Brothers In Law Page 7

  ‘Well,’ said the judge, after glancing at the papers in front of him, ‘what do you want £10 for?’

  He asked her as though she were a beggar at the back door when she was, in fact, the owner of the fund in Court. It was her money, but the Court had the paternal duty of seeing that she did not expend it too foolishly. The judge’s manner was not in the least paternal.

  ‘Please, your Worship,’ the woman began –

  ‘She’s had it,’ whispered a solicitor, ‘calling him your worship.’

  ‘It’s a first payment for a television set.’

  The judge’s eyes gleamed. His remarks about television and other abominations of the modern age had frequently been reported in the Press.

  ‘A television set,’ he growled. ‘What on earth d’you want with one of those things? Read a good book and get it from the library. Cost you nothing.’

  ‘Please, your Worship, I can’t read, not really.’

  ‘What on earth have we been paying taxes for all these years? It’s disgraceful.’

  ‘Please, your Worship, I’m nearly blind.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said the judge. He thought for a moment and then added in a more kindly tone: ‘But is a television set much use to you then? Why not have a wireless instead?’

  ‘Oh, I have a wireless, your Worship.’

  ‘I see.’

  The judge hesitated.

  ‘You think you’ll get some pleasure out of a television set, do you?’

  ‘Oh, yes, your Worship. Mrs Crane across the road has one and she can’t see a thing.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s an advantage then,’ said the judge. ‘Yes, very well, Mrs Turner. You shall have your television set. Ten pounds I think you want. Very well. Can you pay the instalments all right? Good. They’ll give you your money in the office. I hope your sight improves.’

  ‘Might I now mention to your Honour,’ began the solicitor who had tried before, hoping that the shock which the judge had just received might have put him in a more receptive mood.

  ‘Certainly not,’ said the judge just as fiercely as before, but not quite for the same reason. He was visualizing Mrs Turner’s life without her husband and without much sight. ‘And probably she hasn’t much to think with either,’ he was pondering, ‘though p’raps it’s as well,’ when the solicitor had interrupted.

  ‘Mr Copplestone,’ called the clerk, and a young man went into the witness box. The judge glared at him. He had already glanced at his application.

  ‘A motor bicycle,’ he said. ‘One of those horrible things. Why don’t you use a pedal cycle or walk? Much better for you and safer. You’ll go and kill yourself.’

  ‘I’m getting married,’ ventured the young man.

  ‘You’ll kill your wife too,’ said the judge.

  ‘I’m twenty-one next month,’ said the young man, ‘and we wanted the bike for our honeymoon.’

  This was a young man who had been awarded damages when he was a small boy. At the age of twenty-one he would be entitled to all of it, but until then the Court had control.

  ‘Why can’t you wait?’ asked the judge. He knew he couldn’t keep the young man away from a motor bicycle for long, but he did not want to be a party to the transaction.

  ‘We don’t want to, your Honour.’

  ‘I dare say you don’t. Have you your parents’ permission?’

  ‘To have the bike, your Honour?’

  ‘No, of course not. No one asks parents’ permission for anything these days. You just go and do it. No – to marry, I mean. Still need it for that.’

  ‘Can I speak?’ said a man from the back of the Court.

  ‘Silence,’ called the usher.

  ‘But it’s all wrong,’ shouted the man.

  ‘Silence,’ called the usher even louder.

  ‘Let that man be brought forward,’ commanded the judge. He required no bringing forward and came hastily to the witness box.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked the judge.

  ‘I’m his father,’ said the man. ‘And I think it’s a shame.’

  ‘You’ve already interrupted the proceedings twice and if you speak like that I shall deal with you for contempt of Court. You’ll either speak properly or not at all. Now, what is it you want to say?’

  ‘I say, give the boy his bike. Why spoil the young people’s pleasure? You only get married once.’

  ‘Unfortunately,’ said the judge, unable to resist the temptation, ‘that today is not always the case, though I hope it will be in this instance. But if I let him have this horrible machine one of them at least will probably be killed.’

  ‘They can’t afford a car,’ said the man. ‘And they don’t want to go for a honeymoon by bus or train. They want to be with each other. And I say they ought to be. My old woman and I went walking, but then we didn’t have the luck to have had an accident and get the damages. Though it doesn’t look as though that’s going to be much good to him.’

  ‘Will you be quiet,’ said the judge.

