by John Mayer
He wasn’t the most senior Advocate in the court, but Sotheby always acted as though he was; a habit formed from too many meetings with government officials in which no-one ever challenged what he said. With his gown half falling off his shoulders and twiddling a red pencil, his cut-glass accent more pierced the air around his lordship than respectfully answer the question:
‘Oh that’s an easy one. I’m in possession of a ministerial certificate approving of this development and whether Mr McLane likes it or not, I …’
‘Mr Sotheby! I didn’t ask about your precious ministerial certificate. I asked whether it was legal to demolish the whole of the Calton area of Glasgow when it would appear, as Mr McLane says, that the government in London and the local government in Glasgow, only seems to need half of the Calton for their motorway? I hope I don’t have to repeat myself again, but I do ask, what have new shopping developments got to do with anything?’
Lifting a scribbled note from Pembroke, Sotheby read it and breathed more easily:
‘Oh, indeed, my lord. As my learned friend points out, engineering works and removal of thousands of large stones, roof timbers and other materials from the demolished houses will require a great deal more space than just the boundary of the motorway extension. I’m sure your lordship understands that such large scale public works cannot turn on a half-penny.’
‘What? I’m no civil engineer, but that proposition must be nonsense. Are you seriously saying that you need to demolish half of the Calton just to put up cranes and turn trucks and lorries? Why can’t all of the things you mentioned not simply be removed as the work proceeds? The approach being taken here seems to me to be a very blunt one indeed. Or is there something else in play which cannot be detected from your legal pleadings?’
Before Sotheby could answer, the sound of a hundred breaths behind him reinforced the Lord Justice General’s question. Driven into a corner and being pummelled left and right, Sotheby took the only course open to him:
‘I can honestly say that I’m not certain what the precise civil engineering requirements will be, my lord. All I can say is the certificate allows …’
‘Yes, yes, yes. All right. I think I’ve heard enough about this certificate.’
The Lord Justice General hadn’t even glanced at the ice sculptures sitting to his left and right; knowing perfectly well that with the Chief Justice of Botswana sitting listening and a shorthand writer taking down every word, they couldn’t pull any of their usual tricks because these would show up in print.
‘Mr McLane.’
‘My lord.’
‘Are those two gentlemen behind you properly elected officers of the Calton Residents' Association and thus represent the whole of the Petitioners?’
‘They were and they do, my lord.’
‘Ah good. And are they accordingly empowered to provide you with instructions on all and any matters arising from today’s proceedings?’
‘They most certainly are, my lord.’
‘Thank you Mr McLane.’
Taking a careful note in his day book, the Lord Justice General took his time about his next move. Laying down his red pencil, he leaned back into his sumptuous chair, twisted his white handlebar moustache and focused on the two nervous Queen’s Counsel who were trying to avoid his gaze:
‘Mr Pembroke. Mr Sotheby.’
Both rose into the glare of history’s merciless inevitability. Down in the well of the court, the shorthand writer who’d been specially hired for the occasion, was recording every word for the Parliament House Journal entry which always followed a visit to the court by a foreign dignitary. And now there was also the matter of the new ‘Faculty News’. Any devious move would be instantly spotted by Parliament House practitioners and academics alike; giving rise to journal articles in which the deviants’ names would be recorded for posterity. With her pencil poised, the shorthand writer waited.
Like two schoolboys standing in the Head’s Study, their answers came out simultaneously:
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Last night as Chief Justice Ngwato and I were reading the Petitioners’ pleadings and your formal Answers, he asked me a question which was already forming in my mind. With all these issues outstanding, why haven’t these three senior Advocates put their heads together in a Joint Consultation and sorted the whole lot out? Now, I’m bound to say that in my day when appearing before this court, that is exactly what would've happened. So, can either of you explain to me why that hasn’t happened? Is it really necessary for you to take up what will be weeks if not months of court time to resolve all of these issues? For instance, I’m particularly troubled by you asking this court to vary the Burdens in a Land Disposition - a rather old one I grant you - but you give no reasons why this court is competent to do so, or indeed why it should do so other than that it might cost a lot of money to complete your works if we don’t. It’s not obvious to me whether you two have actually read the Burdens clause in question, but I have and it’s very plain that it lasts in perpetuity. So I have to say that I was somewhat shocked at the audacity of your request. Well? What do you have to say?’
