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Authors: Caro Fraser

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BOOK: A Hallowed Place
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Leo told him about the Estate Committee’s offer of free carpeting and shelving. ‘Which just about clinches it for Jeremy, of course. Anything to save money.’ Leo sighed. ‘You know how I feel about the whole thing.’

‘You like the Temple. We all do. But we can’t stay stuck in Caper Court for ever. We’re bulging at the seams.’

Leo noticed that Cameron still spoke of everyone in chambers as ‘we’ and was touched. It made no sense to think of Cameron as dying. As long as he was alive, here and now, he was still part of things. And would be until the very last breath left his body. That was clearly how Cameron saw it and why he wanted to hear about the world of which he still felt so much a part.

‘I know all that,’ said Leo. ‘But I don’t think you quite understand—’ He stopped, looked down at his teacup. How could he explain to Cameron that the Temple was the nearest thing to a home he had ever known? For the rest of the members of chambers, home was a comfortable house in Pangbourne, or Woking, or Henley-on-Thames, with wife and children, neighbours, dogs and horses. For Leo, it was the cloisters and passageways, the cobbled squares, the halls and libraries, the narrow wooden staircases, the hushed
courtyards and green gardens of the Temple. That was his world, the only one where he felt truly happy. It seemed a small enough matter, moving chambers from one side of Fleet Street to the other, but it was, for him, far larger than that.

He could not begin to say anything of this to Cameron. So instead, he hesitated and went on, ‘I suppose we’ll have a chambers meeting soon enough, to vote on it.’

‘I understand Roderick’s standing in while I’m away,’ remarked Cameron. Again Leo noticed how Cameron spoke as though this was a purely temporary matter.

‘Yes. He seemed a natural choice for acting head.’ Leo drank the rest of his tea. ‘I suppose he’ll become head of chambers in due course.’ Then he realised what he had said and was appalled. ‘Christ, Cameron - I’m sorry …’

Cameron waved a dismissive hand and smiled. ‘Don’t be a fool. I don’t go around pretending all the time. I know I’m never coming back. Life goes on.’ He looked away for a few seconds, then glanced back searchingly at Leo. ‘If I had any say in it, y’know - which, naturally, I won’t - you would be my first choice as head of chambers.’

Leo was momentarily astonished. ‘I can’t say it’s something I’ve ever thought about,’ he replied candidly. It was true. Part of the illusion of youth. Heads of chambers were people of gravitas, well into middle age, serious, responsible types. He’d never quite seen himself that way.

‘Look, it needs someone with a bit of personality and authority. Someone who’s well known and respected around the Temple and the City. It’s as much a matter of good PR as anything else.’

‘Roderick’s all those things. Besides, he’s my senior. So’s Stephen Bishop, by a couple of years.’

Cameron waved a dismissive hand. ‘Stephen’s a non-starter. Nice man, good lawyer, but he has no status. It needs to be someone who has the respect of the junior members of chambers. As for Roderick, it’s just a matter of time before he’s appointed to the High Court.’ Cameron leant back against his pillows and closed his eyes, breathing slowly and deeply for a few seconds. Leo, faintly alarmed, wondered if he was all right. After a moment Cameron opened his eyes, his gaze weary and dull. ‘I’m sorry, Leo. I forget how tired this wretched illness makes me.’

‘I’d better be going,’ said Leo. ‘You must need some rest.’ He rose and put his teacup aside. Once again Cameron stretched out his hand and Leo took it.

‘Good to see you,’ said Cameron. ‘Very good indeed. Give my best to everyone, won’t you? And think about what I said. You’re a natural. I’d like to think of number five in your capable hands.’

Leo gave a small, deprecating shrug. ‘You think more of me than I do of myself, old man.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘I’ll try to drop in again. Goodbye, for the present.’

‘Goodbye,’ said Cameron.

As he went slowly downstairs to take his leave of Hilary, Leo knew in his heart that it was the last time he would ever see him.

When he arrived back in Belgravia it was only five o’clock and Leo wondered, as he parked the car, whether he would find Joshua in. The melancholy afternoon had lowered his
spirits, and the drive back through crowded late afternoon traffic had left him with a headache. He longed for a drink and Joshua’s company.

