Dedication
For Eglantine, Matilda, Marius and Louis
Epigraph
Siete voi qui, ser Brunetto?
Dante, Inferno, canto 15.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
A Personal Injury paradox
I think I’ll shoot you anyway, and Bang! he does
A reasonable hypothesis consistent with innocence
Postscript
Thanks
About the Author
Praise
Copyright
A Personal Injury paradox
Queens Square in Sydney isn’t really a square, but the intersection of Macquarie Street and St James Road. There, Albert eyes Victoria eternally across the traffic from his plinth of Moruya granite, while she stares, unheeding, in the direction of Parliament House — and neither is ever spared a glance by the solicitors and barristers hurrying into the Supreme Court building as if they were iron filings attracted to a magnet.
Harry Curry — big, rangy of limb and crumpled of beautifully cut suit — unfolded himself from the front seat of his cab in Macquarie Street, shut the door a little too firmly, and strolled, carrying his overnight bag, to take breakfast at the barristers’ café opposite the Supreme Court steps. He’d caught the early flight up from Merimbula, and was going to meet Arabella Engineer of junior counsel in her chambers in Phillip Street in half an hour. Harry detested Phillip Street. It was where the New South Wales Bar Association concentrated its power, a power its governing council had abused by suspending Harry from practice for unsatisfactory professional conduct not so many months earlier. Using an obscenity to a judge was his alleged offence, when all he’d done was quote somewhat ambiguously what his client had said to the police. Phillip Street was where Harry’s father (the once-eminent, Brylcreemed QC Wallace Curry, now resident in a luxurious North Shore retirement facility) had introduced him to the Bar by buying him the right to occupy a room on his old floor at a cost of $350,000, fifteen years ago. Ancient history, that — Harry was now a displaced barrister of no fixed professional abode. With considerable justification, Harry never felt welcome in the street, and avoided the legal faubourg whenever possible.
With those fifteen years under his belt, Harry would ordinarily have been entitled to expect appointment as a member of the Inner Bar — a Senior Counsel. No more QCs, of course. Republican sentiment in the State Labor government had seen to that, twenty years ago. The view from the president of the Bar Association’s chambers was that junior counsel had to keep his or her nose clean while the requisite fifteen years were racked up and, admiring of Harry’s super-robust advocacy as many of his learned friends were, none would seriously contend that his record of professional behaviour was without blemish. Never a silk, always a stuff. As if he cared.
Harry took a table at the back of the café and put down his bag. He sat facing the street, so he could keep an eye out for Arabella, and also for lawyers he would not welcome to his table. There were plenty about, but none approached him. Harry ordered fried eggs on toast, bacon, tomato and sausage and a long black, and hadn’t long to wait before it arrived. As it did, he saw the former New South Wales Attorney-General settling himself at a table by the window. The Attorney and his government had been thrown out of office by the voters ten days earlier, and while previously the first law officer had always breakfasted attended by barrister acolytes hoping for some crumbs from his table (judicial appointment, a brief in a Royal Commission or, at worst, a magistrate’s job), he was now alone and unfawned-upon. Harry concentrated on the food in front of him. He had no reason to feel any affection for this Attorney.
His plate clean and his coffee cup almost empty, Harry looked up from the newspaper the waitress had given him to catch a glimpse of Arabella ascending the steps to Wentworth Chambers. Head-turningly tall, elegant in a short black jacket, silk dress and high heels, carrying her laptop slung over her shoulder and a bunch of flowers in her hand. She always had flowers in her room. He smiled. The woman he loved, almost from the moment she marched up to him in this very street after his disastrous disciplinary hearing and tentatively proposed a professional alliance in which he would be the strategist and she the mouthpiece.
