‘I would like to see Mr Dawson, please.’
‘Do you have an appointment?’
This was always going to be tricky. Effective oral communication was vital, so I had written a variety of notes in advance to cover all eventualities. As you know, I am not comfortable with the spoken word when dealing with people for the first time. I sorted through the sheaves of paper in my hand and passed her a sheet.
No. But tell him Candice Phee is here.
He will want to see me.
This always works in movies.
I have no idea why.
The receptionist glanced at the note and gave a look that said she thought I was at least one sandwich short of a picnic. Possibly an entire hamper. I am used to this, so I ignored her. She looked me up and down and didn’t appear impressed. Then she picked up her phone.
‘Mr Dawson? There is a young lady here who would like to see you. Her name is Candice Phee and she doesn’t have an appointment.’ I detected mockery in her pronunciation of the word ‘lady’, but she had a picture on her desk of a small child smiling so I forgave her. She was obviously a loving and caring mother. If not necessarily a loving and caring receptionist.
She listened for a moment and then turned to me.
‘What is it about?’
I shuffled through my sheaf of papers and found the right one.
It is a delicate matter which will test his litigious
powers. I cannot be more specific at this stage,
but it will be a case that will attract national
and possibly international media interest. It will
seal Mr Dawson’s reputation as a formidable
lawyer. When he hears the nature of the case,
he will, I am sure, offer his services pro bono.
If he scratches my back, I will scratch his.
I speak metaphorically. Unless he really does
have an itch, in which case I can be flexible.
I was pleased with the pro bono bit. It is Latin and means ‘for free’. Mr Dawson would clearly respect a client with a firm grip of legal terminology. The receptionist read the letter, curled her lip and spoke into the phone.
‘She doesn’t know, but she wants it for free.’
This was not fair, but I decided to hold my peace. Anyway, I didn’t have a note to cover this eventuality.
‘He will see you. Second door on your right.’
I gathered up my pile of papers and followed the instructions. I knocked on the door, waited for a mumbled ‘come in’ and entered Mr Dawson’s office. He sat behind a large desk cluttered with briefs – by this, I mean papers about court cases rather than underwear. He glanced up as I came in. Mr Dawson was bald and his face looked like it had been slept in. Heavy jowls and a mournful expression. A picture came to mind of a bulldog on tranquillisers. This was exciting. I could imagine him in a white, powdered wig, addressing a jury, objecting to opposing counsel and resting his case. I felt certain I had chosen the right person.
‘What can I do for you?’ he said.
I handed him a note and he peered at it over small rimless spectacles. This was a good touch and he rose further in my estimation. He handed the note back.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand,’ he said.
Sorry I haven’t completed the assignment yet,
Miss Bamford, but the matter is well in hand.
No wonder he didn’t understand. I’d given him the wrong note. Why had I brought that one along anyway? I flicked through my sheaf, found the correct one and passed it over. He read again, glanced up at me once and then re-read the note. I waited patiently and resisted the strong urge to hum. Finally, he put the note on his desk and peered at me over the top of his specs. His expression was difficult to read.
‘You want me to take legal action against your parents so you are removed from their house and placed under local authority care? In effect, you want to divorce them and find foster parents?’
‘Correct,’ I replied. I trusted myself with that word and hadn’t felt the need to write it down. ‘Certainly,’ I added, which was testament to my confidence.
Mr Dawson gazed at me for a moment, took off his glasses and rubbed at the corners of his eyes.
‘You haven’t been reading Jodi Picoult, have you?’ he asked. His voice seemed tired. ‘My Sister’s Keeper?’
Actually, I hadn’t read the novel. I’d seen the movie and cried for two hours. It’s about a girl who brings a legal case against her parents, who use her as an organ donor for her elder sister, who suffers from a life-threatening disease. The girl hires a lawyer who takes the case to court in a bid to win the right to refuse to continue organ donation. It was the movie that had given me my brilliant idea. I didn’t really want to divorce my parents, but I hoped the shock of receiving a court summons would bring them to their senses. There would be wailing, of course. But there would also be hugs and promises and family holidays and choruses of ‘The wheels on the bus go round and round.’ All of this, however, was too complicated to explain and I hadn’t brought notes covering this area, so I played safe.
‘Correct,’ I said again.
Mr Dawson sighed.
‘You do know what kind of a legal expert I am, don’t you?’ he said. I shook my head. ‘Property conveyancing,’ he continued. ‘I deal with contracts related to house purchasing, rental properties, business premises. I do not go in front of judges. I do not address juries. I never shout “I object” or “I rest my case.” I do not have a powdered wig. I don’t even have an unpowdered wig.’
I thought about this.
‘Sounds dull,’ I said.
‘It is,’ said Mr Dawson. ‘It is very, very dull. But it is what I do.’
‘I could probably provide the wig,’ I said. I remembered there was one hanging up in the window at the party-hire shop where I had bought Miss Bamford’s eye patch.