  ‘Why doesn’t the Registrar do these?’ whispered Henry to his opponent.

  ‘Because the old fool likes doing them. He ought to do them in chambers, anyway. Pompous old idiot. Doesn’t care two hoots how much time he takes up or how much he inconveniences everyone.’

  The judge finished his applications, having very grudgingly given the young man his money. He realized that it would not be fair in this instance to refuse it.

  ‘Now, does anyone want to mention any of the cases?’

  The solicitor had a third attempt.

  ‘Any member of the Bar,’ asked the judge, ignoring the solicitor.

  Henry’s opponent got up.

  ‘Your Honour is always so exceedingly considerate that I’m prompted to ask leave to mention the last case in your Honour’s list,’ he said.

  ‘Let me see,’ said the judge, ‘Swift and Edgerley, is that it?’

  ‘Yes, your Honour. My learned friend, Mr Blagrove, and I were wondering whether your Honour would give any indication of whether that case is likely to be heard today. I would not have mentioned the matter but your Honour is always so exceedingly helpful in these matters and as there are seven cases in front of us–’ he paused and waited to see what effect his piece of hypocrisy had had.

  ‘One does one’s best, Mr Tate,’ said the judge, ‘but, as you know, it’s very difficult with such heavy lists. Would it be a convenience to you if I said that I would not hear your case before the luncheon adjournment?’

  ‘No bloody use at all,’ said Tate in an undertone to Henry. ‘Thank you very much, your Honour,’ he went on. ‘That is most kind of your Honour. Perhaps we might have leave to mention the matter again after the adjournment.’

  ‘Certainly, Mr Tate.’

  ‘If your Honour pleases,’ beamed Mr Tate. ‘The old so-and-so,’ he added to Henry, ‘he knows bloody well we can’t get back to the Temple from here.’

  ‘Any other applications from the Bar?’ asked the judge. There was no response.

  ‘Now, Mr Bloat, what is your application?’

  ‘Would your Honour release my case too until after lunch?’

  ‘If I release every case I shall have nothing to do. Are there any other applications?’

  ‘But, your Honour–’ began Mr Bloat.

  ‘What is it, Mr Bloat?’ said the judge angrily. ‘It’s quite impossible for me to help the parties in these matters if they don’t accept my decision when I’ve given it. I do the best I can.’

  ‘I think you’re brilliant,’ said Henry to Tate when they were in the robing-room again. ‘It would stick in my gullet to talk to the old boy like that.’

  ‘When you’re my age,’ said Tate, ‘you’ll never mind saying “please” to anyone if it’ll get you anywhere or anything – even if you think you oughtn’t to have had to ask for it – indeed, even if it’s your own. It costs nothing and sometimes it gets something. At any rate we can have a smoke and plenty of time for lunch. He only rises for hal
f an hour.’

  ‘But you perjured your immortal soul in the process.’

  ‘If you feel so strongly on the subject, my boy,’ said Tate, ‘you should have got up and disagreed when I said the old fool was so exceedingly helpful. See how far that would have got us! Anyway by keeping silent you adopted my lie and cannot now be heard to complain of it. Estopped, my boy, that’s what you are. And when you get before St Peter, he’ll have you for that. “You told a lie to His Honour Judge Boyle,” he’ll say. You’ll start to deny it. “We can’t have that,” he’ll say. “You told a lie to Judge Boyle all right. Good for you. Come inside.”’

  Eventually Henry’s case was heard and he and Roger left the Court together.

  ‘What sort of a clerk is Alec?’ Roger asked him.

  ‘Alec has, in my view,’ said Henry, ‘only one fault. This,’ and Henry imitated Alec sucking his teeth so successfully that Roger winced. ‘Cheer up – you’ll have to get used to that,’ said Henry, and did it again. ‘Some people,’ he went on, ‘would say that he had two other faults. He doesn’t drink or smoke. But that’s a matter of opinion.’

  ‘Clerks seem to be most frightfully important,’ said Roger.

  ‘Well, you’ve noticed something. They are. A top-class man will always get on, but a second-rater could be made or marred by his clerk.’

  ‘How does a clerk begin?’

  ‘Usually as a boy in the Temple, at a very small wage. Then, if he’s no good, he goes to something else. If he does take to it, he becomes a junior and then, if he’s lucky, a senior clerk. D’you know, Alec was making a thousand a year when he was not much older than you are, and a thousand was a thousand in those days.’

