FOUR

STOKE MANDEVILLE—NOVEMBER

“Mr Duncan, I need something to aim at, something to look forward to.” Roger Goodhart’s face was tired and drawn.

“No miracles promised,” said Duncan. “It’s not hopeful. I may get you nothing. You must re-train yourself and support your family. They’re your future. Litigation doesn’t always end in a crock of gold. Judges are unpredictable bastards!” Duncan smiled. “You must understand that we’ve got to pin some blame on this chap Bouchin. No blame on him, no claim for you. That’s the law.”

“Yes—I’ve learnt fast here. Most people have a claim running.”

“See much of the family?”

“It’s a long way,” the patient hedged. “But Alice and the children have been up a couple of times.”

“Taken it badly, has she?”

“It’s not easy. Must be hard to accept your husband is paralysed from the waist down. She’s chained to a sink and a wheelchair.”

“I’ll be getting a statement from her soon to support your claim,” Duncan interjected but the patient would not be sidetracked.

“I’m just fit for the scrap-heap here.” He stopped. “The visits don’t make us happy—just more sad.”

“You’ve got the children. Whatever your predicament, you’re not a millstone to them. You’ve got to fight to make their life as worthwhile as if this accident hadn’t occurred. Now, let’s get on with this Legal Aid document, shall we?”

When the form had been completed Duncan asked “What happened?”

“Haven’t a clue. I can’t remember anything after leaving Swindon on the day before the accident.”

“Well, that’ll make it easy to complete your statement,” Duncan laughed.

“How long till we get to Court?”

“Oh, about a year or so. Depends on lots of things outside my control.” It was Duncan’s turn to hedge.

“Anyway, let me know how it goes in Hastings.”

“Of course.”

Duncan was concerned. His client was obviously worried sick.