The Pupil (13 page)

He loved Julia. But Julia, like all people, wore many faces, and the one which he now saw most often – the public, socially agreeable face – was the one he liked least.
The private, sweet, solitary face that he adored, he had seen little of recently. Perhaps, if he carried his resolve through, he might never see it again. For the moment, however, and in more than one sense, he could not afford Julia.

Lack of choice over the years had bred in him a sort of ruthlessness, the kind displayed by those who, in their paucity of options, know that once a decision is made, it is practicable only if put into effect without delay. And so he did not postpone the matter. After breakfast, he asked Julia to walk down to the river with him.

‘All right. Let’s get David – there’s a rowing boat down there, so maybe we could do some exploring.’

‘No, don’t ask David. I want to talk to you.’

Slightly surprised, Julia left the house with him and they walked in silence down the lichen-covered steps.

‘Well, what is it?’ she asked, as they reached the little wooden jetty at the bottom. ‘You look very grim, I must say.’ Julia felt faintly nervous; she wondered if he had seen her kissing Piers last night. Once was unlucky, but twice might seem a bit much.

Anthony said nothing for a moment, but sat down on the warm wooden planking, his knees drawn up before him, and looked out over the water.

‘Well,’ he said at last, reluctantly, ‘I’ve been thinking that maybe you and I should give things a rest for a while.’

‘Oh, don’t tell me you’re in a huff because of last night! I know you felt a bit out of it, but—’

‘No, I’m not in a huff about anything,’ interrupted Anthony, speaking quite matter-of-factly. ‘I just think that – well, things should stop.’ There was a pause, during which
she looked at him curiously and with concern. ‘That’s all.’

‘That’s all? We’re just to stop seeing each other? Why?’ Julia felt cold and a little panicky; not only did she love Anthony, as she thought, but she was unaccustomed to being put aside, no matter how gently. Such a thing had never happened to her before. Anthony picked at the wooden boards with his fingernail; his head was bowed in thought, and for a moment Julia, in her sudden frailty, wanted to reach out and stroke the dark, thick hair. He seemed very remote, and a little chill in her heart as she waited for him to speak told her that Anthony was not the kind of man who did something like this for effect.

Anthony sighed and looked up at the trees; he was careful not to look at Julia.

‘You see, I don’t have a great deal of money, as you know. That makes it difficult for me to do the kind of things you like to do.’

‘But you know I don’t care about that! I’ve told you I can pay for some things.’

Anthony allowed himself a slight smile.

‘And I don’t always like doing the things you like to do. Or seeing the people you like to see. Maybe they’re an acquired taste.’

‘Those are simply rotten reasons! The truth of it, if you had the courage to say it,’ exclaimed Julia angrily, ‘is that you’re tired of me and you just want to finish it. Money’s got nothing to do with it.’

He turned to look at her thoughtfully. ‘Do you really think that?’ He sounded genuinely curious. She could think of nothing to say. He looked back at the water. ‘No,’ he
sighed, ‘I sometimes wish I’d met you a year from now. As it is, I really think it’s about time we called it a day.’

The finality in his voice was almost enough to make her embrace him and plead with him to change his mind, but an innate sense of pride prevented her.

‘Maybe when circumstances have changed a bit,’ he went on, ‘when my finances are in better shape—’

She interrupted him coldly. ‘Please don’t imagine that you can just discard me and then pick me up again at your pleasure.’ She felt thoroughly miserable and angry, and completely helpless.

‘All right,’ he said after a moment. Then he looked at her again, thinking how lovely she was; he felt utterly wretched, but at the same time determined to deflect any emotional thrusts she might make. Knowing that it wasn’t a good idea, he leant forward suddenly and kissed her tentatively. She kissed him back in a tired, hopeful way, and then he stood up.

‘I think I’ll apologise to Edward and tell him that I’m catching an early train,’ he said. ‘You can tell the others that all this was your decision,’ he added, ‘if it helps.’

No, she thought, it didn’t help. She felt desolate, suddenly bereft. She did not speak.

‘Well, goodbye.’ Still she said nothing, did not look at him. ‘I do love you, you know,’ he added awkwardly. Oddly enough, as she watched him slowly mount the steps towards the house, she believed him.

Anthony told Edward that he had to go back early to finish some work for Michael, and this was accepted without
remark. Piers watched Anthony with a curious smile as he got into the Citroën, Edward stuffing his bag in the boot in preparation to drive Anthony to the station. He had seen Anthony and Julia go down to the river together; that had been over an hour ago, and she still hadn’t come back. And here was Anthony catching the early train.

