Case for Compensation

by Douglas Stewart

  Bouchin set off again in the direction of London. In his mirror he could see the Viva right behind like a stray dog. It was odd, but no more than that. At least not then. It was very odd when the Viva followed the lorry into the Industrial Estate at Basingstoke! Bouchin parked in the Depôt. There outside was the Viva.

  Charlie Wilkinson watched. Bouchin went in. Bouchin came out with the Transport Manager. The Englishman was a short, fattish man who walked with busy little strides like a clockwork soldier in a demob suit. To add to his image of status he carried a clipboard. Charlie knew the type.

  The two men approached the Viva. Bouchin stood near the bonnet. The Transport Manager stood by the driver’s door. Deliberately, Charlie made no attempt to open the window. The little man was nonplussed. He was being ignored. He hopped uncertainly from foot to foot. Charlie started to read his paper. This was just too much! Rap, rap. A knuckle struck the window. Charlie looked up and saw the furious, round, bespectacled face peering in. He lowered the window.

  “Do you mind not knocking my car about?” Charlie demanded. The Transport Manager was wrong-footed. “I thought you knew that I wanted a word,” he replied.

  “No.”

  “What are you up to?”

  “Nice of you to ask. I’m sitting here reading a paper. Hey—are you from Candid Camera?”

  “No I’m not!” snapped the man, his eyes bulging. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but I suggest that you clear off before I call the Police.”

  “Why?”

  “Because . . . because . . . because I don’t like people hanging around my premises.”

  “Oh, these are your premises, are they? I assumed you were just a clerk.” The remark, calculated to sting, did so.

  “I am” the man said importantly, “Group Transport Manager, if you must know.”

  “And I’m the Queen of Tonga.” Charlie started to look at his paper again. “No, I don’t care who you are. I don’t want to know at all.” He started to close the window.

  “Now just a minute,” interjected the man.

  “Sorry,” replied Charlie,” I thought you’d finished.”

  “No. I hadn’t.” The small moustache twitched. He looked at Bouchin for reassurance, but got none. He knew he was getting the runaround.

  “D’you want a winner for the three-thirty?” Charlie suggested helpfully.

  “No, I don’t want any bloody tips.” The eyes blinked. The voice was petulant.

  “Well, what do you want? You want to buy my car, is that it? Sorry—it’s not for sale.”

  The Transport Manager could stand no more of it. He smashed the clip-board onto the bonnet and regretted it at once. Charlie stepped out of the car—all six feet three inches of him.

  “Just watch it, little man! If you touch my car again I’ll mince you through the fan belt. Just clear off!”

  “I’m sorry,” said the Transport Manager. “All I want to know is what your game is.”

  “Game? Game?” enquired Charlie incredulously. “I’m not playing any game at all.”

  “I happen to know you followed this driver from Plymouth.” The remark was produced like a rabbit from a hat.

  “You amaze me. Go on.”

  “Well, that’s it.”

  “You don’t have to tell me where I’ve just come from, Mr Transport Manager. Goodbye.”

  The little man gave up. He’d played every card at the wrong moment. He turned away, wondering how he could fob off the defeat as a victory to the Frenchman. As they walked away Charlie called him back. “Here’s my card. It’s a long way following from Marans. You can tell that to Bouchin if your French is up to it. I’ll be telling my boss what I have seen too.”

  “Your boss?”

  “Yes, it’s to do with a certain accident last October.” Charlie jumped into his car and drove away, leaving the two men staring after him.

  *

  The bar of the Queen’s Parlour was quiet. It was the in-between time. Most of the office staff had gone home, but a couple of illicit romancers sipped cocktails. The locals were not yet expected. Seated in the inglenook was Alistair Duncan reading an article about sea-trout fishing. It brought back many happy memories and hopes for the season ahead. In front of him was a pint of bitter as he waited for Charlie Wilkinson.

  “You look tired. Let me get you a drink,” said the solicitor when the agent arrived.

  “I deserve it. Guinness, please.”

