks, although Len wanted to get back to his mates and Anthony wanted to go and phone Julia. As they talked, Anthony was aware that each was eyeing the other curiously. They had grown up a bit, he supposed, since their days last summer in the market. Len seemed to have changed physically; he looked less of a boy now. His neck had thickened and his expression was slightly more purposeful, less amiably vacant. At last Anthony looked at his watch.
‘’Fraid I’ll have to go. Look, thanks for the loan, Len.’ Again, Len waved his hand dismissively as he swallowed the last of his drink.
‘You look after yourself,’ he said.
‘I will. Cheers, then.’ Anthony felt it difficult to make a graceful exit. He inched his way through the crowd, praying that he didn’t accidentally nudge someone and spill their drink. Over his shoulder he heard Len call out, ‘Keep in touch, Tone!’
When he got home, Anthony rang Julia.
‘I’ve decided I can manage Friday night, after all,’ he told her. ‘So don’t give the ticket to Piers.’
‘Oh, that’s great,’ said Julia, and yawned. ‘He couldn’t come, anyway.’
It was time, Anthony decided next day, to confront the problem of his future. It was becoming clear that he would have to start ‘looking elsewhere’, as Sir Basil had put it. He tackled Michael on their way back from court.
‘Sir Basil mentioned that he knew some people in 3 Dover Court,’ said Anthony, after he had expounded matters to Michael, ‘and I was wondering if I should take him up on that. It seems a good option.’ He said this with a heavy heart, knowing that not only was it an inferior set, with fewer prospects, but that there was no certainty of a tenancy there, either. And without a tenancy, once his scholarship money dried up, Anthony knew that his chances of a career at the Bar were finished. He simply couldn’t survive.
‘Well, they’re all right,’ admitted Michael. ‘But it’s not the same kind of work as we do here, and I thought that was what you really wanted to do?’
‘Yes, but I don’t honestly think I can afford to hang on at Caper Court.’
‘Well, you never know. I suspect that Edward’s not all that great shakes.’
‘Maybe he’s not. I’m not bragging, but I’m sure I can do a great deal better than he can. But that’s not the point. He wants a tenancy at 5 Caper Court, Sir Basil wants him, and that’s the end of the story, as far as I’m concerned.’ They had reached the archway that led into Caper Court. Michael drew him away and led him under the trees that lined King’s Bench Walk.
‘You know,’ said Michael, ‘it’s not just a carve-up between Sir Basil and his nephew. Despite what you think, it is up to every member of chambers, you know.’
Anthony sighed. ‘Yes, I know. But look, honestly, the other tenants hardly even know me. Why should any of them prefer me when Sir Basil’s nephew is in the running? I’m quite sure my welfare is the last thing they’re interested in.’
‘But they are interested in the welfare of chambers. They don’t want to have to carry someone just because of who his uncle happens to be. It’s up to you to make yourself known to them. Start pushing a bit. Good Lord, I can handle a few of my cases without you, you know. Go and pester them for work. William’s absolutely snowed under, and Roderick will almost certainly give you work, if you ask him.’
Anthony looked at him hopefully.
‘I will. I would, but …’ He kicked at the dead leaves littering the cobbles, and paused, searching for words.
‘What you want to say to me is “Can you look me in the eye, Michael, and tell me that I have an odds-on chance of a tenancy if I stay?” That’s what you want to ask, isn’t it?’
Anthony smiled ruefully. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I suppose it is. You see, the scholarship I won is for the year of my pupillage only. I could manage a third six months, with my mother’s help, at Dover Court if I had to, and if I was sure of a tenancy at the end of it. But I’d have to go there now. If I leave it till next autumn, I won’t be able to afford it. Then what?’ There was a long silence. Michael gazed up at the stark branches of the plane trees against the March sky, while Anthony picked forlornly at the black paint on the railings with his thumbnail.
‘Anthony,’ said Michael heavily, ‘I can’t make the decision for you. I won’t say that I don’t see further in these things than you do, because as regards the decision in chambers, I do. But I can’t promise anything. Nothing’s certain. If you really think you haven’t a chance, then look elsewhere. But you’re very, very talented, believe me.’ Anthony looked at him quickly and looked away again. ‘I don’t think you should ever say that you can’t afford to back yourself. Especially not when you know you’re the winning horse.’
They said nothing more, and walked back to chambers in silence. Once or twice on the way upstairs Anthony thought of saying something more. But he knew that Michael had said all there was to say on the subject. It was a gamble. Either he took it and won – everything. Or lost everything. Or else he decided not to take the risk. At the moment, that seemed to be the most sensible option.
‘I’m just going to take these back to the library to look up that list of cases,’ Anthony said to Michael.
Mounting the polished staircase to the gallery of the library, Anthony looked for an empty table to work at. He spotted Edward hunched over some papers, various textbooks scattered on the table around him, all open at the section on estoppel. He greeted him.
Edward glanced up. ‘Hullo!’ he groaned. ‘Tell me you’ve come to take me away from this misery for a game of bridge and a drink.’ Anthony laughed and sat down opposite.