But Julia, when she eventually reappeared, was cold and snappish and not interested in Piers’ arch remarks. She vanished to her room.

On the train, Anthony felt about as numb with unhappiness as he’d ever been. He travelled second class this time. The bank holiday meant that the train was almost empty, and Waterloo station, when he arrived there, was depressingly quiet. He thought over his conversation with Julia as his train made its slow way towards East Dulwich, and wondered if he could have managed matters better – or even if he should have done it at all. But slight reflection told him that things simply could not have carried on as they had done. He had had no option. This knowledge did nothing to alleviate his misery, but as he realised that he need no longer worry about whether or not he was going to be able to afford each successive weekend, he felt an unmistakeable sense of relief.

The next few days dragged barrenly along. Work seemed dry and repetitive, and the very aspect of the Temple itself, grey and austere, seemed as chilling as a prison. Anthony avoided Edward; he didn’t want to have to answer any tactless, well-meant questions. He didn’t even want to think about Julia. But, of course, he did. The same endless round of thoughts. Why had he done it? He knew the answer. The same answer that he gave himself each time he was tempted to call her. Where was the point? He had no money – worse, he had a debt that he couldn’t repay. As he considered the wreckage of his finances, he hoped that Len would wait a couple of months. At any rate, Anthony was relieved that he had not been in touch. Perhaps he didn’t need the money that urgently.

And then he reviewed his position in chambers. It was time to take serious stock, since he had gambled everything upon gaining this tenancy. The determined optimism that
had filled him following his talk with Michael had faded. The business with Hayter had undermined his confidence, and he began to suspect that no amount of hard work was going to impress the other members of chambers if they had already assumed that their head of chambers’ nephew would become the next tenant at 5 Caper Court. On whom could he count? It was almost impossible to assess his chances properly. Michael would support him, he knew. Possibly William and David – although David was a doubtful quantity, being so very much a friend of Edward’s. Sir Basil and Roderick Hayter he presumed he could discount. And Jeremy Vane. That left Stephen Bishop, whom he counted as a possibility, Cameron Renshaw, who he knew thought well of his academic record, and Leo Davies.

Leo and Anthony had had little to do with one another. For some reason that Anthony could not fathom, Leo treated him rather distantly. And for that reason, among others, he exercised something of a fascination for Anthony. He found him an attractive man, admired his reputation as a barrister, his wit and his elegance. He liked the musical Welsh accent that he seemed to hear constantly around him throughout the day, in the clerks’ room, echoing down the stairwell, in the other members of chambers’ rooms. Leo constantly visited other people, full of anecdotes, restlessly seeking company in which to while away a few moments with his banter. Sometimes he exasperated Michael with his mercurial visitations, but the exasperation was usually displaced by amusement as he listened to Leo’s latest piece of whimsy. He clearly annoyed Jeremy, not by his intrusions, for he avoided Jeremy mostly, but by his ability to coast
cleverly through his work and still find time to idle away with the typists and the clerks. Jeremy thought it rather beneath one’s dignity to chat to the more menial members of staff.

All this Anthony watched as though from the sidelines, for Leo rarely spoke to him and often passed him, apparently absent-mindedly, without seeming to see him.

Still, thought Anthony, it was worth every effort to try and make some impression on him. So he went to Leo and asked if there was any work he could do for him.

‘I don’t know,’ said Leo, after a moment’s pause. He seemed taken aback by Anthony’s visit. ‘Sit down, at any rate.’ His voice was neither friendly nor unfriendly. Anthony closed the door and sat uncomfortably while Leo examined the stack of briefs on his shelves. His room struck Anthony as being quite unlike those of the other members of chambers. It seemed to be in immaculate order. There was no trace of disorganisation; no books or papers littered tables and shelves. Everything was put neatly away behind the doors of some rather incongruously new cupboards which Leo had had installed. There were pictures on the walls, but not the conventional ones of ships or charcoal sketches of City and Temple scenes. These were steel-framed abstracts, their shapes and colours like a code, giving nothing away.

‘No,’ said Leo at last. ‘There doesn’t seem to be anything suitable.’ Anthony felt disappointed. Leo leant back in his chair, a complicated, elegant affair of grey fabric and steel tubing, slowly smoothing his hands over his hair, looking at Anthony meditatively with his cool blue eyes.