  “And the usual?” Duncan enquired. Charlie grinned.

  “Thanks.”

  “And faggot and peas for Mr Wilkinson, Rosie.”

  “Twice?” Rose smiled at her favourite solicitor. She knew the answer already.

  “The day you see me eating faggots, you’ll really know I’m finished.”

  “And that’s not far off from what I’ve been reading in the papers. About you and that Judge.”

  “Didn’t know you read newspapers. Eating your chips at the time, were you?” Rosie shook her fist as Duncan continued. “I’m not drummed out of the Brownies yet. To prove it, I can still afford a steak.” He turned to Charlie Wilkinson. “Come on, Charlie, change your mind and have a plate of brains. It’d do you good.”

  As they waited for their food the two men sat down. “He certainly knew he was followed”, volunteered Charlie.

  “Well done. No punch-ups, were there?”

  “No! Lambs to the slaughter!” Charlie then unfolded the events of the day.

  On the short drive home, Duncan thought a lot about Charlie. He had been lucky not to be roughed up. Bouchin was not to be underestimated. But his thoughts were more of Charlie than of Bouchin. There had been that time at Clevedon! Duncan smiled to himself. He had been called from bed to go to the Police Station to vouch that Charlie was a private eye and not a Peeping Tom. Charlie had been trying to get evidence in a divorce case. The sight of Charlie in the cells, his coat and trousers savaged by a dog, was still memorable. But the world would be poorer without him.

  Duncan swung the Stag through the white gates into the drive. The cottage looked as dark and empty as it was. It made him wonder what Hélène was doing. He decided to ring her.

  Chapter Eighteen – LONDON—MARCH

  “Lord preserve me from civil servants!” Alistair Duncan was walking along the sprawling corridors of the Office of Fair Trading. The Meeting to resolve a client’s advertising problems had been a waste of time. Limpet-like, the civil servant had stuck to his mandate; not a question had been answered, not an inch had been given.

  Cocooned unreality left behind, Duncan joined the quickening pace of the commuter rush hour in a wet Chancery Lane. He steamed dry in the fug of the Central Line. Everywhere, there was numb resignation. Strap-hanging was a past, present and future. The Somerset hills seemed a million miles away as he surfaced to the roar of the Bayswater Road.

  He wondered if Hélène had checked in at the hotel. His pulse quickened as he enquired at Reception. Yes, she had arrived.

  He quickly showered and changed before knocking on her door.

  “Qui est là?”

  “Room service.” Hélène’s beautifully delicate features appeared. She looked stunning in a simple but fashionable outfit. For a second she looked puzzled and then she flung her arms around him, crushing the posy of flowers which he had bought downstairs. They stumbled into her room. The door closed.

  *

  The taxi purred into the wet darkness of Charlotte Street as the couple entered L’Etoile Restaurant, heavy with its whispered reminders of a life-style long past.

  Seated at their table they were enveloped in an immediate intimacy of atmosphere which drew them closer together. It had been difficult in the hotel.

  From the arrival of menus and Camparis the hands held across the table took on a special meaning. Tongues were loosened and there was so much to discuss. It wasn’t until the arrival of the coffee and vintage port that Duncan would even talk about Goodhart’s case. Then he recounted the strange journey throu
gh Northern France and the dangers which he had faced on the boat.

  “And will you win the case? You certainly deserve to, mon chéri.”

  “Maybe. We have got some good evidence now. Bouchin is going to have a rough ride in the witness box. He won’t like being questioned about his détour to see the girl at Vitré. It was incredible to find that the demure young girl of the photograph had become the pin-up girl.”

  “Jealous?” She commented, moving her head closer. She tapped him on the nose. “Aleestair, you are jealous.”

  “Me? You must be joking, she was as subtle as a naked light bulb and likely to end up the same shape the way she spends her afternoons!”

  “And me . . . Am I your type, Monsieur?”

  “Bien sûr.” Their eyes met for a moment. “Shall I get the bill now?” She nodded, clasping his hand tightly, her leg nestling against his under the table.

