âWell,' said Sally thoughtfully, âJoy might not have known the parties â but if she had â I'm sure she'd have done just what I did. Wouldn't she, Roger?'
âYes,' said Roger, uncomfortably, âI'm sure she would.'
âWell, that's settled,' said Sally brightly. âNow you're going to tell me about the drawing pins.'
âThey were in confidence, Sally. You might have sat on one of them.'
âToo true,' said Sally. âAnd does this mean that you're never going to tell me anything?'
âOf course not. I can tell you anything that happens in Court. And I can tell you about the people in chambers. Old Grimes is an extraordinary person. But he's got the most tremendous practice. And I gather his clients swear by him.'
âFrom what you told me yesterday on the phone, I thought you did most of his work for him.'
âI didn't put it as high as that. Oh, by the way, tomorrow I'm going to a County Court with an awfully nice chap called Henry Blagrove. He's quite brilliant, I think, but I haven't heard him in Court yet.'
âWhat's a County Court? Where they fine you for not having dog licences?'
âOh, no. It's a Court for trying small civil cases â breaches of contracts, debts, accident cases and so on. And they have things called judgment summonses there. D'you know, they still send people to prison for not paying debts. I must say I thought that had been abolished after
Pickwick Papers
.'
âAre there debtors' prisons still then?'
âI don't think so. They go to ordinary prisons, I think. As a matter of fact, I don't believe many people actually go to prison. About a thousand a year, I was told.'
âI must ask mother,' said Sally. âShe sings at prisons sometimes.'
âThat is good of her,' said Roger. âShe must go down awfully well. They like almost anything there â I mean, I meanâ'
âExplain it to mother,' said Sally, âhere she is.'
Mrs Mannering came into the room a moment later.
âHow are you, Roger? How nice of you to take tickets for Friday. I'm sure you can't afford it, as a poor struggling barrister.'
âI've been looking forward to hearing you,' said Roger. âI was only saying so to Sally a moment ago.'
âHow sweet of you. Walter Burr's going to accompany me. I've made him promise not to say a word. He's a brilliant accompanist but he's suddenly got the idea that he's a comedian too. And he always tries to introduce the songs and do a comic turn at the same time. Seems catching in the musical profession at the moment. Oh, who do you think gave me a lift home, wasn't it kind? Walter Pieman â the MP, you know. I met him at Hilda's.'
Roger and Sally said nothing for a moment. Then Sally said, âIt only goes to show, doesn't it?'
âGoes to show what?' said her mother.
âThat MPs have their uses.'
The next day Roger met Henry at a tube station on the way to the County Court.
âI see you've a red bag,' said Roger. âHave you had it long?'
âI was lucky,' said Henry. âI got a brief with a leader in my second year and somehow or other it produced this. Lucky. It's much lighter than carrying a suitcase, particularly if you've got a lot of books to take.'
âBut why a suitcase?'
âWell â after a few years some people don't like to be seen with a blue bag. So they use a suitcase instead.'
âWho gave you yours?'
âMostyn, as a matter of fact.'
âI say, that's awfully good, isn't it? He's one of the biggest leaders now, isn't he?'
âWell, he's made a lot of headway in the last year or two. Yes, I was lucky. Curiously enough, I actually earned it. I worked like hell.'
âDon't people always earn them?'
âAs often as not it's done between the clerks. George meets Ernest in the “Cock.” “D'you think you could get young Bolster a red bag, Ernie?” he says over the third pint. “I'll try, old boy,” says Ernest. And if Ernest tries the answer is probably “yes.” It's a funny custom. The only people who make anything out of it really are the people who make the bags. But it's a sort of milestone in a chap's career. The day he gets his red bag. You certainly won't find your way to the Woolsack without one.'
They discussed the other milestones in a career at the Bar; then they talked about County Courts.
âWhat's this judge like?' asked Roger.
âWell, fortunately,' said Henry, âthere aren't any others like him today. I don't mean by that that he's a bad judge. He isn't. But he's very inconsiderate. Furthermore, he's peppery, pompous and conceited, but he's quite a good judge for all that, though not as good as he thinks he is. Incidentally, one of the funniest things I ever heard happened in front of him. Like to hear?'
âThat's one of the reasons I've come,' said Roger.
