“Why aye!” And then, after a pause and almost incongruously, “Sir.”
“By which route did you travel?”
“Usually the Plymouth–Roscoff Ferry. Every Monday out—every Thursday back; that is until I started on short trips around Yorkshire and the like.”
“When did you last use the Roscoff Ferry?”
“Aboot December twelvemonth.”
“Did you ever see Pierre Bouchin?”
“Yes.”
“Do you see him today?”
“Why aye! That’s him over there.” He smiled and pointed to the defendant who was too confused to return the smile. Duncan preferred to watch the witness’s chins which bounced distractingly whenever he moved.
“Where have you seen the defendant previously?”
“Every Thursday night for months. We got to know each other slightly.”
“Were you friends?”
“Friendly like, rather than friends. He stuck to his French mates, I stuck with mine.”
“Did you observe him on the boat?”
“I saw him on the boat, Sir.”
“How did he pass the crossing?”
“Eating, drinking and cards.”
“How long is the crossing then?”
“Aboot eight or nine hours on board. Sometimes less.”
“Is that a night crossing?”
“Yes. On board about 9.30/10.00 pm. The boat sailed at 11.00 or thereaboots. Docking was at 7.00 next morning.”
“Did the defendant sleep on board?”
“Not so far as I am aware.”
“Did he drive after docking?”
“Why aye man! Sorry, Sir!” he quickly apologised and drew a twinkle from the Judge.
“I’m sure no one objects, Mr Wood,” commented Mr Justice Salford, “so long as you show respect. It’s refreshing having a Geordie accent around here. Listening to you takes me back to the Newcastle Assizes down by the Tyne.”
“Why aye, Your Worship! It’s a canny place there!” replied the driver, beaming towards the Judge, his chest bursting with pride at being on terms with him.
“Now, Mr Wood,” continued the Q.C., “did you sleep on the boat yourself?”
“Aye! A quick meal—self-service like—a night cap and then I’d go to sleep out the crossing till breakfast. The defendant used to have a meal and a drink or two with his cronies.”
“But how do you know if you were asleep?”
“He told me.”
“In French?” enquired the Q.C., tongue in cheek, but knowing the answer full well.
“Why aye!” replied the Geordie. “I could understand him. Least he didna’ understand my English. Mind, he’s not alone in that!” A laugh went round the room. “We spoke, like, in passing, and he told me that he and his mates didna’ bother aboot sleep on the boat. They preferred to play cards and sleep over at the destination in England. Whether he slept or not on the boat, it still counted as rest periods for the purposes of the Regulations.”
“Could you have misunderstood him?”
“No, Sir.”
“Was this on just one trip?”
“No, Sir. I would say every trip. He allus sat at the same table with his mates. Bottle of Pernod or the like. Cards. In the morning, I’d find him still sitting at the same table.”
“Have you ever seen him up and about in the middle of the night?”
“Aye! I remember one night I couldna’ sleep. I got up aboot three or four. I walked roond the boat. He was awake. Playin’ cards like I told you. It was later that I spoke to him and he told me that they allus played cards all night.”
“Has it ever occurred to you, on any occasion, that Pierre Bouchin was drunk?”
“No Sir; not in the sense of singin’ the Blaydon Races and fallin’ aboot, but he and his mates allus seemed pretty happy.”
“How long have you been driving lorries, Mr Wood?”
“Fifteen years.”
“Is it tiring work?”
“Not so much physically now wi’ these modern lorries—power-steerin’, more comfort, more beef in the engine and better gears, but you still need your wits aboot you all the time with an artic.”
“Have you any views about a driver of an artic staying up all night drinking and then driving in the morning?”
“Chancey; very chancey.”
“Thank you, Mr Wood. I expect that Mr Jack has some questions to ask of you.”
The other Q.C., anxious not to appear flustered at what he had heard, rose to cross-examine. A flicker of a smile was always present on his face and this moment was no exception. He showed no concern. Nevertheless, he had been taken completely by surprise. He had to build from nothing.
Bouchin watched the scene around him, understanding barely a word of what was going on, blissfully unaware that a crucial part of the case against him had developed. He gazed at the folds in the back of the Q.C.’s gown and waited.
“How old are you, Mr Wood?”
“Thirty-six.”
“Are you married?”
“Yes I am.”
“Do you have children?”
“Yes. Three, seven and nine, Sir.”
“You’ve had broken sleep some nights, particularly when the two elder ones were small?”
“Why aye! We had trouble with the second one especially, Sir.”
“And I expect that, like most of us, you’ve had to just get on with the job, whether you felt up to it or not, after a bad night’s sleep?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Driving a lorry?”
“Yes.”
“Your lorry is similar to the defendant’s?”
“Aye!”
“And I expect that you drove just as well as usual on those occasions?”
“I think so, Sir.”
“You would agree, wouldn’t you, that a few hours’ sleep here or there to a grown man makes little difference to his capabilities?”
“Depends.”
“On what, Mr Wood?”
“On the person; whether it’s just a few hours. Whether it’s a lot of hours. Once or twice a week. All the time. What the job is and so on.”