With their heads hung and trying not to be the first to confer with the other, Pembroke and Sotheby shifted from foot to foot, flicked at their bundles of papers, put on spectacles, took them off again and wished for the ground to open up below them.
‘Ha! Nothing. I thought not. And another thing. I see an empty chair behind you. So I’m driven to ask; where is your client? Mr McLane has his. Indeed, he seems to have a plethora of them. You should both know that in this court it’s vital to have your client available to give instructions so that precious court time isn’t wasted by endless consultations which could’ve been avoided had the client been in court and heard the proceedings. So I repeat. Where is the person who is authorised to give you instructions to appear on behalf of Glasgow City Council?’
In more than enough trouble, Sotheby tried a gambit: ‘Actually, my lord, my client is the Secretary of State for Housing and Urban Development and Secretaries of State do not usually come to court. I’ve known it to happen in London, but not here in Parliament House.’
Now leaning back to the point where he could feel Auld Faither’s wheezy breathing on his neck, McLane couldn’t remember when he’d last won a day in court by saying so little. The Lord Justice General was doing all the work for him. This question of the absent client may have sounded to some up in the balcony like mere procedure, but this was a serious point. All that Pembroke could offer was that his client was busy with important Council matters and was content to receive a report of proceedings later in the day.
Looking relieved to be addressing a counsel who was doing all the right things, the Lord Justice General turned back towards McLane:
‘Mr McLane. I’m getting the clear impression that you are … how shall I put this? You are not the blockage to these very serious and important matters being resolved by negotiation. Am I correct?’
‘Indeed, your lordship is correct.’
‘Hmm. Yes. Well in this sorry situation, I regret that I have no power to order a Joint Consultation, far less a series of Joint Consultations. All I can do is order the Keeper of the Rolls of Court not to allow any of these matters to proceed until I see some resolution, clarification and some proper legal defences to the issues raised in the Petition which is before the court this morning. I’m also ordering that the shorthand writer appointed today will be present to record all that’s said and done during any future hearings on the many issues between these parties. Should I decide that insufficient progress is being made, then I will, when the matter comes back before the court, punish the offenders with appropriate orders. Is that clear?’
The Respondents’ counsels’ silence and McLane’s bow from the neck were the only answers the Lord Justice General needed. But the wily old judge wasn’t done. With a glance down at the shorthand writer, his lordship was careful to use measured tones and chose his words very carefully:
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‘And one last thing. I consider that the court’s time has largely been wasted this morning and that the fault therein lies with the Respondents’ legal teams and the absence of the Glasgow City Council officer who is at the back of all this. The reason for all this shifting sand between the parties is caused by the Respondents’ written answers; which I consider to be vague and designed to obfuscate rather than clarify matters. Mr McLane. Having heard what I’ve just said, do you have any Motion to make?’
Rocketing to his feet, McLane called out for all to hear: ‘I seek legal costs for this morning’s proceedings and all preparations for it.’
‘So ordered! Clerk of Court. Let the record show that all legal costs - and the costs of attendance in court this morning by all and any member of the Calton Residents' Association - who are after all Petitioners - are to be paid equally between the two Respondents within seven days. That is all.’
~~~~~~~
End of Part Eight
Part Nine : Wounded Women
Chapter 52
Among the swarms of multi-coloured students sitting outdoors lunching and debating, cycling to and fro between the Adam Smith Building and the Law School all the while talking on their phones, in her loose striped black and white top, calf-length yellow slacks and black penny loafers, Ababuo McLane felt that she already fitted right in here. Up and down University Avenue, every twenty metres or so banners flew proclaiming ‘World Changers Welcome’ and ‘Learning is For Ever’.