‘Right,’ said Anthony. ‘Thanks, anyway.’ He got up to go.

‘Why are you asking me for work?’ asked Leo, still leaning back. ‘Hasn’t Michael got enough for you to do?’

No one had asked Anthony this question directly before. He had taken it as dimly understood that there was some sort of competition between himself and Edward, awkward though this unspoken acknowledgement had made him feel. He found it difficult to answer.

‘I suppose I’m trying to get a broad experience of different kinds of work,’ he said at last.

Leo smiled for the first time. ‘Well, I gave young Mr Choke some work to do, and he did it fairly creditably, so far as I could see,’ he remarked. Anthony hadn’t known this. Or, at least, he did not associate what Leo said with the work with which he had helped Edward. ‘So I can’t see any reason why I shouldn’t give you some – if the right thing comes along, that is.’

‘Well, thank you.’ Anthony wasn’t quite sure what to make of this. He smiled and left. When he had gone, Leo sat looking after him, tapping his lower lip with his thumb. That really was a most attractive young man, he thought.

The news that Leo thought Edward’s work quite good depressed Anthony. If that was the case, he thought, why should Leo bother rocking any boats by favouring someone who wasn’t Sir Basil’s nearest and dearest? It might have cheered him up a little to know that Edward was currently failing, in quite a considerable way, to make a favourable impression upon Roderick Hayter, and that Michael was
discussing that very fact with Roderick and Stephen in Roderick’s room.

‘Yes, well, I never thought he was quite up to standard, despite what Leo said,’ murmured Michael.

‘Up to standard? He’s so far below that he’s practically invisible!’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t go quite so far as that,’ interjected Stephen Bishop. ‘You set your standards far too high. He is only a pupil, after all. I’ve had him along on a couple of cases and he seems quite wide-awake.’

Roderick sighed. ‘All right. I suppose he’s not completely incompetent. But he won’t do.’

‘Why ever not?’ asked Stephen, who was still of the view that everyone might as well fall into line with Sir Basil, if only for the sake of harmony. ‘Even if he’s not that good, we can always carry him. Other chambers do. This set of chambers might as well not exist if we’re going to have to start disagreeing on a question like this. We should all be like-minded.’

‘Well, I can’t agree with you,’ replied Roderick. ‘As a silk, I rely on the work that comes to me from below. You know that. It may be fine for you at the moment, while you’re still being briefed from the outset of cases. You can still put the hours in at your desk. My entire life is spent in court these days, and it’s work from William and David that keeps me there. Ask Michael – he’ll be taking silk in a year or two.’

Michael managed to look diffident and said nothing. He knew that everything Roderick said was true. He and Cameron Renshaw – and Sir Basil, come to that – relied,
as silks, on work that emanated from the junior members of chambers. The implications of taking on someone like Edward were clear. If solicitors were reluctant to brief him, then little work would come their way from his direction.

‘Well, that’s a consideration,’ conceded Stephen. ‘But I still don’t think he’s that bad. Anyway, we can take a new tenant every year for the next three years, if it comes to it. That’ll keep you busy.’

Roderick sighed and sat down. ‘I don’t know how it’s come to this. In many ways, it doesn’t really matter. It’s largely a question of what David and William want. As the junior tenants, it’s whether or not they can get on with him that counts. It’s just …’ He looked down in despair at Edward’s work. ‘Rather depressing. Still,’ he added, after a pause, ‘I suppose if young Cross didn’t exist, I wouldn’t think twice about it.’

And that, Michael was forced to admit to himself, was perfectly true.

Ignorant of all this, Anthony toiled half-hopefully on. The following week, Leo Davies came to their room. He glanced briefly at Anthony, and then turned to Michael.

‘Mind if I borrow Anthony?’ Anthony’s heart lifted. ‘I’ve got something coming up that should be amusing, and I rather think I can use him. Remember that stevedore who was killed when a cable snapped? You won’t believe it, but the shipping company is still refusing to accept liability.’

‘They must be mad,’ said Michael, sitting back in his chair.

Leo gave a chuckle. ‘They’re scared shitless. An American
court is going to award that man’s family a small fortune, if it comes to it. They’re desperate not to give in. The hearing’s in two weeks’ time, and they’re going to go down like lead. So,’ he continued, turning and slapping his hand lightly on Anthony’s desk, ‘see you in my room tomorrow morning, bright and early, right? That OK with you, Michael?’