‘That bad, is it? Well, at five-thirty, I promis
e I will.’ He thought briefly and cheerfully of the hundred pounds that Len had lent him. ‘What are you working on?’ he asked Edward, squinting across at the textbook headings.
‘This,’ replied Edward hollowly. ‘This completely nightmare piece of work that my uncle gave me.’ And he shoved the now rather grubby papers over to Anthony and laid his head down on his folded arms, sighing. Anthony picked them up with interest and scanned them. They seemed fairly straightforward. Why on earth did Edward have all these books open at the section on estoppel?
‘Come on,’ he said encouragingly, ‘it’s not too bad, for heaven’s sake.’ Edward rested his chin on his arms and looked at Anthony with his round, childlike blue eyes.
‘It is if you spent all last night in the Devereux and then lost your wallet on the tube.’ And he closed his eyes and groaned again.
‘Well, I’d say it was probably a question of waiver, rather than estoppel, wouldn’t you?’ said Anthony, as kindly as he could. Edward opened his eyes.
‘Is it? Oh, good. I’d been wondering about that. I was quite sure it was estoppel.’ He paused and took back the papers from Anthony, scrutinising their mysteries. ‘Yes, that helps a lot,’ he said, unconvincingly.
Anthony smiled and pulled out his list of cases. As he went back and forth from the shelves, heaping up his books, he would glance at Edward from time to time. Edward laboured on, oblivious, breathing heavily and rumpling his blonde hair with his left hand as he scribbled away. He now had all the textbooks open at the section on waiver. Anthony brought back the last book and stood over Edward, watching him. He looked like a schoolboy, Anthony thought. That was the quality that everyone liked in him. He had a puppyish innocence, a sort of uproarious, tail-wagging charm. He didn’t mean any harm. He didn’t mean anything, really.
Anthony sat down and began his work, making quick, concise notes and setting out the relevant points on the cases in his rapid, neat hand. He felt as though his own confidence and quiet capability were thrown into sudden sharp relief as he sat opposite Edward, who was now frowning in puzzlement over some passage of text that he was reading for the third time. Every nerve in Anthony’s body quickened as he sensed the other man’s laboured thinking. Edward was pondering a problem whose essence and solution Anthony had grasped in the few minutes in which he had read the papers. Edward was not up to it. The realisation crept over Anthony as he watched Edward; he felt a little surge of pity. Then Edward looked up suddenly and smiled, cheerful and confident.
‘I think I’ve got the hang of it now,’ he said. Then he looked back down and frowned, and started writing again. ‘We can go for that drink in a bit.’
‘Yes, OK,’ replied Anthony. In that moment he made his decision. Michael was right. He must finish this race. He had never lost anything yet, and he would not lose this.
CHAPTER EIGHT
In the light of his decision, Anthony did as Michael had suggested, and began to badger the other members of chambers for work. If his policy was to pay off, and Anthony was determined that it must, then he would have to bring his abilities to their attention, make himself the only obvious choice for the next tenant. Edward could sink or swim.
At first he confined himself somewhat shyly to David and William, a little apprehensive of approaching Roderick Hayter or Jeremy Vane. But his success with the younger tenants eventually prompted him to approach the more senior members of chambers. He soon discovered that Jeremy would trust no one with his work, except for the most trivial of chores, and he had Edward to do those for him. So Anthony turned his attentions to Roderick.
Hayter was a quiet, sallow individual with white, thinning hair and a prominent nose. He was reputed to be wealthy in his own right, and it was well known that he had one of the most successful and remunerative practices at the Bar. Edward was full of tales of the awesome splendour of his country estate, his cars, his racehorses and his paintings. He and Anthony had exchanged no more than one or two words since Anthony’s arrival at Caper Court.
He knocked on Roderick’s door. A faint ‘yes?’ came in response, and Anthony went in nervously. Roderick was sitting in his shirtsleeves at the far end of an austere, rather dark room, writing at his desk. One of the secretaries was standing next to him with an assumed look of respectful attention. He finished writing, handed her a tape and some papers, and then glanced up at Anthony.
‘What can I do for you?’ he asked, without smiling.
‘I wondered,’ said Anthony, ‘if I might be able to take some work from you. Michael suggested that I should ask you.’
‘I’m quite sure Michael gives you more than enough to keep you busy,’ replied Roderick dismissively. ‘I imagine, however, that you want to make a decent impression on us all, mm?’ Anthony hadn’t expected anything quite as blunt as this. ‘Still, at least you’ve come to ask me for work, which is more than young Choke has. Nor do I expect he will.’ Roderick smiled his cold smile. ‘He probably thinks he doesn’t have to. He’s probably right. Don’t you think?’ Anthony was to discover that this addition of a small question at the end of observations, forcing one into a response, however fatuous, was one of Roderick Hayter’s more unnerving habits.
‘No, perhaps not,’ replied Anthony, feeling like a fool, without exactly knowing why.
‘Well, since you ask, I think I can make sure your weekend is kept extremely busy.’ Anthony’s heart sank as he thought of Julia. Roderick was out of his chair now, leaning across to the bookshelves, on which lay rows and rows of briefs, all neatly bound with pink tape, like so many spotless sheaves of starched legal linen.