“Let me be more specific; it would make no difference to a lorry driver to miss an occasional night’s sleep.”
“Mebbe, but I still think it’s stupid to drive without enjoying a good night’s sleep. It’s even worse if there’s drinking as well.”
“I’ll deal with the drinking in a moment. You had a cabin?”
“Yes.”
“If it were a rough crossing, perhaps you didn’t sleep very well?”
“Not always.”
“Yet you were still happy to drive in the morning?”
“Yes.”
“Sometimes, not slept at all?”
“On one occasion I can remember, yes.”
“Yet you drove your lorry in the morning?”
“Yes.”
“How far?”
“Wolverhampton.”
“Not much difference between that and driving to Basingstoke, is it?”
“Aboot the same, Sir.”
“You said that the defendant drank on the boat?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not suggesting that he drank to excess, are you?”
“There was a bottle of Pernod consumed overnight as well as drinks at the meal.”
“You can’t say that from what you saw.” Mr Jack stated positively.
“Well, the bottle was full at night and empty in the morning. Unless, of course, they gave it to the ship’s cat.” The Judge smiled discreetly into his hand.
“Come now, Mr Wood; there’s no room for flippancy. You’re suggesting that Monsieur Bouchin drank too much. This must be investigated—very carefully. You cannot say that this defendant drank too much Pernod, can you?”
“I suspect that he did.”
“Mr Wood, this is a Court of Law, suspicion means nothing. You didn’t see him drink a lot of Pernod?”
&nbs
p; “No.”
“It could have been his companions who drank the entire bottle between them.”
“Possible, but I don’t think so.”
“You cannot give evidence to the contrary from what you have seen, can you?”
“No.”
“He was never drunk, was he?”
“No.”
“You had friends on the boat yourself?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Did you sometimes tell stories to each other, laugh, give the appearance to others that you were enjoying yourselves?”
“I expect so.”
“Very well; why not the defendant and his friends?”
“Why aye!”
“So far I’ve been speaking generally. Can you remember the night before this accident and that particular crossing?”
“Not specifically, no.”
“So you can’t say whether or not Monsieur Bouchin went to bed that night?”
“I don’t think he did.”
“Thinking is an admirable pastime, Mr Wood, but it butters no parsnips in a Court of Law. You can’t say he didn’t go to bed, can you?”
“No.”
“You can’t say he drank any alcohol on that particular night.”
“I can’t remember that crossing as opposed to any other.”
“Thank you, Mr Wood.” The Q.C. sat down, well pleased with his efforts, feeling that he had done enough to destroy the worst of the dangers of Wood’s evidence.
It was Giles Holden’s turn once again. “Would it be fair to say that as far as you’re concerned one boat crossing was the same as the next?”
“Generally speaking, yes.”
“Can you recall any crossing where the defendant wasn’t sitting at a table with a bottle of Pernod?”
“Not after the first two or three crossings. He may have done then, but when the new Ferry started we were all strangers. New faces, new situations. But once the regulars became apparent, you got to know their habits.”
“Suppose that after months of crossing weekly on a Thursday night, Pierre Bouchin was on board and he went to bed after the meal. Would you have noticed that?”
“Sir! It would have been like a solitary Sunderland supporter at St James’s Park.”
“Very obvious?”
“Why aye!”
Giles Holden looked at the clock. “A convenient moment perhaps M’Lud?” Although he wasn’t saying so he had decided to call no further evidence.
“Mr Holden,” probed the Judge “you rightly described this case as difficult. If I may be permitted to think aloud, perhaps I might enquire whether you will be calling any evidence regarding the black van, or can I eliminate that vehicle from my mind and concentrate solely on the question of how much blame, if any, rests on Monsieur Bouchin?
“Without in any way pre-judging the matter; on what I have heard, so far, it seems hard to escape the fact that your client was on the wrong side of the road. You will understand, of course, that in thinking aloud, I am trying to make sure that I apply my mind to the correct issues—even at this stage.”
“Your Lordship has, with his usual foresight, grasped the nettle. In the absence of any evidence to the contrary, the case which I am presenting is that the plaintiff was on the wrong side of the road and that on the balance of probabilities an alert lorry driver would have avoided this accident. I shall be calling no evidence to suggest that there was a black van at the scene of the accident. Of course I do not speak for my learned friends.” He looked across to Hambleton Jack, thinking he might say something, but he didn’t. He sat very tight indeed.
“In short then, Mr Holden, your case is that the plaintiff’s negligence in being in the wrong place at the wrong moment was spent?”
“M’Lud, I couldn’t have put it any better.”
“Thank you, Mr Holden. Until ten-fifteen tomorrow then.”
McKay arrived at the Hotel just after five. Duncan was too involved to have time for courtesies.
“Got the documents?” he asked.
“Here they are.” A sheaf of variously coloured papers was handed over. The two men sat down.