  On the hotel’s eighth floor, Duncan recalled his doubts at La Rochelle, when he had tried to judge Hélène’s intentions. He had no such doubts this time. Nothing had been said, nothing implied. Yet to share her room seemed the most obvious and natural thing. They went in together and stood by the window. Across the Park they could see Big Ben.

  “Must be striking midnight,” Duncan said, looking at his watch.

  “It’s the most timeless clock in the world,” she replied. “It’s a symbol. Probably the symbol of stability in England. Your country lurches from crisis to crisis, yet, whatever happens, that old clock reminds the world that times can change, but still leave dignity.”

  “Remind me to buy you a post card of it,” Duncan laughed. She pushed him playfully.

  “Don’t you take anything seriously?”

  “It has been known.” He pulled her close and their lips met, her head arched back to meet him. His arms searched under her coat and helped her ease it off. He found her body warm, vibrant and comfortable. In turn, her hands were running up and down his spine, sending alarmingly potent messages in all directions.

  It was all so gentle. Nothing rushed. Nothing hasty, for, after all, they had waited a long time. Every second of seduction was savoured, every inch of exploration was a journey. When at last they were both naked, Duncan swung his arms under her legs and carried her to bed.

  “Shouldn’t we shut the curtains?” She asked.

  “Pigeons can’t see in the dark,” he replied. He didn’t really know—or care.

  *

  For the lovers, anonymous in the weekend City, pleasures were simple. They enjoyed the park, the establishment shops of St James’ and the labyrinth of Shepherd’s Market. On Saturday night they went to the Villa Dei Cesari. The food and the Thames were at their best as they planned for the next day.

  Sunday was tinged with sadness knowing that Monday would be there when they awoke. Parting in that chilly dawn was painful. One fevered embrace and promise for the future followed another, yet it was only 6.15 when Duncan left the warmth of Hélène’s nakedness to drive back to Bristol. It was later than he had intended; sooner than he wanted. Somehow the prospect of the week ahead seemed less appealing than usual.

  Chapter Nineteen – STOKE MANDEVILLE—APRIL

  “It wasn’t a success.” Roger Goodhart was talking of his first spell at home.

  “Why?” Duncan sensed the answer.

  “She was cold, remote. She made no secret that she found me repulsive. With this set-back in my condition and my being stuck here, I think the gulf’s widening. Probably forever.”

  “We’ll see. You could be wide of the mark.” Duncan doubted it.

  The client, who had lost weight badly over the past few months, and whose legs hung thin in the trousers, looked hard at his solicitor. “I’ll tell you this; you must get me the damages. A big award may just persuade Alice to put up with me. Damages could change our life-style. You may have noticed she’s a shocking social climber.”

  “I guessed. By the way, I am sorry to say that there was nil response to my advert for drivers of black vans. I meant to tell you. But we’ve had some fun and games following Bouchin which may be useful. And this lorry driver from Newcastle! Wally Wood’s statement is dynamite. I called in to see him when I was on my way up to Murrayfield for the International.”

  “What did he say?”

  “If you pour me out a beer I’ll tell you.”

  Chapter Twenty – STOKE MANDEVILLE—MAY

  “Morning, Roger! How’s things today?” The coloured nurse enquired.

  “Fine. The children are coming today with their mother.”

  “I am sorry, but I’m afraid I have a phone message to give you.” She handed him a blue slip of paper. Roger read:

  “Mrs Goodhart telephoned to say that due to a heavy cold she wasn’t well enough to bring the children up from Hastings. She was sorry, but she would write.”

  “Thank you, Nurse. That’s a blow, isn’t it?” he said quietly towards his lap. She nodded gently. He wheeled himself down the ward, not knowing what to think.

  In fact, Alice Goodhart’s message had resulted from a chance meeting with Neil Masters, a pharmaceutical representative friend of Roger’s. She had met him in the street and he had asked her out for dinner on Saturday night “to cheer her up.” She had hesitated—not because of Roger, and even less because she found the idea abhorrent. She wanted to be discreet. The children might ask awkward questions. However, as she looked at the rugged face, bronzed by the Teneriffe sun, she found herself accepting. Roger would just have to wait. “Things,” she decided “are looking up at last.”