‘It just so happens that we’re in the House of Lords in a week’s time.’ He brought back to his desk an enormous mound of papers and rifled through them. ‘You’ve been following the Lindos, of course?’ This was the name of a ship; the case concerning its mysterious disappearance in the middle of a voyage from Iraq to Rotterdam with a cargo of several hundreds of thousands of tons of oil had been the subject of a controversial Court of Appeal decision some months ago. Anthony thought feverishly.
‘The scuttling case?’ he ventured.
‘Indeed, the scuttling case. Or rather, as we maintain, not the scuttling case. Now, you can take these away and read them over the weekend. These are the judgments at first instance’ – he handed Anthony one folder – ‘and in the Court of Appeal.’ He handed him another. Then he picked up a third bundle. ‘And these are the various sets of pleadings. That should keep you busy. By Monday you should be fairly well acquainted with the facts of the case.’ Anthony stood with the documents piled up in his arms. ‘Then next week you can begin to go through the evidence.’ Roderick patted the remainder of the enormous pile of papers. ‘Don’t imagine that you will be of the least use to me,’ said Roderick, returning the papers to the bookshelf. ‘This is merely an exercise to acquaint you with the realities of the shipping world. And it may be interesting for you to see how the House of Lords works. Thank you.’
Realising that he had been dismissed, Anthony left with his heap of folders. He knew that Roderick had meant it when he said that he could not be of any use to him. This, then, was purely an onerous exercise which was going to screw his weekend up. He thought gloomily of Julia’s party on Saturday night. She wasn’t exactly going to be happy when he told her that he had to work instead. He would have to, if he was going to read all this and do his work for Michael, too. It crossed his mind that, since it was unlikely that Roderick would have time to grill him on the finer points of the pleadings, he might have been tempted, had he been Edward, just to give it the skimpiest read-through and trust to luck. But he knew that the thorough completion of any task, no matter how apparently unproductive, was a habit ingrained in him; he knew it was a habit that every good lawyer had to develop. You never knew when that small scrap of seemingly irrelevant information might suddenly become crucial, when that brief letter or idle telephone note might become a turning-point in a case. Everything had to be read and digested, just in case.
Anthony was right; Julia was extremely displeased when he told her.
‘I can’t believe you have to work all weekend!’ She sat up angrily in bed and reached for a cigarette. Anthony took it gently from her fingers, running his other hand down the curve of her back as he did so.
‘You’re smoking too much.’
‘So what if I am? It’s not your business.’ She took the cigarette back from him and lit it, pulling the sheet crossly up over her stomach. He caressed and kissed that, too, before Julia pushed his head away.
‘I just can’t believe you want to mess up my party like this,’ she muttered. Anthony sighed and rolled onto his back.
‘I don’t. But, like a prat, I asked Roderick Hayter for this work and he gave it to me. If I come to the party, you know what’ll happen. I’ll have too much to drink and then …’ He turned over again and pulled her down onto the pillow, gazing into her face and stroking her cheek. ‘I’ll want to take you to bed …’ He kissed her gently, urgently. ‘And make love to you all night, because you’re so fucking gorgeous. And I’ll get no work done on Sunday.’
Julia let him kiss her. ‘Please come,’ she whispered.
Anthony shook his head. ‘I can’t,’ he whispered back.
‘God, you’re so stubborn,’ moaned Julia, staring up at the ceiling. ‘I wouldn’t let anybody else treat me this way.’ She paused and turned to glance at him. ‘Maybe I won’t let you.’
Anthony laughed, sat up on the edge of the bed, and began to pull on his underpants, enjoying his moment of ascendancy.
‘Oh, yes, you will,’ he said lightly. ‘Because you adore me. You can’t live without me.’ He leant back over and kissed her again. ‘Can you?’
‘Don’t be too sure about that,’ she said, smiling.
When Saturday night came, however, Anthony’s confidence in his own charm had somewhat evaporated. He had spent the day reading through pleadings and judgments until he was bored rigid and his head ached. He had suffered several jibes from Barry, on his way out to a Meatloaf concert at Wembley, and was now sitting wondering whether he was, as Barry had tactfully suggested, a boring fart. He leant back and stretched his arms above his head. He bet Roderick Hayter wasn’t poring over papers at this moment. Maybe, on second thoughts, he was. Anthony sighed and looked round the kitchen. He wished there was some beer in the fridge; he could just do with a drink right now. He got up and made himself a cup of tea, thinking, as he waited for the kettle to boil, of Julia and her party. It was only nine o’clock. It wouldn’t really have got going yet, he reflected. Maybe he’d been a bit extreme, saying he would work all evening. He’d been at it since nine-thirty this morning; he was entitled to a bit of time off. If he left now, he calculated, he could be at Kensington by ten-fifteen. He needn’t stay the night – he still had sixty pounds of Len’s money left upstairs, and could always get a taxi back around one or two o’clock. Then he’d still be fit to do some work the next day. At the back of his mind was the knowledge that he would be unable to leave Julia once he got there, but the idea that he could get back at a decent hour if he wanted to persuaded him that he should go to the party, even if just for a couple of hours.