Friday’s headline was, ‘Arthur Skelton: the man who refuses to lose.’
The piece started with a brief account of the Hannah Dryden libel during which Mrs Dryden had hailed him, to his great embarrassment, as her ‘Latter Day Galahad’. Then there were erroneous summaries of the Ibrahim Aziz and Mary Dutton cases, falsely and ridiculously claiming that both had seemed so hopeless that ‘no other lawyer in the country would take them on’. ‘But Skelton, as ever the man of the hour, made sure the truth was shouted from the rooftops so that the innocent could walk free.’ A couple of paragraphs were devoted to his being a family man living in rural Berkshire with his wife, two children and beloved 160garden. This was a lie. He had nothing against his garden and was grateful to Mr Nailham who came two afternoons a week to keep it looking trim, but it was not and never had been ‘beloved’.
The piece finished by telling the tale of the burning car, stressing the vital part played by local reporter Chester Monroe in ‘uncovering the facts’ and wondering whether Skelton would work the same magic with Tommy Prosser as he had with Dutton and Aziz. ‘When asked, the great lawyer, never a man to yield his secrets easily, merely smiled playfully and replied, “I’m afraid it would be most unethical of me to make any comment on the case at all”.’
‘It’s not nearly as ghastly as it could be,’ Edgar said, when he came in with the tea and morning post. ‘As I’ve said a thousand times before, an article like that, as long as none of the lies suggest that you’re ineffective or corrupt – and the execrable Mr Monroe, to give him his due, has done his best to paint you as a hero on a par with Nelson – can do nothing but good.’
‘It personalises and belittles what should be an impersonal, anonymous profession.’
‘I expect that would be the sort of thing a pompous person might say, so we must all be grateful that you’re so unassuming. But you see. The work will come pouring in and every brief will be marked at a thousand guineas. Or would you rather be like poor forgotten Snelgrove?’
Snelgrove was a mutual acquaintance who secured no more than three or four briefs a year, none of them, it was 161rumoured, marked at more than twenty guineas. Thankfully he had a small allowance from his father, a bishop, but often found himself trying to hide the darns in his socks from the disapproving eyes of the bench.
At eleven, Aubrey arrived for a chat about the Anglo-American Abrasives case.
‘Oh, and I just had a quick word with Hedley Page at Gander and Page.’
‘Who are they?’ Skelton asked.
‘The sweaty feet advertising agents. I thought Rose mentioned it.’
‘Yes, of course, PC Root.’
‘I said we were considering legal action and Mr Page was really being quite disagreeable about it all until I mentioned that we had “The Man Who Refuses to Lose” on our side.’
‘You didn’t really say that.’
‘I did, and he must have seen the Graphic this morning because he straight away became a lot more affable. You would be surprised how much weight a thing like that can carry.’
‘You see,’ Edgar said. ‘What did I say?’
‘Anyway, we settled.’
‘There and then? On the telephone?’
‘Agreement to remove all the posters and pay PC Root compensation of £850. I went for a thousand, thinking I’d get seven hundred and fifty, so, not a bad outcome.’ 162
‘Excellent,’ Skelton said. ‘I’m sure PC Root will be delighted. Although, in future …’
‘Yes?’ Aubrey said.
‘It doesn’t matter. It’s … “The Man Who Refuses to Lose”.’
Aubrey was laughing, ‘I promise never to use the words again. Nor shall I refer to you as the Latter Day Galahad, nor any other soubriquet the press come up with.’
‘Conjuror of the Courtroom,’ Edgar said, almost under his breath.
‘I didn’t see that one,’ Aubrey said.
‘I don’t think it’s been used yet. I’m giving you advanced notice.’
Skelton gave them a joke disapproving look and pointedly opened the beefy Anglo-American Abrasives file. ‘There were a couple of points I wanted to discuss about the supposed relevance of Carlill versus the Carbolic Smoke Ball Company. I was wondering whether, if it came to it, Lindhurst’s judgement on Allen versus Gold Reefs of West Africa Ltd might be more useful.’
Aubrey wasn’t listening. His attention was distracted by Edgar, who had stood and was trying to coax life back into the fire. The precision of his trouser creases was shown to full advantage by the slight bend at the waist.
No solicitor in London was better dressed than Aubrey. Though a few years older than Edgar, he still had the figure of an athlete and wore clothes well. He used an excellent tailor, and his suits were cut from cloth that looked, felt, smelt and 163was ruinously expensive. The stitching in his shirts made you fear for the eyes of the seamstresses.
Skelton noticed the direction of Aubrey’s gaze and said, ‘His housekeeper pins them to the ironing board.’
Edgar made aware that he was the focus of attention, looked down at his creases and made a show of being modest.
‘Oh, I know all about the pin trick,’ Aubrey said. ‘My batman used it in the war. He’d been a tailor before he joined up, so he knew all the tricks, but he never got results as good as that. Surely there’s some sort of starch or glue involved.’
‘Well, that’s what I thought,’ Edgar said, ‘but I can’t detect any additional stiffness in the fabric.’
‘Have you asked the housekeeper?’ Aubrey asked.
‘Mrs Stewart? I did. But she just gave me a secret sort of look that made me wonder whether there was some sort of guild of housekeepers who guarded their secrets on pain of death.’
Aubrey moved in for a closer look. ‘Starch perhaps?’
Skelton shook his head, ‘No, we’ve already been through this. Starch’d leave a white residue and glue’d smell.’
‘It doesn’t smell at all,’ Edgar said, putting a foot on the arm of a chair and sniffing.