âCharles told you that, I suppose,' said Henry, and they both laughed.
There were three main characters in the story which Henry told Roger. The first was a barrister called Galloway, a well-intentioned, very serious and literally-minded man. The second was a former County Court judge called Musgrave.
âHe's dead now,' said Henry. âHe was a nice old boy and quite a good judge when he tried a case, but he was a wicked old man and wouldn't sit after lunch. There aren't any others like him today, either.'
âWhat d'you mean?' asked Roger.
âWhat I say. He wouldn't sit after lunch. He spent part of the morning either making people settle cases or adjourning them for one reason or another and finally he tried what was left and rose at lunchtime. Very rarely he came back after lunch, but, usually he made some excuse for postponing any case which hadn't finished by lunchtime until another day. I liked him, but he certainly was naughty. Well, one day Galloway had a case in front of Musgrave. It was an accident case which would have been likely to occupy a considerable part of the day. The judge had a medical referee sitting beside him to advise. When I say sitting, well, it was arranged that he should sit. The only question in the case was whether a man's illness had been caused by the accident, but a good deal of evidence would have had to be given about it. Before the judge sat he sent for the doctors who were being called on each side and told them to have a word with the medical referee. After they'd had a chat for ten minutes or so, the judge went in to see them himself. Five minutes later he came into Court, sat down and announced that there would be judgment in the case for the defendants with costs.
â“Butâ” said the unfortunate Galloway, who was appearing for the plaintiff.
â“But what?” said the judge, quite severely.
â“Butâ” repeated Galloway.
â“If that's all you have to say, Mr Galloway, I'll have the next case called,” and this was duly done.
âWell, of course, the plaintiff wasn't going to take that lying down. His case had never been tried. The judge had no doubt acted upon what the doctors had told him behind closed doors. It was a complete denial of justice. So the plaintiff appealed to the Court of Appeal and Galloway started to tell their Lordships all about it. He hadn't gone very far with the story before the president of the Court, Lord Justice Brand, said: “It's very difficult to believe that this really happened. Naturally, I'm not doubting your word, Mr Galloway, but how can it have happened as you say without your saying something to the judge?”
â“I did say something, my Lord.”
â“Oh â what was that?”
â“âBut,' my Lord.”
â“Yes, Mr Galloway?”
â“âBut,' my Lord.”
â“But what, Mr Galloway?”
â“Just âbut,' my Lord.”
â“I'm afraid I'm out of my depth,” said another Lord Justice. “Are you still addressing us, Mr Galloway?”
â“Yes, my Lord.”
â“Then what did you mean when you said âbut' to my brother?”
â“That was what I said, my Lord.”
â“I know you did, twice. But why?”
â“I couldn't think of anything else to say, my Lord.”
â“Now, look,” said Lord Justice Brand. “Let us get this straight. You didn't say âbut' to usâ?”
â“Oh, yes, he did,” said Lord Justice Rowe.
â“I know, I know,” said Lord Justice Brand. “Please let me finish. The âbut' you said to us was the âbut' you said to the learned County Court judge, or to put it more accurately, it was another âbut' but the same word. âBut' is what you said to the County Court judge.”
â“Yes, my Lord,” said Galloway.
âLord Justice Brand sat back in his chair triumphantly.
â“But,” said Lord Justice Rowe, “if I may be forgiven the use of the word, but is that all you said to the learned judge?”
â“Yes, my Lord, just âbut.'”
â“But it doesn't mean anything.”
â“I didn't get a chance to say anything more, my Lord, and I was too flabbergasted.”
â“Really, Mr Galloway,” said Lord Justice Brand. “When I was at the Bar, I considered it to be my duty in the interests of my client to stand up to the judge and, if necessary, to be rude to him, yes, to be rude to him. I cannot believe that counsel of your experience would allow a thing like that to happen unchallenged.”
âIn the end, of course, they allowed the appeal and sent the case back to the County Court to be properly heard before another judge, but not before poor Galloway's mildness had been further criticized.
âA week later he had an accident case before Boyle â the judge you're going to meet. Galloway was appearing for the plaintiff. He got up and started to open the case to the jury, explaining to them where the accident happened and so on. He was just saying: “Now, members of the jury, at that juncture the defendant's car without any warning of any kind whatsoeverâ” when the judge interrupted: “Mr Galloway, might I have a plan, please?”