  ‘It’s extraordinary. Of course, the method of paying them beats me. I must say I like the idea of having my clerk paid by the clients. Is there any other profession in the world where it happens?’

  ‘I don’t know of one – except, of course, that they’re really paid by commission and there are plenty of commission jobs. But they are rather different, I suppose. Yes, it is a curious arrangement that every time I have a conference my clerk gets five bob and the client pays him. But, of course, until you’ve got a practice you’ll have to pay him a salary. And they’re inclined to take the shillings in the guineas now as well from everyone.’

  ‘What do they make these days?’

  ‘Depends entirely on the chambers. But a clerk in a really good set of chambers might make two or three thousand a year, I suppose. And he’s never read a law-book in his life, though he’s carried a good few. All the same, the work he does is jolly important and the wheels wouldn’t go round without him. Getting briefs, fixing up the fees and arranging it so that you’re not in too many places at the same time. It takes a bit of doing. An intelligent and experienced clerk earns his keep all right.’

  ‘What I like,’ said Roger, ‘is the sort of relationship which seems to exist between them and us.’

  ‘Quite right!’ said Henry. ‘It’s quite different from any other. There’s an intimacy and understanding between a barrister and his clerk which, as far as I know, doesn’t exist in any other job. And neither side ever takes advantage of it. But Heaven preserve me from a bad clerk. Alec does me proud – indeed, he’d do me much better if I’d let him, and I don’t mind his little habit as much as you seem to.’ And Henry repeated it several times until he saw that it really upset Roger. ‘Sorry, old boy,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know you took it to heart so. I’ll try to remember,’ and he just checked himself from repeating the process.

  Shortly afterwards they parted. Henry went home and Roger went back to chambers. When he arrived there, he was greeted by Alec.

  ‘There’s a brief been sent down to you, sir, for next Friday.’

  ‘For me?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I thought you might know about it. The solicitors are something Merivale. Someone you know, I expect?’

  ‘Gosh,’ said Roger. ‘Joy’s uncle already.’

  Chapter Seven

  First Brief

  It was a divorce case. Roger picked it up lovingly. It looked so beautiful in its fresh pink tape with ‘Mr Roger Thursby’ typed neatly on it and almost as important, the fee – the fee that someone was going to pay him for his services. Seven whole guineas. He had never earned as much before in his life, though he had once earned a few guineas by tutoring a boy advertised as ‘Backward (nothing mental).’ He was a nice boy with a fiercely obstinate disposition and determined to learn nothing that his parents wanted him taught. He could recognize almost any bird or flower and many tunes from classical music. His parents were not musical, so he used to turn on the Third Programme. Funny, thought Roger, how one train of thought leads to another. Why should I be thinking of Christopher because someone’s sent me a brief? A brief. His very own. Mr Roger Thursby. Five and two, total seven. And at the bottom ‘Thornton, Merivale & Co, 7 Butts Buildings, EC4. Solicitors for the Petitioner.’ The Petitioner. The life and happiness of one man or one woman had been entrusted to him. Man or woman, which was it? The outside of the brief, which was entitled ‘In the High Court of Justice. Probate, Divorce and Admiralty Division (Divorce). Newent E v Newent K R,’ did not disclose whether the petitioner was to be a beautiful blonde. Perhaps it was an actress – Sally’s mother might know her – no, that wouldn’t do – it was Joy’s uncle who’d sent the brief. What a pity it wasn’t Sally’s. He’d no business to think that. It was most ungrateful. How kind it was of Joy and she was really very pretty. Or was it a man, an admiral, perhaps, or a general or even a Member of Parliament? Well, he could soon find out. He opened the brief. E stood for Ethel. His first petitioner was a woman. Poor thing! What a brute of a husband! Now she had Roger to protect her. It was Roger Galahad Thursby who looked eagerly at the rest of the papers. At the age of twenty-one Roger found that rescuing ladies (in the imagination) occupied quite a portion of his idle moments. At that age the pictures of such events rather embarrassed him. He preferred her to be fully clothed. Roger started to read the brief and was a little disappointed to find that all that Mr Newent had done was to leave his wife – and, as far as could be ascertained, not even for another woman. Roger made the best of it, however, and soon imagined himself giving his client words of encouragement and consolation which would stem the poor girl’s grief. Even this idea was slightly shaken when he found that the poor girl was forty-five and that she was what is called ‘asking for the discretion of the Court.’ But Roger steeled himself to the task. He was broadminded. He did not in fact approve of infidelity. He had attended several weddings and had always been impressed by the words of the marriage service. He had difficulty in reconciling them with the number of divorces which now take place. But now he was face to face with an unfaithful wife – on paper anyway, and he would soon see her. He could not help feeling a thrill at the prospect. He had never to his knowledge met an – an adulteress before. It was rather a terrible word. The newspapers often covered it up. They talked of misconduct and infidelity. Adulteress sounded much worse. And then he remembered the great words on the subject. ‘He that is without sin among you–’ Yes, Roger would speak to this poor, fallen woman in a kindly, understanding way. She would never realize he was only twenty-one. He would speak with such an air of knowledge, such a wealth of understanding, that she would probably cry. And he would say: ‘Madam, you and I have only just met – but I think I know what you have been through.’ He paused in his thoughts. What next? Ah, yes, more sinned against than sinning. The lonely, slighted wife, devoted to a husband who neglected her for his business and his billiards. There she was alone at home, waiting, waiting – an easy prey for the handsome seducer. Yes, more sinned against than sinning, that was it. He read through the whole brief, the correspondence, the petition and the discretion statement. This last document was the one in which Mrs Newent disclosed how she came to sin and humbly asked the Court – not to forgive her – but to grant a decree of divorce just the same. Mr Newent apparently was quite wi
lling to be divorced and had not even entered an appearance to the petition. This was a pity, thought Roger. It was difficult to make an impassioned speech against someone who wouldn’t fight. And it was very clear that Mr Newent wasn’t going to fight. His last letter to Ethel went as follows:

  Dear Ethel

  It is no good asking me to return. I told you when I left that this is final and it is. I had one year of happiness with you and five years of the other thing. You cared much more for your beastly boarding house and some of the boarders than you did for me, though I shall be surprised if you make more of a success of that business than you did of our marriage. ‘Service with a smile’ you used to put in your advertisements. Having regard to the charges you made and the little value you gave for them, I should have expected service to be with a smile, not to say a broad grin. If you don’t treat your guests better than you treated me you’ll lose them too. Most of them, that is. But then some people never learn. I have. And I’m not coming back to ‘Sans Repos’ – which is what it ought to be called. But you wouldn’t understand. You can understand this, though, that I’m not coming back – no never – whether you divorce me or whether you don’t. I hope you will because I’d like to be free. Not that I’ve met anyone else. I’ll be darn careful about the next one, believe me. But if I can’t be free, at any rate I’ll be happy. I don’t wish you any harm, Ethel. Maybe there is some man who’d be happy with you, but it’s not

  Yours

  Kenneth

  This letter had been written in reply to a very short one by Ethel which had simply said:

  I’m writing for the last time to know whether you propose to return to me. If you do not I shall take such action as I may be advised.

  The material parts of the discretion statement were as follows:

  After I had been married to my husband for some years he ceased to take any interest in my business of a boarding house proprietress, although he knew when we married that I was very keen on my business and wanted to continue with it after marriage. He had agreed to this, but nevertheless he was always asking me to give it up and make a home for him. At last he refused even to look after the accounts, and one of the boarders, who had been with us for some years and who did a little accounting in his spare time, very kindly started to do them for me. As a result of this I got to know this gentleman, a Mr Storrington, rather well. One night he asked me to go to a dance with him, and, as at the time my husband was staying with his parents (one of whom was ill), I did not think there would be any harm in it. We went to a dance and unfortunately I had rather too much to drink. I am not a teetotaller, but very rarely drink intoxicating liquor. During the evening I had several drinks and though I felt all right during the dance, when we left I felt dizzy and faint. Mr Storrington very kindly offered to help me to my bedroom and somehow or other he came in and adultery took place. I felt very ashamed the next morning and told Mr Storrington that it must never happen again or he would have to leave. Mr Storrington promised that it would not occur again. Since my husband left me I have seen more and more of Mr Storrington and an affection has developed between us and, if this Court sees fit to grant me a decree of divorce, I wish to marry Mr Storrington and he is willing to marry me. Although Mr Storrington and I are living in the same house on affectionate terms adultery has not occurred between us except as aforesaid, nor have I committed any act of adultery with any other person. To the best of my knowledge and belief my husband was and is wholly unaware of my adultery.