‘Wax, then?’ Aubrey said. ‘A little candle wax, rubbed on the inside of the fabric.’
Edgar examined the crease. ‘Wouldn’t it gum up the iron? And leave residue here and there? And surely there’d be a sheen?’
Reluctantly, Aubrey addressed himself to Carlill versus the 164Carbolic Smoke Ball Company and Allen versus Gold Reefs of West Africa Ltd.
Half an hour of learned discussion ensued, until Edgar got up to move the tea tray.
‘What about shellac?’ Aubrey said.
‘What exactly is shellac?’ Edgar asked.
But none of them knew.
Skelton left work an hour earlier than usual so that he could be at Lambourn Primary in time for Elizabeth’s school play.
In previous years, the Christmas nativity play had always been an occasion for parental complaints and crushing heartache. Every mother whose daughter is not chosen to be Mary feels cruelly cheated, and far too many children have to resign themselves to being angels and sheep. As well as widespread disappointment, this also resulted in interminable longueurs while lambs and angels filed on and off which inevitably destroyed the dramatic tension set up by the ‘will there be room at the inn?’ and ‘could this baby really be the son of God?’ quandaries.
Accordingly, this year, as well as the nativity play, the school had decided to stage a production earlier in the term in which the children who would otherwise have been condemned to baa-ing in white jumpers or floundering in wire wings could shine. The play, called Incy-Wincy Saves the Day, concerned the adventures of Incy-Wincy spider and Little Miss Muffet in their bid to save Old King Cole 165from Red Riding Hood’s grandma (who is actually a wolf in disguise).
Mila, a devout atheist, was pleased that her daughter would not be obliged to have anything to do with mangers or stables.
‘What part is she playing?’ Skelton had asked when Mila had first told him about the venture.
‘She’s a townsperson.’
‘Is it a big part?’
‘Not very. The villages and townspeople come on towards the end and help capture the wolf.’
‘Is it a speaking part?’
‘She has one line.’
The line was: ‘Yes, he is a very merry old soul.’
Mila had been helping Elizabeth smooth out some of the more objectionable royalist sentiments in the piece with a slight change of emphasis so that instead of, ‘Yes, he is a very merry old soul,’ the line came out as, ‘Yes, he is a very merry old soul,’ thereby drawing a distinction between the privileges enjoyed by the king and the privations suffered by the villages and townspeople.
Skelton had wondered whether Mila might be taking the whole thing a bit too seriously and did at one point actually say, ‘You don’t think …?’, but under the weight of Mila’s, ‘What?’ he retreated into, ‘Nothing.’
As well as the line, Elizabeth had to join in a final rousing chorus of ‘Old King Cole was a Merry Old Soul’. The teacher had instructed them all to sing out and carefully enunciate 166the consonants. Elizabeth did this around the house at odd hours every day in the run up to the show. It didn’t half get on everybody’s nerves.
It took Skelton a long time to fold his long spidery frame into the tiny chair provided as seating in the school hall, and it would take him, he knew, even longer to get up again. Neither the girl playing Little Miss Muffet nor the boy playing Incy-Wincy Spider had got the hang of acting. The girl was inaudible and, desperate for approval, delivered every line to her teacher, who stood just offstage. The boy kept waving at his mum in the audience. The mum waved back.
The boy playing Old King Cole was a little better and had mastered a sort of gruff authority, which earned him a couple of laughs, but his cloak was too long. Every time he took a step back, he trod on it, so that when he stepped forward again the ties around his neck strangled him. The wolf, played by a girl, was good too, although the problems inherent in dressing a little girl as a wolf dressed as a grandma had proved insuperable. Finally, the villagers and townspeople came on and Elizabeth, wearing the bonnet rouge favoured by the sans-culottes of revolutionary France, said her line – ‘Oh, yes. He’s a very merry old soul’ – with a vehemence that echoed around the school hall like a curse. And though the ‘Old King Cole’ at the end was sung by the entire cast, only Elizabeth’s voice was heard, rising above the rest, with each vowel and consonant carefully enunciated so 167that, again, it sounded angry – not so much a nursery rhyme as a revolutionary anthem.
Skelton was pleased to note that Mila had tears in her eyes. Elizabeth had done what he had feared during her soppy doll and pink-ribbon years she would never do. She had made her mother proud.
Afterwards, there was tea and bits of cake to be had, and chats with other parents. The cake was of variable quality, but a bread pudding with raisins and spices, overlooked by most, was excellent, if heavy going. Since talking while chewing was out of the question, Mila went off for a chat with Elizabeth’s teacher while Skelton found a quiet corner where the hint of cinnamon could be properly appreciated.
Later, Mila returned to find her husband experimenting with a lopsided French fancy that Mrs Warburton, the school secretary, had foisted on him.
‘Did you know that Elizabeth has been falling behind in maths?’ Mila said.
Skelton had no idea.
‘It does rather explain why she brings her spelling books and her composition books home so regularly to show off the gold stars, but never the maths book. Are you listening?’
He wasn’t. A slight nod of the head told her he was tuned in to a conversation taking place behind him. Mila tuned in, too.
Three mothers were gossiping about somebody called Mrs Clayton, possibly one of the other mothers, who, 168significantly, worked part-time at a shop in Maidenhead that sold vacuum cleaners.
One of the women was saying, ‘Why else would she have put rouge on and that afternoon frock she got from Madame Ivor just to go to work?’
‘I thought she was seeing the man from the jam factory,’ one of the others said.
‘I’d say she could run two at a time easy,’ said a third. And the other two, with hands over their mouths, went ‘ooh’ and secretly giggled.