TWENTY-THREE

EXETER—MARCH

Alistair Duncan swept back the curtains. Tuesday 4th March, looked cold and uninviting. The heavy greyness of the sky met the walls of the Cathedral. He had slept badly. His dreams had been super-vivid, an effect brought on by working and eating far too late. He wondered if Giles Holden, Q.C., had slept better. He had been briefed to lead in Roger Goodhart’s case. They had dined well, but then worked till nearly two. Preparation is better than inspiration, but neither is preferable to a strong case.

One fact was reassuring; Proster was sitting in Court One. Goodhart–v–Bouchin was listed for Court Two before Mr Justice Salford. Proster was involved in a part-heard case about a combine harvester. It was expected to end on Wednesday. Goodhart’s case would start before Salford, when his present case ended, which was estimated for 11.15. Duncan preferred “not before 11.15 listings.” It gave Insurance Companies more time to get last-minute cold feet and decide to buy off the risk. It also gave Alistair Duncan a lie-in after too much port.

As he watched the milk float rumble across the cobbles his thoughts were of Goodhart’s curious behaviour at the consultation, the previous day.

“Your chances are less than evens.” Giles Holden had said. His opinion was to be respected. Called to the Bar in 1956 and appointed Queen’s Counsel in 1972, he had successfully fought many apparently lost causes. The highlight of his career at the Junior Bar had been his selection to prosecute with the Attorney General in the Chedwin Spy Case. Colleagues tipped him as a likely appointment to the Bench. If, as often happened, he was both more skilful and more knowledgeable than the Judge, Holden was careful never to show it, content to let the Judge appear in charge.

“I think considerably less than evens,” Holden repeated the advice as the client had seemed unconcerned. Holden was right. Goodhart was thinking of a discussion with a consultant at the Hospital. Lawyers, he had said, always made out that cases were difficult. It gave them an excuse if they lost. It gave them an excess of praise of they won. He said, “But there’s still a chance?”

“Of course. Alistair Duncan’s produced some good evidence for you.”

“And the Judge?”

“Don’t expect any sympathy from Mr Justice Salford. He’s a damned fine Judge. One of the best. Well in line for the Court of Appeal. Agree, Alistair?”

Alistair Duncan nodded his head in reply.

“Don’t get me wrong,” the Q.C. continued. “Salford isn’t hard hearted. But he’s a lawyer … in the narrow sense. He’ll apply the Law according to the evidence. If we give him the evidence we’ll win. If we don’t, we’ll lose.”

Holden helped himself to a slab of fruit cake before adding, “You see, Mr Goodhart, some of these High Court Judges are, by instinct, plaintiff men. Some are defendant men. We know them all. Some, like Mr Justice Proster, are just unspeakably bad. Salford will play it straight down the middle.”

Duncan was regretting the excess of ‘Taylor’s 1963’. He always did. He had told himself before that one day he would learn! One day. The torrent of water in the shower helped clear his head, but he still couldn’t unravel the optimism of the client.

In fact, over the months since the accident, the client had mapped out a future for himself. A fat cheque from the Insurers would buy a detached bungalow. There would be a sea view. It would have central heating, a fine lawn, perhaps a pond. As a home it would be irresistible. But that wouldn’t be enough for Alice. There would be new neighbours and talk would be of cocktail parties, buffet soirées, holidays abroad. He would buy her a gold lamé dress with sequins. These were the things for which Alice had always hankered. With the money he could turn her into the woman of her childhood dreams. The children would have new opportunities. He was hoping for £80,000.00, but would settle for less. The thoughts had given him an inner strength, an outer veneer.

Duncan emerged from the shower, still thinking of his client. He was staying in a hotel down the road. There, conversation between husband and wife had been desultory. Alice had said what she had to. She had done as little as she had to do, but nothing more. When he had leant over to kiss her goodnight, she had flinched. At his second attempt she had moved further away across the bed.

At 5.00 am Roger was still asleep. His pills had seen to that. But she had heard the clock chime every hour. Her thoughts were of the broad shoulders of Neil Masters, as he nestled behind her after they had made love. His steely arms commanded her every movement. His loins could satisfy her. Not once, but as often as she moaned for satisfaction.

And now! She looked at Roger. She was shackled to him by a piece of paper. Sod that! Hadn’t she a right to live her own life. Hadn’t she the right to make Neil happy? Of course she had. It was a watershed. Defeat had to be the end. But victory? That was the problem. Alistair Duncan had said that there was a lot of money at stake. Could she, no, should she, stick with Roger for the sake of the children and keep Neil as a lover? It was insoluble.

She dreaded dawn. She would have to help get him up, get him dressed. Perhaps dawn wouldn’t come. It did. She couldn’t eat breakfast.