â“Be quiet,” said Galloway and continued to address the jury. “And without any warning of any kind whatsoeverâ”
âJust as the Court of Appeal could not believe what was said to have happened in Musgrave's Court, Boyle couldn't believe he'd heard Galloway aright. Galloway was a polite man and his behaviour was normally impeccable.
â“I really can't follow this without a plan,” said Boyle.
â“Will you be quiet,” said Galloway and started to go on addressing the jury. But not for long. This time the judge had no doubt what had been said.
â“Have you taken leave of your senses, Mr Galloway?” he said angrily. “How dare you speak to me like that!”
â“Well, your Honour,” said Galloway. “I was told last week by the Court of Appeal that it was my duty to be rude to the judge.”'
Â
They arrived at the Court in plenty of time and went straight to the robing-room. It was crowded with solicitors and counsel.
âHullo, Henry, are we against one another?' said a middle-aged barrister.
âI don't know. I'm in â now what's the name of it? Wait a minute, I can never remember.'
He opened his bag and got out the brief. âOh, yes, of course, Swift and Edgerley.'
âYes, that's me,' said the other. âWe've got a hope. We're about last. He's got some judgment summonses, half a dozen possession cases and three other actions before ours. Any use asking him to let us go?'
âNot a chance,' said Henry. âBut all the same I should think we'd better try. The old so-and-so will never let anyone get away before lunch. I think he likes an audience really, to hear his wise remarks and his quotations from Birkenhead's famous judgment. Is anyone else going to have a crack at it? Let's get in before he sits and see what the form is.'
Counsel's and solicitors' row made an impressive sight for His Honour Judge Boyle as he walked on to the Bench. Henry was right in thinking that he liked an audience. The judge moved in and sat down slowly. He was a heavy man and not young. The first thing he did was to look at the pencils. He obviously did not approve of them. He tapped on his desk for the clerk to speak to him.
âTake these beastly things away,' he said, âand get me some decent ones. I can't use those. How many more times have I got to say so?'
âI'm sorry, your Honour,' said the clerk.
âIt's not your fault,' grunted the judge. âIt's what they send us. I've complained about it dozens of times. They'll expect me to write with my thumbnail next.'
The clerk sent out for some more pencils.
A solicitor got up: âMight I mention to your Honour,' he began.
âNo, not yet,' said the judge irritably. The solicitor sat down with a sigh.
âCheerful mood today,' whispered one member of the Bar to another.
âThe old idiot. I'd like to chuck the lot at him.'
âIf people want to talk they must go outside,' said the judge.
âCharming,' said Henry, but quietly enough.
The new pencils were brought. The judge tried them. âI suppose they'll have to do,' he said eventually. âThey're better than the last. Thank you, Mr Jones.'
âShall I call the first application, your Honour?'
âYes, please.'
âMrs Turner,' called the clerk, and a small woman went into the witness box. She was making an application for some money to be paid out to her from a fund in Court. She was a widow whose husband had been killed some years before in an accident and the Court controlled her use of the damages she had been awarded.
âWell,' said the judge, after glancing at the papers in front of him, âwhat do you want £10 for?'
He asked her as though she were a beggar at the back door when she was, in fact, the owner of the fund in Court. It was her money, but the Court had the paternal duty of seeing that she did not expend it too foolishly. The judge's manner was not in the least paternal.
âPlease, your Worship,' the woman began â
âShe's had it,' whispered a solicitor, âcalling him your worship.'
âIt's a first payment for a television set.'
The judge's eyes gleamed. His remarks about television and other abominations of the modern age had frequently been reported in the Press.
âA television set,' he growled. âWhat on earth d'you want with one of those things? Read a good book and get it from the library. Cost you nothing.'
âPlease, your Worship, I can't read, not really.'
âWhat on earth have we been paying taxes for all these years? It's disgraceful.'
âPlease, your Worship, I'm nearly blind.'
âOh, I'm sorry,' said the judge. He thought for a moment and then added in a more kindly tone: âBut is a television set much use to you then? Why not have a wireless instead?'
âOh, I have a wireless, your Worship.'
âI see.'
The judge hesitated.