  Chapter Twenty-One – BRISTOL—MAY

  “Ill judged, unreasoning and tactless,” Duncan exclaimed as the door opened. Fetchingly elegant in a pale green outfit, cream blouse and a medallion on a chain, Lucy entered.

  “Am I? What’s up now?” She enquired.

  “Lucy!” Duncan paused for added affect. “We are celebrating!” His arms spread wide, his face was alight with pleasure. She handed him a cup of office coffee. He took a cautious sip. “My God! This stuff hasn’t improved even though they’ve cleaned the machine now. Marilyn swears that when it was opened they found ribbons of green slime as long as a conger!”

  “A dead conger, no doubt,” Lucy countered. “Nothing could survive in that machine. But why are we celebrating?”

  Duncan relit his pipe and flourished the letter like a conductor’s baton. “Lucy! We are drinking to someone whose behaviour has been called ‘ill judged, unreasoning and tactless’.” Duncan raised the mug of coffee. “Lucy, we drink to Mr Justice Lawrence Proster. May the Lord Chancellor send him to Clapham for a ride on his beloved omnibus.”

  “That’s pretty strong about a High Court Judge, isn’t it?” Lucy looked concerned. “You’ve been cleared then?”

  “Totally. We are not being struck off the Legal Aid Panel, either.” Duncan gave her the letter from the Committee who had investigated the Judge’s complaint and Duncan’s counter-allegations.

  “They fixed him good and proper. They have even sent the old bastard a copy of their findings. I’d give a year’s earnings to see his face.” He closed his eyes and day dreamed.

  “Your income or mine?” she said drily. “So that’s the end of it?”

  “Yes. I suppose so.”

  Lucy was worried. She felt the Committee had gone too far. During the afternoon the slogan “Someone, somewhere wants a luncheon voucher from you” was removed from the gnome. Her boss had ignored it anyway. She would replace it next week. Today she had a new message.

  Mr Justice Proster had received his copy of the letter at his home in the Temple. He had almost exploded, putting aside his breakfast untouched. The drizzly scene on the sometimes picturesque Fountain Court added to his depression. He sat silently wondering how he could fix this insolent young solicitor who had had the cheek to complain about him.

  “The trouble is these solicitors all stick together . . . compounding their own inefficiency. Anything to clear their own fellow.” His wife
nodded sympathetically. She was, however, reading Woman’s Own. She had long ago given up listening to her husband. The Judge’s little pink cheeks were puffed out with rage.

  “Thank God there are still reasonable people around like me. People who believe in good old-fashioned justice and discipline!”

  He mellowed as the day went on. He’d fix that young pup sometime. Not just yet, because he was at Manchester Crown Court, but sooner or later he would be back on the Western Circuit. Quite soon probably. He could wait.

  *

  The gnome’s cheerful face was the only constant in the kaleidoscope of chaos in which Lucy worked. Duncan read the new message.

  “Sir Lawrence laughed not at all at first;

  But when the Judge had quenched his thirst,

  With liquor strong, his fury past,

  He almost smiled, no longer cursed,

  Knowing his laugh would be the last.

  For was he not Her Majesty’s Judge

  And positioned well to repay a grudge?

  If not today, then not to worry.

  The chance would come to make him sorry.”

  He stood before the absurd figure. Lucy was right. An uncomfortable clamminess overtook him. Perhaps the Committee should have been less outspoken, for the scar on the Judge’s memory would be searing.

  The last two lines read like a demon’s chant in a Panto. It was unsettling, distinctly so. “Damn you, gnome!” He stamped out. The edge had gone off his day. It would be as well to keep away from Proster for a long while. It could be difficult. Suppose he took Goodhart’s case. That would sink it. Suppose he saw the photographs and realized that Duncan had got them whilst trespassing. “Damn you, gnome!”