At first, Arabella had been happy to have Harry’s guidance in running minor criminal trials (on Legal Aid), but members of the Women Lawyers Association, already admiring her exoticism, had noted her growing rate of success — and confidence — and started briefing her in seriously rewarding commercial matters. A better class of client, they assured her, than those deadbeats she’d been looking after at Darlinghurst and the Downing Centre emporium of justice. It was plain to Harry that the Women Lawyers wished to take possession of the striking import from the London Bar, and he didn’t blame her for accepting the better paid work. Still together in court from time to time, they managed to look after the criminal clients of Goulburn solicitor David Surrey, Harry’s longstanding and long-suffering confidant and work-provider, and ran a number of other worthwhile cases involving the liberty of the subject. Harry said the real deadbeats were the CEOs on twelve million a year.
The personal alliance between Harry and Arabella had developed very soon after the professional one. It was all her idea, but it hadn’t been easy for either of them. Harry confessed to sexual and social awkwardness, but it didn’t take Arabella long to overcome both. Then Harry’s increasing disenchantment with the profession had thoughtlessly put five hundred kilometres between them: he was now resident on twelve hectares of riverfront farmlet down near the Victorian border at Burragate, and appeared in bread-and-butter matters in the southern provincial courts, while Arabella remained in her Vogue Living-style apartment overlooking Elizabeth Bay. When Harry came to town, he slept there. They still loved each other, and she was pregnant.
Harry drained his cup and left money on the table to cover his meal and a generous tip. As he left the café, he paused beside the ex-Attorney-General’s table. The man — resembling nothing so much as a bluetongue lizard in a suit and tie — kept his bald head down, reading the Herald. He didn’t acknowledge Harry’s presence, keeping his eyes on the paper. Harry flicked the pages with his second finger, as if brushing away a fly.
‘You’ll find Positions Vacant at the back,’ he said. The redundant politician removed his glasses and looked up, but said nothing as Harry smiled pleasantly, turned and strolled with his athlete’s gait across the road to catch the lift to Arabella’s floor.
A receptionist rose and tried an ‘Excuse me, sir …’ as Harry, still smiling, emerged from the lift and headed down the corridor without submitting to her authority. A senior junior barrister (one of Harry’s contemporaries, if not his friend) who was loitering nearby with a coffee in one hand and a tabloid newspaper in the other explained to the young woman that it was all right. ‘That’s Mr Curry, Natalie. The boyfriend. Never been known for his manners.’ Natalie sniffed. ‘GPS school, of course.’
The door to Arabella’s small room (at the back of the building, view of an air shaft) was open, and Harry entered without knocking and sat in one of the clients’ chairs opposite her. Arabella had been reading her emails. Other floor members walked to and fro in the corridor outside, some heading off to court in their wigs and gowns, clients and attorneys in their wake.
‘Cosa c’è di nuovo?’
The elegant woman looked up and smiled. ‘Not much.’ She stood and they both leaned across the heavily laden desk to kiss. ‘Did you sleep in that suit?’
‘Little plane, big bloke. You know how it is.’ But he was acutely and admiringly aware that on Arabella’s too-infrequent trips south she al
ways emerged from the plane looking like a model ready for a photo shoot. Even her jeans were elegant. He had no idea how she did it, because she was almost as tall as he, and no better suited to the cramped aircraft.
‘You’re not in court today, Bella, are you?’
‘No. Doctor’s appointment at eleven.’
He frowned. ‘What’s the matter?’
A pitying look from Arabella. ‘Nothing’s the matter. The obstetrician, Harry. Once a month.’
Abashed. ‘Yes, sorry. Of course.’ A pause. ‘You look terrific. Radiant, as they say. Blooming.’
‘I feel terrific. It agrees with me.’
‘Don’t tell me you two are already conversing?’
Arabella looked to one side and spoke over her shoulder. ‘I’m just looking for some pink tape to strangle you with.’ She turned back, leaned across the desk again, and touched his cheek. ‘We have to talk about this, you know.’
‘I do know. That’s really why I’ve come up. That and to have a talk with the Bar Association.’
‘About what?’
‘They’re unhappy about me claiming the farm as my chambers.’
‘Is there something wrong with that?’
‘No. I could practise out of the boot of my car, like the Lincoln Lawyer, if I wanted to. What they don’t like is me giving my professional address as Ned Kelly Chambers, Burragate. I’m going to offer them some alternatives — Christopher Skase Chambers or Marcus Einfeld Chambers.’