âYou think you'll get some pleasure out of a television set, do you?'
âOh, yes, your Worship. Mrs Crane across the road has one and she can't see a thing.'
âPerhaps it's an advantage then,' said the judge. âYes, very well, Mrs Turner. You shall have your television set. Ten pounds I think you want. Very well. Can you pay the instalments all right? Good. They'll give you your money in the office. I hope your sight improves.'
âMight I now mention to your Honour,' began the solicitor who had tried before, hoping that the shock which the judge had just received might have put him in a more receptive mood.
âCertainly not,' said the judge just as fiercely as before, but not quite for the same reason. He was visualizing Mrs Turner's life without her husband and without much sight. âAnd probably she hasn't much to think with either,' he was pondering, âthough p'raps it's as well,' when the solicitor had interrupted.
âMr Copplestone,' called the clerk, and a young man went into the witness box. The judge glared at him. He had already glanced at his application.
âA motor bicycle,' he said. âOne of those horrible things. Why don't you use a pedal cycle or walk? Much better for you and safer. You'll go and kill yourself.'
âI'm getting married,' ventured the young man.
âYou'll kill your wife too,' said the judge.
âI'm twenty-one next month,' said the young man, âand we wanted the bike for our honeymoon.'
This was a young man who had been awarded damages when he was a small boy. At the age of twenty-one he would be entitled to all of it, but until then the Court had control.
âWhy can't you wait?' asked the judge. He knew he couldn't keep the young man away from a motor bicycle for long, but he did not want to be a party to the transaction.
âWe don't want to, your Honour.'
âI dare say you don't. Have you your parents' permission?'
âTo have the bike, your Honour?'
âNo, of course not. No one asks parents' permission for anything these days. You just go and do it. No â to marry, I mean. Still need it for that.'
âCan I speak?' said a man from the back of the Court.
âSilence,' called the usher.
âBut it's all wrong,' shouted the man.
âSilence,' called the usher even louder.
âLet that man be brought forward,' commanded the judge. He required no bringing forward and came hastily to the witness box.
âWho are you?' asked the judge.
âI'm his father,' said the man. âAnd I think it's a shame.'
âYou've already interrupted the proceedings twice and if you speak like that I shall deal with you for contempt of Court. You'll either speak properly or not at all. Now, what is it you want to say?'
âI say, give the boy his bike. Why spoil the young people's pleasure? You only get married once.'
âUnfortunately,' said the judge, unable to resist the temptation, âthat today is not always the case, though I hope it will be in this instance. But if I let him have this horrible machine one of them at least will probably be killed.'
âThey can't afford a car,' said the man. âAnd they don't want to go for a honeymoon by bus or train. They want to be with each other. And I say they ought to be. My old woman and I went walking, but then we didn't have the luck to have had an accident and get the damages. Though it doesn't look as though that's going to be much good to him.'
âWill you be quiet,' said the judge.
âWhy doesn't the Registrar do these?' whispered Henry to his opponent.
âBecause the old fool likes doing them. He ought to do them in chambers, anyway. Pompous old idiot. Doesn't care two hoots how much time he takes up or how much he inconveniences everyone.'
The judge finished his applications, having very grudgingly given the young man his money. He realized that it would not be fair in this instance to refuse it.
âNow, does anyone want to mention any of the cases?'
The solicitor had a third attempt.
âAny member of the Bar,' asked the judge, ignoring the solicitor.
Henry's opponent got up.
âYour Honour is always so exceedingly considerate that I'm prompted to ask leave to mention the last case in your Honour's list,' he said.
âLet me see,' said the judge, âSwift and Edgerley, is that it?'
âYes, your Honour. My learned friend, Mr Blagrove, and I were wondering whether your Honour would give any indication of whether that case is likely to be heard today. I would not have mentioned the matter but your Honour is always so exceedingly helpful in these matters and as there are seven cases in front of usâ' he paused and waited to see what effect his piece of hypocrisy had had.
âOne does one's best, Mr Tate,' said the judge, âbut, as you know, it's very difficult with such heavy lists. Would it be a convenience to you if I said that I would not hear your case before the luncheon adjournment?'
âNo bloody use at all,' said Tate in an undertone to Henry. âThank you very much, your Honour,' he went on. âThat is most kind of your Honour. Perhaps we might have leave to mention the matter again after the adjournment.'