“That’s the one I want. You’ve done well!” exclaimed the solicitor, flourishing a pink docket. “That makes up a bit for Cardiff.” He gave a rueful smile which made him look more boyish than ever. “What’s more, luckily for you, I avoided Proster. If I had got landed with Proster here you would have been condemned to a life-time of Conveyancing.” McKay looked relieved that he had done something right at last. “Let’s have dinner tonight, shall we?” McKay nodded his acceptance.
Chapter Twenty-Six – EXETER—DAY TWO
“I close my case, M’Lud.”
“Thank you, Mr Holden. Then it’s over to you at once, Mr Jack.”
The Judge’s piercing, grey-eyed stare fixed on the other Q.C.
“I propose calling the defendant. You understand that this witness speaks virtually no English. I have an interpreter present.”
“Go ahead, Mr Jack. Indeed, there were times yesterday when I felt in need of an interpreter for some of Mr Wood’s evidence.” There was polite laughter from the legal benches and a guffaw from Wally Wood himself. He had stayed on to listen to the rest of the case.
“Are your full names Pierre Alain Bouchin?” Even this simple question was laboriously translated into French and the answer relayed in English.
“Yes.”
“And you live at number twenty-three, Rue Descartes, Marans, France?”
“Yes,” the interpreter replied eventually, with an irritating sniff, which perhaps told more of an affectation long acquired than of the smell of garlic on Bouchin’s breath.
Almost against his will, Duncan found that he was concentrating too little on the question and answer routine, and too much on the absurd mannerisms of the interpreter. For the first twenty minutes it was uncontroversial. Then Bouchin came to describe the accident, but, again, there were no surprises. He stuck closely to the evidence which he had given to the Police.
“At what speed were you driving as you rounded this corner?”
“Forty k.p.h. I didn’t know the road.” Duncan was pleased with the answer. It corroborated the expert’s calculated estimate of 25 mph.
“What did you see, Monsieur?”
“I saw a black van, like a smallish lorry, on its proper side of the road, being overtaken by a green car—a Ford Escort.”
“Was it possible for the car to overtake safely at this point?”
“No. The car was overtaking too close to the corner. The van wasn’t crawling. It made it a foolish place to overtake.”
“Was the car at all times on your side of the road?”
“Yes.”
“Did you brake?”
“I had so little time. I didn’t brake hard. I didn’t want to skid, particularly as my cab and trailer were angled to each other going around the corner. If I had lost control it would have been much worse. I braked gently, and steadily, but there was insufficient room between the car and my lorry for us to stop.”
“Suppose you had braked hard. Would there still have been a collision?”
“Yes.”
“Inevitably?”
“Yes. A collision was inevitable and if I had lost control, the trailer might have jack-knifed.”
“It has been suggested that you might have swerved to your left, using the verge, to make extra room for the car. What do you say to that?”
“Impossible. The verge is too narrow. It would be impossible in a crisis to veer off on to the verge and still maintain control. There would still have been insufficient space for the car to find a gap.”
“Thank you. Stay there please,” concluded the Q.C. He turned to the Judge. “I’m sorry to take so long to get through this evidence.”
The Judge looked unconcerned. “Interpretation does always make for something of a snail’s pace.”
Giles Holden was on his feet at once. “Perhaps M’Lud should not talk of snails in
Monsieur Bouchin’s presence. He might get hungry!” Everyone laughed except Bouchin who had not understood.
“Touché!” returned the Judge. “‘Revenons à nos moutons’ is what the French say, is it not?” Now it was the Q.C.’s turn to be at a disadvantage. He opened his cross-examination.
“You’ve been driving from Marans to Basingstoke for over three years, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Every Thursday night?”
“Except when I was on holiday.”
“You knew the route pretty well?”
“Just like the insides of my pockets,” came the literal translation of the French from the interpreter.
“You drive northwards to Nantes from Marans?”
“Yes.”
“And then to where?” The Q.C. looked at his map of northern France and at the rough sketch prepared by Duncan of the route which Bouchin had taken.
“Vannes, Auray, Hennepont, cross-country to Morlaix and into Roscoff.”
“Yes. That’s the best route.” Giles Holden nodded. “Two hundred and fifty miles, isn’t it—about four hundred kilometres?”
“Yes.” Bouchin felt just a touch of nausea at the questioning.
“Have you always used that route?”
“Yes.”
“Suppose there were road works or other hold-ups; have you ever varied your route?”
“No, sir. It’s never been necessary. This is the best route.” Duncan felt a surge of expectancy at the lies. The fuse under Bouchin had been lit.
“Your route is convenient because with a distance of two hundred and fifty miles it’s within the limit which you are allowed to drive in a day?”
“Yes. In a lorry the size of mine I’m allowed to drive up to four hundred and fifty kilometres which is two hundred and eighty miles.”
“And on the day before you set off for England, what route do you normally do that day?”
“Normally from Poitiers to Marans.”
“Was that routine?”
“Yes, every Wednesday.”
“Did your company maintain your lorry properly for you?”
“Yes.”
“Were the brakes in good order?”
“Yes.”
“Was the steering good?”
“Perfect.”
“Then there would be no reason for you not to brake hard in an emergency on a straight piece of road?”
Case for Compensation Page 10