‘Do you think that’s wise, Captain Mainwaring?’ She raised her eyebrows. Arabella’s Anglophile father, a London GP, never missed a re-run of Dad’s Army.
Harry shrugged. ‘They had no problem with naming chambers after Garfield Barwick and Edmund Barton. Ned wasn’t even a politician, let alone a tax evader. They tell me there’s a university named after Alan Bond, and it’s alleged to have a law school. I rest my case.’
‘If it’s a boy, I hope he’ll be as fearless as you, Harry. I just want him to know the meaning of restraint.’
‘A much overrated quality, if you ask me. Just think how destructive the banks would be if Jesus had restrained himself with the money-lenders in the temple.’
Arabella laughed. ‘I fear you’ve been on your own down there too long, my love, talking to the chickens. You need a bit of time in the city, with people.’
‘Also overrated.’ He picked up a folder from her desk and flicked through its pages. ‘That’s about enough avoiding the subject, isn’t it?’
‘Yes it is. But can we go for a walk? I don’t want us to talk about the baby in here.’
It being a beautiful spring morning, they decided on the Botanic Gardens. Crossing Macquarie Street at the Hospital and turning left, Harry asked whether Arabella’s reference to the child being a boy was an informed one.
‘No, and I don’t intend to find out before the birth.’
He nodded. ‘But we have to think about names.’
‘Harry, we need to debate surnames.’ She looked through the railings at a Parliament House attendant hoisting the New South Wales flag.
‘Yes, we do.’ They strode on in silence past the State Library, and beneath the statue of Matthew Flinders, overshadowed by Port Jackson figs. At the lights controlling traffic coming up from Woolloomooloo, Arabella’s attention was attracted by a highly decorated red bus whose open upper deck was occupied by smiling tourists (to whom Sydney was something to be experienced entirely through their digital viewfinders) and their guide, pointing toward the Opera House with an outstretched arm. The lights changed in the couple’s favour, and they crossed to enter the Gardens, joggers brushing past them. Sydney on a spring morning. After walking the meandering, freshly hosed paths in silence for five minutes, they found a bench and sat. The harbour coruscated in the distance, and there was bright new growth on the trees. Gardeners were planting annuals from trays and watering them. Harry pointed to the purple buds that were starting to appear on the jacarandas.
‘They used to say at Sydney Uni that if you hadn’t done the work by the time the jacarandas were in flower, you’d fail your exams. They even said it in my father’s day.’
‘And in your own case?’
‘Proved to be true.’ He paused and looked at his hands. ‘Is marriage one of today’s topics?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are we discussing it romantically, or as lawyers?’
‘As lovers, Harry. As parents.’
‘But I’ve always wanted —’
‘No Harry, don’t leap to conclusions. I’m not asking you to marry me. At least, this isn’t something that arises because I’m pregnant. The baby’s practically irrelevant.’
‘Let me think about that for a minute.’ It was obvious from Harry’s expression that he was struggling. He took off his tie, rolled it in a ball and put it in his jacket pocket. Then he removed his jacket and dropped it onto the grass. ‘Okay, I’m a dinosaur. I would have assumed that the pregnancy was a relevant consideration in deciding about our future. I just don’t know what you’re telling me: we’ve never spoken about marriage. Love, yes. Marriage, no. If you’d ever asked me, at any time since we became lovers, I would have said that of course I want us to marry, but it never came up. Until now. I didn’t buy the farm and sell Erskineville because I wanted us to live apart — it was because I didn’t want to work in Sydney any more. To be more accurate, I didn’t want to work in the law any more, or no more than I absolutely have to. Still, what else can I do? I never learned to lay bricks. I’ve never tried to persuade you to come and live our lives at Burragate, have I?’
‘No, you haven’t.’
‘That’s always been up to you, and I agreed you had to give the commercial work a good hard try.’
‘Yes, you did.’
‘And it’s going well?’