Even as he climbed the carpeted stair to the flat, Leo could hear music coming from the flat, and when he opened the door the sound blasted out at him. In the background he could hear people laughing and talking in the drawing room. Slowly, thoughtfully, Leo closed the door and took off his overcoat, trying to work out how to play the situation. His first instinct was to go straight in and turn the music down, but he resisted this. He walked down the hallway to the drawing room door and glanced casually in, taking in the scene of some five or six youths variously draped around the room in chairs or on the floor, and said ‘Hi,’ as casually as he could. Everyone in the room stopped talking instantly.

Leo went into the kitchen and stood there for a few seconds, trying to gauge his feelings. Above all, he had a headache. He didn’t want the incessant thump of that music in his home. Secondly, he felt angry at the invasion, but beyond that he also felt marginalised, middle aged and helpless. Afraid. Afraid of angering Joshua, of estranging him. He, Leo Davies, who had never been afraid of any human being in his life. He rubbed a weary hand across his face, and at that moment the kitchen door opened and Joshua came in. Leo stood where he was, his back to the door, waiting for the touch of Joshua’s hand on his shoulders, conciliatory, kind. That at least would help.

But Joshua brushed past him and went to the fridge. ‘You’re back early,’ he said, taking out some beers. Leo was instantly aware that Joshua had somehow taken it upon
himself to feel the disapproval that Leo had not even hinted at. The messages were all so subtle, the currents wonderfully underplayed. And the result was that Joshua felt resentful. He could sense it in the very way that Joshua closed the fridge door.

Leo sighed. ‘Are they staying very long, your friends?’ He tried hard to ask the question carelessly, putting no edge on it, but as soon as he’d spoken he knew that it made no difference. Joshua would hear whatever he wanted to hear.

‘Why? Are they a problem?’

‘No, Joshua. They’re not a problem …’ Leo went to fill the kettle, deciding that he wanted a cup of tea rather than a drink. He watched as the water rose over the element, wondering how to negotiate this situation. ‘The music is a bit loud, however—’ He turned, the kettle in his hand. Joshua had left the kitchen. Anger flared instantly in him and he went into the drawing room, walked straight to the music centre, almost tripping over the trainered feet of one of the youths, and turned the volume right down. He turned and left the room without a word, aware of the silence, the sullen eyes following him.

In the kitchen Leo made his tea, then sat at the kitchen table, drinking it and waiting. He half expected the volume of the music to creep up again, almost hoped that the sound of conversation and laughter might resume. But after a few moments he heard feet in the hallway and the front door opening, then closing. Still he waited for Joshua to come in, anticipating the inevitable tirade of resentful anger and wondering how best to defuse it. But the silence in the flat continued unbroken and it dawned upon Leo that Joshua
had left with his friends. The faint relief he felt at first was quickly swallowed up by bitterness. He had wanted nothing more than to be alone with Joshua this evening. Slowly he got up from the kitchen table and went into the drawing room. A few crumpled beer cans were scattered by the sofa and the reedy sound of whatever music they had been listening to still floated at a low volume from the music centre. Leo switched it off. Then he walked to the window and stood looking down, anticipating the long, painful hours to be endured until Joshua chose to come back.

Anthony’s day had been an unsettling one. He had felt ambivalent about seeing Sarah after what had happened the night before. Was she going to start behaving knowingly, flirtatiously? But Sarah merely smiled and said a cool ‘good morning’ to him before the morning’s Appeal Court proceedings began, and scarcely looked at him thereafter. She was a model of efficient note-taking and strict concentration. Anthony had been considering taking her to lunch and explaining that what had happened the previous evening couldn’t be allowed to reoccur, should never have happened in the first place. But Sarah disappeared at lunch time before Anthony had the chance to say a word and he went off to the nearest sandwich bar alone, vaguely disgruntled.