âCertainly, Mr Tate.'
âIf your Honour pleases,' beamed Mr Tate. âThe old so-and-so,' he added to Henry, âhe knows bloody well we can't get back to the Temple from here.'
âAny other applications from the Bar?' asked the judge. There was no response.
âNow, Mr Bloat, what is your application?'
âWould your Honour release my case too until after lunch?'
âIf I release every case I shall have nothing to do. Are there any other applications?'
âBut, your Honourâ' began Mr Bloat.
âWhat is it, Mr Bloat?' said the judge angrily. âIt's quite impossible for me to help the parties in these matters if they don't accept my decision when I've given it. I do the best I can.'
âI think you're brilliant,' said Henry to Tate when they were in the robing-room again. âIt would stick in my gullet to talk to the old boy like that.'
âWhen you're my age,' said Tate, âyou'll never mind saying “please” to anyone if it'll get you anywhere or anything â even if you think you oughtn't to have had to ask for it â indeed, even if it's your own. It costs nothing and sometimes it gets something. At any rate we can have a smoke and plenty of time for lunch. He only rises for half an hour.'
âBut you perjured your immortal soul in the process.'
âIf you feel so strongly on the subject, my boy,' said Tate, âyou should have got up and disagreed when I said the old fool was so exceedingly helpful. See how far that would have got us! Anyway by keeping silent you adopted my lie and cannot now be heard to complain of it. Estopped, my boy, that's what you are. And when you get before St Peter, he'll have you for that. “You told a lie to His Honour Judge Boyle,” he'll say. You'll start to deny it. “We can't have that,” he'll say. “You told a lie to Judge Boyle all right. Good for you. Come inside.”'
Eventually Henry's case was heard and he and Roger left the Court together.
âWhat sort of a clerk is Alec?' Roger asked him.
âAlec has, in my view,' said Henry, âonly one fault. This,' and Henry imitated Alec sucking his teeth so successfully that Roger winced. âCheer up â you'll have to get used to that,' said Henry, and did it again. âSome people,' he went on, âwould say that he had two other faults. He doesn't drink or smoke. But that's a matter of opinion.'
âClerks seem to be most frightfully important,' said Roger.
âWell, you've noticed something. They are. A top-class man will always get on, but a second-rater could be made or marred by his clerk.'
âHow does a clerk begin?'
âUsually as a boy in the Temple, at a very small wage. Then, if he's no good, he goes to something else. If he does take to it, he becomes a junior and then, if he's lucky, a senior clerk. D'you know, Alec was making a thousand a year when he was not much older than you are, and a thousand was a thousand in those days.'
âIt's extraordinary. Of course, the method of paying them beats me. I must say I like the idea of having my clerk paid by the clients. Is there any other profession in the world where it happens?'
âI don't know of one â except, of course, that they're really paid by commission and there are plenty of commission jobs. But they are rather different, I suppose. Yes, it is a curious arrangement that every time I have a conference my clerk gets five bob and the client pays him. But, of course, until you've got a practice you'll have to pay him a salary. And they're inclined to take the shillings in the guineas now as well from everyone.'
âWhat do they make these days?'
âDepends entirely on the chambers. But a clerk in a really good set of chambers might make two or three thousand a year, I suppose. And he's never read a law-book in his life, though he's carried a good few. All the same, the work he does is jolly important and the wheels wouldn't go round without him. Getting briefs, fixing up the fees and arranging it so that you're not in too many places at the same time. It takes a bit of doing. An intelligent and experienced clerk earns his keep all right.'
âWhat I like,' said Roger, âis the sort of relationship which seems to exist between them and us.'
âQuite right!' said Henry. âIt's quite different from any other. There's an intimacy and understanding between a barrister and his clerk which, as far as I know, doesn't exist in any other job. And neither side ever takes advantage of it. But Heaven preserve me from a bad clerk. Alec does me proud â indeed, he'd do me much better if I'd let him, and I don't mind his little habit as much as you seem to.' And Henry repeated it several times until he saw that it really upset Roger. âSorry, old boy,' he said. âI didn't know you took it to heart so. I'll try to remember,' and he just checked himself from repeating the process.