Slipping her arm out from her father’s, Ababuo did some dance steps for a few metres. The talk they’d had about how she was duped by Anastasia and assuring her that the evidence could only hurt if he didn’t know about it, had done the trick and her anger about being so naïve, now seemed to be firmly behind her. With her braided hair swinging at her back, she seemed to McLane to be happier than she’d been for quite a long time. Watching her dance was like looking at a girl who’d dropped a sack of sand after carrying it for months. Catching her up, he took her hand:
‘So! Glasgow University Law School, huh? Traitor! Traitor, I say!’
Squeezing her father’s hand, Ababuo’s tone was equivocal: ‘Well, I’m still not a hundred percent sure. The Dean’s talk was great and he seemed like a really nice guy. I could tell he was really impressed that you were there. I just love the vibe here, Dad and no-one’s even given me a second look. I like that. I think I could fit in here so easily. It’s not like when I started school and I was the only black girl. Don’t get me wrong. When mum took me to see Oxford? The whole place was amazing; but I could tell mum wasn’t keen on me being that far away. Over lunch I mentioned the idea of going somewhere in Africa and she nearly collapsed.’
‘Ah yes, she told me. She would say she wants you to be able to pop home in an hour. But what she really wants, is you somewhere she can lay her hands on you within an hour. I can’t say I blame her. It’s different from … Well, let’s just say other mothers have had their kids for eighteen years or so. We’ve only had you for five. Anyway, your final decision is about a year and a half away yet. So you may feel differently by then. And so might your mother.’
Approaching the car with the keys in his hand, McLane stopped: ‘You know, we don’t have to leave the campus. We could eat lunch around here or go somewhere else in Glasgow you’ve never seen. You don’t know Glasgow very well. It’s up to you.’
Rubbing behind her ear the way she’d done since the day they got her, Ababuo didn’t need time to think: ‘Actually, on the drive over I thought I’d like to see the house. Your aunt Bella’s house, I mean. Where you grew up.’
‘The Calton? Darling, the Calton isn’t the nicest place in the world. And Bella’s is just a tiny little flat.’
Over the top of her white-rimmed sunglasses, Ababuo gave her father a look well beyond her years. He sometimes did that; he forgot that she could remember Mbara’s men crashing through the straw roof of their hut, wielding machetes, screaming, chopping limbs off and setting fire to everything.
‘Sorry, darling. I just don’t want to remind you of … anything.’
‘Oh that’s OK. Professor Byres showed me how to remember it all without emotionally going there. It’s fine. You know, I was going to visit her with Mum. You remember, just before the outbreak? So we never made it. I liked your aunty Bella when she came to stay that weekend, but she sat on the sofa so stiff and proper most of the time. The only time she relaxed really, was when she was cooking. What’s the saying? She was like a fish out of water?’
‘Yeah, that was Bella in Edinburgh, all right. She couldn’t wait to get back to Jean and her pals. OK. If you really want to see the old place, I’ve got a key. Let’s go.’
In the few miles and twenty minute drive from the West End to the Calton, Ababuo sensed the changes along the way. Gradually the faces changed until all were white; or more accurately, ashen. The clothes were now cheap and fitted badly. And, there was one more big difference from the West End and University Avenue. The breeze seemed to hold a frisson of danger. But her father didn’t seem to notice any of it. Parking the Range Rover where she thought it would be stolen in five minutes, he stepped out and didn’t even lock it. Immediately he was called from across the street: ‘Hullo Brogan! How ye’ doin’ my man?’ Walking the fifty metres or so to the tenement opening, at least half a dozen people smiled ‘Hello’ to him as they passed. When they reached the corner, he stopped. Pointing around, he seemed almost apologetic for the dirt and grime on the granite stones; as though every stone was his responsibility:
‘Well, this is it. The Calton Bar is just around that corner over there and The Baths is still open; for the moment. The Baths is what we call a public wash house and ours even has a swimming pool; a small one. Wee Malky’s shop is right down the street. It doesn’t look like much, but it’s what’s inside the houses that matters to me. Anyway, this is the stair, as we call it. Let’s go up.’