The pattern in the afternoon was much the same. After lunch they exchanged a few brief remarks about the case before the proceedings recommenced, but there was nothing in Sarah’s behaviour that reflected the passion of last night. If anything, although her manner was friendly, there was
a faint distance in it that almost suggested she wished it hadn’t happened, and that it was best not contemplated. Anthony sat, scarcely appreciating the growing disfavour with which the three Appeal Court judges were receiving the opposing side’s arguments, and revolved these matters in his mind. He had no notion that the little currents of thought were exactly those which Sarah had deliberately set in motion. He glanced at her a couple of times, but she was apparently absorbed in the proceedings. Then he caught a very faint drift of the scent which she wore and was suddenly, erotically, reminded of making love to her. He leant slightly, imperceptibly, closer to catch the smell again and relive the recollection, but Sarah made a quick movement as she made a note of something and he leant away. He tried to analyse what was going on. Her manner today suggested that what had happened last night was the furthest thing from her mind. Perhaps it was. It came to him in a sudden, humiliating flash of thought that perhaps she hadn’t even enjoyed it - although she had appeared to. Perhaps she had found it all repetitive and boring, but had kept up an appearance of pleasure because she was the one who had started it. Anthony was well aware, from things which Sarah had said and done in the past, that she considered him rather staid and unadventurous. Had she been laughing at him?

Anthony glanced at her again, the way her skirt rode up when she crossed her black-stockinged legs, her blonde hair shining soft and silky even in the dreary light of the court room. He disliked the idea that she should have dismissed him from her mind. Okay, last night had been a mistake,
and unfair on Camilla, but still … Most men would expect some sort of - what? Acknowledgement? A subtle hint of recognition that something intimate had happened? He sighed and scratched his head beneath his wig, aware of the confusion of his thoughts and feelings. Glancing at the clock, he saw that it was a quarter to five. Mrs Shepherd, counsel for the other side, was drawing to a close. Anthony stifled a yawn as she sat down.

Lord Justice Hazel leant forward a little to address the court. ‘Thank you, Mrs Shepherd. As we have sat late to finish these proceedings, I don’t intend to detain everybody. Our decision will be communicated through the usual channels. As I understand this is a matter of mild urgency, we shall endeavour to deliver our judgment within the month. Thank you.’ The three Appeal Judges rose and withdrew.

‘Well, are you optimistic?’ asked Sarah, as they gathered up their papers.

‘Fairly. If body language is anything to go by.’ They walked together to the door of the court room. ‘By the way—’ Anthony stopped and Sarah turned to look at him.

‘Yes?’

‘About last night.’ He paused as a group of people passed close by them, waiting till they were out of earshot, then realised he had no idea what to say next.

‘What about last night? Is your conscience troubling you? Do you feel the need to confess all to Camilla?’

Stung by the lightly mocking tone of her voice, Anthony replied, ‘Frankly, I wish it had never happened.’ At this Sarah merely laughed and began to walk away down the stone-flagged corridor. Anthony caught up with her. ‘I
simply meant that it wasn’t fair on Camilla.’

She stopped and turned to look at him. ‘Anthony, you and I have never seen eye to eye, morally. As far as I’m concerned, last night had nothing to do with Camilla. I don’t know why you’re so puritanical about everything. All right, she may be your girlfriend, but she’s not here at the moment. You and I had a thing once, it didn’t work out, but there were certain things about it that were good. Sex, for instance.’ She shrugged. ‘I’ve got no hang-ups about enjoying it while she’s away. It doesn’t go any further than that.’

‘Well, you’re right about one thing - we do see things differently, morally. I can’t abuse someone’s trust like that.’

Sarah smiled her foxy smile. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, Anthony darling, you just did.’ She turned and walked away down the corridor, and Anthony did not follow.

Leo spent part of the evening negotiating with a dealer in Paris regarding the Anthony Caro sculpture which he hoped to acquire for the museum, then ate a scrappy supper of avocado and ham while he went through notes for a case conference the following morning. As he did these things he made a conscious effort not to think of Joshua. He could not, he told himself, weaken to the point where he allowed all his thoughts and energies to be consumed by Joshua. That Saturday when he had trailed round Earl’s Court and then half of north London in a futile attempt to track him down had been a nadir. He would not plumb those depths again. Yet, even as he told himself this, his eyes strayed again to his watch, his ears attuned for the opening and closing of the door downstairs
and Joshua’s footsteps approaching the flat.

The sound of the telephone breaking the silence made him jump. It was Chay, ringing with news of an unexpected benefactor for the museum, an individual named Anthea Cole who had amassed a formidable collection of modern art since the early seventies and who, on reading of Chay’s venture, had decided to donate it in its entirety to the Shoreditch museum.

BOOK: A Hallowed Place
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