Arabella put her hand on Harry’s. ‘It’s going very well. Not that I delight in it — being a damages-minimiser and debt-collector. But it pays a lot better than crime, and my lifestyle’s not cheap, even without the baby. Nannies don’t come cheaply, either.’
‘You plan one of those short maternity leaves, then back to work with a stranger raising our child in an apartment? When there’s a farm and a river and air so clean that the fruit trees get those growths that die in city air?’
‘You haven’t told me about those.’
Harry became enthusiastic. ‘I went to the nursery in Eden and showed them a branch I broke off one of the cherries. It has this fine growth on it like coral that I thought was a fungus, and I wanted a spray to deal with it. They told me it’s not a problem, and that it only grows where the air is really pure. The nursery staff think it’s great, Burragate. Like all the locals, they call it Buggarit.’
‘You love that place, don’t you? It’s important to you.’
‘Yes, and for all that I’d sell it at the drop of a hat if you wanted me to come back up to Sydney and live with you, married or not.’
She put her arm around him and kissed his cheek. ‘Do you want to apply for the job of nanny, Harry?’
‘No. For the job of father.’
Arabella found herself needing to do something with her hands, but hadn’t brought a bag or even her handkerchief. ‘Let’s get a cup of coffee.’ They stood, Harry picked up his jacket, and they walked downhill to the kiosk, where they took a table on the deck overlooking the pond. Birds were arguing in the trees and a primary school excursion was threading its way along the path, jostling and bumping and squealing.
Harry gave their orders to a waitress and waited until she left. ‘The job’s not taken, is it?’
‘You’re the father, Harry. Nobody can deny you that.’
‘It’s the job of father I’m talking about, not the biological fact. It’s an executive role.’
‘So it is.’
‘Is it in Elizabeth Bay, this position?’
‘Not in the long term, no. Not necessarily. But my mother insists on coming over before the birth, and I have to assume for a wh
ile afterwards.’
‘Fine with me, Bella. I’m not applying for a position as grandmother.’
‘What I hoped was this, Harry: that you’d stay with me for the period immediately before the birth, going up and down to the farm if you have to. Just be there when my mother comes to Sydney, and be there at the birth, but let her have the run of the place for a month or so after the baby arrives.’
‘And after that?’
‘After that we make our decisions.’
‘On what subjects?’
‘Nannies, marriage, domicile.’
‘Name? Names?’
‘The surname’s Curry. You may imagine that my mother might think that’s a trifle unfortunate, but I told her it’s not negotiable.’
‘Christian name TBA?’
Arabella laughed. ‘Who said anything about my child being a Christian? Neither of her parents is.’
‘As you say. I shall, being suitably chastened, politically correct myself: first names TBA, then?’
The coffees arrived. Later, they walked down the sun-dappled path to the sea wall, holding hands. When it was time, Harry went with Arabella back uphill to Macquarie Street and sat in the obstetrician’s waiting room during her consultation, rapidly solving the quick crossword in the Herald. Arabella came out smiling and introduced Harry to the doctor, a woman. She looked both of them up and down.
‘Probably a very tall baby,’ she said.
Both parents laughed.
‘Dr Rose says it’s due in six months, Harry.’ The doctor nodded.
‘Pisces, then,’ Harry said.
Arabella looked mildly shocked. ‘Harry Curry, you don’t?’
‘I do. They’re hopeless dreamers, Pisces.’
The women exchanged mock-sad looks.
Harry spread his hands and opened his eyes wide. ‘What? I got that from the crossword.’
Harry had left his overnight bag in Arabella’s room, perhaps unsubtly, yet as he accompanied her back to chambers no invitation was issued for him to spend the night at Elizabeth Bay, and he chose not to raise the subject. Arabella had been waiting for him to do so, and when neither referred to it they parted with both feeling unhappy, Harry carrying away the offending item of luggage. Arabella worked her way through a series of conferences with witnesses lined up for her District Court case the following month, at half-hour intervals for the whole afternoon.
Harry Curry: Rats and Mice Page 1