As soon as they entered the stairway, Ababuo smelled something she hadn’t smelled in a very long time and something about this aroma immediately shot her straight back to Africa. Upstairs, when her father opened the front door, the smell increased. As the years were passing, she could remember less and less detail about her village, but this was different. And then she got it:
‘Is that burned pig I can smell?’
Looking at his daughter quizzically, McLane shook his head: ‘Burned pig? No. How on earth did you come up with that?’
Stepping inside, he drew a deep breath: ‘Ah! It’s the chip fat you can smell. Bella was old school when it came to cooking. She always used lard, which is animal fat. That must be it. You know, it was a toss-up between my mother and Bella as to who made the best chips - that’s ‘fries’ to you.’
‘OK. What’s a toss-up?’ In asking the question, in her mind’s eye Ababuo was standing near the village grain store, watching the women fork up the wheat and seeing the cloud of chaff blowing away into the sky.
Chuckling at her girlish ignorance, McLane always enjoyed answering such questions and kissed her on the cheek. ‘I mean the toss of a coin. Heads or tails. Capiche?’
Giving her father a mock punch on the arm, Ababuo’s whole frame sunk in mock surprise: ‘Uh Duhh! Of course. I’m sixteen and I’ve watched The Godfather with you like a million times.’
To McLane it felt so terribly sad being back in this old house with no Bella fussing around him, filling the kitchenette with her rolls of fat and talking loudly in her broad Glaswegian accent. For Ababuo the place was more the size of a hut than a house. This was very far from the house of her Edinburgh QC father who was the Scottish National Security Commissioner. There was no dining room, no chandelier in the hallway - indeed no hallway, no upstairs and nowhere but the back of the front door to hang your coat. And it was cold. Folding her arms for warmth, Ababuo looked around. Pointing to a rectangular alcove where a sofa-like thing had a shawl thrown over it, Ababuo asked:
‘Is that a sofa? It’s quite wide for such
a small house.’
McLane couldn’t help but burst out laughing. Ababuo looked nonplussed as he actually had to put his hand over his mouth to stop:
‘No darling. That’s what’s called a recessed bed. I slept in that bed for nearly eighteen years. Right up until I left for Edinburgh University. I thought it was quite comfy until I slept on a brand new bed in the university Halls.’
From the moment her father had closed the door, Ababuo had remained on the same spot. Her face showed all her curiosity about this tiny house, but when she began to shiver, McLane reached out and held her:
‘Are you OK, sweetheart? Is something the matter?’
Pressing close to him, Ababuo turned her head to look out of the window: ‘No, I’m OK. It’s just … that it’s so small. And with the washing bowl at the window and the bed being so close to it … and you being my father now … I just got a clear picture of … one night. Actually, it was the last night before we … we left. But I’m OK.’
Ababuo had initially opened up more to Joanne than to him about her young years in Africa and that was how Professor Byres had advised they keep things. He’d heard from Joanne everything she’d told her, but it wasn’t like hearing it out of her own mouth. Maybe it was that they’d reached the point of scouting universities or just that she was getting much more mature. Whatever the reason, McLane decided to take a step into her other world:
‘In Africa?’
Nodding, Ababuo drew a deep breath and looked into her father’s face: ‘Sorry. This hasn’t happened for ages. Maybe even a year. Professor Byres says that when I get scared about it, I should go to something I didn’t have then. Something that just came into my life here. But I don’t suppose …’
Pushing her back and holding her by the shoulders, McLane smiled broadly at his beautiful daughter: ‘Wrong! There is something in this house that I’m sure you won’t have had there.’