Michael nodded. ‘Certainly. It should be very edifying for Anthony, the sight of Leo in the ascendant.’

When he began work with Leo the following day, Anthony discovered that he remembered most of the facts of the case from the time, many months ago, when he had helped Edward with it. He smiled as he found himself reading through his own pleadings.

Working for Leo was quite unlike working for any other member of chambers. Leo threw himself into a case with an enthusiasm that Anthony found wholly captivating. He was erratic and given to working in concentrated bursts of tireless energy, so that Anthony often found himself in chambers until late in the evening. He was glad of that, for it saved him from interminable evenings spent watching his mother watching television, while he tried not to wonder what Julia might be doing, and with whom. At first, he and Leo went their separate ways at the end of hard-working stints such as these, but on one particular evening their conversation regarding the case had become so absorbing that Leo prolonged it by taking Anthony for a drink. They repeated this on other evenings, sometimes going for supper to a wine bar, which Anthony found especially enjoyable. Leo was an expansive, brilliant talker, quite the best
company that Anthony had enjoyed for a long time. Leo alleviated his loneliness. He felt suddenly, magnificently, befriended. Gone was Leo’s formerly distant, cool manner. He treated Anthony wholly as an equal, making him feel as though he were making some genuine contribution to the case. Leo kept sounding him out, throwing his ideas at him, watching Anthony keenly as he waited for his response. There were days when Leo seemed chilled by the conviction that the hearing would go against them, days on which he snapped at and was short with Anthony. But the next day would find him buoyed up, possibly by some bungled tactic by the other side, possibly by the surprising credibility of the handful of witnesses that the instructing solicitors had now begun to bring along for a spot of coaching.

It was characteristic of Leo’s temperament that he took each case very personally, investing a good deal of emotional currency in it. His optimism infected Anthony entirely, so that he felt a peculiar elation when the day of the hearing arrived.

As they walked through the cathedral-like hallway of the Law Courts, their footsteps echoing on the chequered marble flags, Anthony felt the first real excitement that he had experienced as a barrister. He had become, with Leo, so seamlessly involved in the case, so familiar with each argument and each unresolved possibility, that the external world seemed to exist merely as a backdrop to this minute drama. The death of a stevedore, two long years ago, had spawned a small legal industry, provided work for so many scurrying lawyers, pouring like maggots from his carcase. They bustled and sifted and collated, they telephoned,
talked, argued and demurred, some left the case and others arrived, reading and re-reading, rehearsing and re-rehearsing, waiting and worrying. And here was the sum of it. They were there to force the hand of the dead man’s employers, to set in motion the wheels that would grind out disproportionate hundreds of thousands of dollars into the lap of his family, serving the ends of justice. This was the sharp end of the drama. The rest was history, only to be brought to life by their actions that day.

Robed, he and Leo made their way along the stone corridors until they came to the door of Number Five Court. Outside stood a little knot of people. Anthony recognised one of them, Jonathon, as the younger of their instructing solicitors, and greeted him. The older of the solicitors was conferring in a corner with the solicitor from the other side. Leo and counsel for the shipping company joined them.

‘What’s up?’ Anthony asked Jonathon.

‘Looks like we may not have our day in court, after all,’ replied Jonathon.

‘They’re going to settle?’ Anthony felt his excitement beginning to die away.

‘It looks that way. Mind you, they’ve been on the brink of settling the thing for months. But I think they may have come up with an offer at last.’

Anthony watched Leo talking with counsel and the two solicitors. He noticed, absently, the way that Leo’s hair at the back of his head looked silvery against the dull, brittle horsehair of his wig. Someone went to make a telephone call, and then came back. Leo turned to glance at Anthony and gave him a quick smile. The talking began again and
went on for some minutes. Another two men and a woman joined the discussion, and then the two men left. Anthony watched anxiously. Suddenly the little group had broken up, and Leo was walking over to Anthony.

‘That’s that,’ he said. ‘Let’s pack up and go home.’ Everybody was moving away, talking in low voices. Bewildered, Anthony followed Leo back to the robing room, along the echoing corridors, past the doors of enviably busy courts, holding in his hands the useless bundles of documents, all neatly docketed and arranged. It had been for nothing, the past weeks and evenings of concentration, the hours spent immersing one’s whole being in the case – all a waste of time. A handful of people had agreed at the last minute that they didn’t have anything to argue about after all, and would everyone else please return to normal life. The courtroom doors had not even opened.