Judicial Whispers (12 page)

He looked at her, at the soft blackness of her hair and the slenderness of her arm as she reached across to finger the little brown paper bag containing her earrings, which she had laid on the table.

‘This is going to sound – well, presumptuous,’ she began.

‘Presume away.’

‘Look, Anthony, I like you very much – I really do—’ She paused and glanced at him, then tucked a strand of hair behind one ear. ‘But this is a business trip.’

‘I know. I know that.’ He squinted up at the shafts of sunlight falling between the palm leaves. The German had begun to swim back down the length of the pool. The chattering of birds high above tore at the air for a few seconds, then died away. ‘Rachel—’ He shifted his chair so that he was directly facing her and leant forward, resting his elbows on his knees. When he looked up at her a stripe of sunlight fell across his face, and he creased his eyes against it. ‘I didn’t come out here with some idea of seducing you. If that’s what you’re worried about.’

She sighed. ‘I told you it would sound presumptuous. But you didn’t really let me finish.’

He dropped his head, then plucked a blade of grass and rolled it between his fingers, saying nothing.

‘What I wanted to say was – I like you, and I just need to take things slowly. There are – have been – some things in my life that I don’t want to talk about, but if you give me enough space – then I think it might be all right.’ I sound ridiculous, she thought, ridiculous and pretentious. Why can’t I find the right words?

He lifted his head and looked past her, over her shoulder, to the waiter approaching with their drinks. She went on. ‘Anthony, I’m just not ready for a relationship at the moment. Because – that is – I thought I was coping with things, and that’s why I asked you over that night—’ Her voice was hurrying along and she did not look at him, until he suddenly laid his hand on her arm. She stopped and looked up to see the smiling waiter standing next to her. She started and smiled hesitantly, foolishly. The waiter placed their drinks on the table, then left them. Rachel did not go on, merely stared at the chilly droplets slipping down the side of her drink in the heat.

‘So you’re not telling me to push off?’ he said at last. He was smiling as he took a sip of his drink. Oh, thank you, God, he was thinking. She does think there can be something – that this isn’t all just doomed to failure.

She looked at his face and laughed, relieved. ‘No, I’m not.’

‘I thought you were going to. I thought that was what this was to be all about.’

‘But you do understand?’

‘I think so. Well, perhaps not entirely. You just want things to – slow down, sort of?’ He put his drink down.

She nodded. ‘Just give me some time.’

He hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘Can you tell me why? I mean, you said something about things that had happened …’

‘No, that’s not important. Just that you understand that I want this to be a friendship. Until I’m ready for – for – whatever,’ she finished, looking down.

‘OK. But there’s something I want
you
to understand.’ He had lowered his voice, and she looked quickly at him. ‘I want you to understand’ – he looked intently into her eyes – ‘that I love you, that I haven’t felt this way about anyone for – a long time. I wanted to tell you that. I’ll do anything you say, play it any way you like. But you talked about being made love to, and that is something I want to do to you more than anything else in the world.’ His voice was very quiet.

She looked away, watching the German climb dripping from the pool, sunlit drops of water showering the warm tiles by the steps, light glancing off the choppy water where he had emerged. ‘So, you see, this mustn’t just be a game. Please.’

She did not know what to say. The earnestness in his voice moved her, worried her. Was she playing games with him? She looked back at him, at the serious brown eyes, the anxious, gentle mouth, the way his long fingers were stroking the cold glass, at the lean frame beneath the thinness of his shirt, the slight sweat stains where it touched his body. Does he turn you on? That was what Dr Michaels had asked Rachel. Of course he does, she told herself. He must do. I want him to. Only not just yet.

‘It’s not a game,’ she said quietly.

He could think of nothing to say. I’ve told her now, he thought. I’ve said it all, and now I must wait like some hopeless swain until she bestows her favours. It struck him as rather quaint. He had never been in such a situation before. What did one say or do next? He sat back and glanced at the pool. He should let it go. Let it all go and see how things went when they got back to London. ‘I feel like a swim,’ he said.

Far away in London, a raw and chilly wind blustered through the courtyards and alleyways of the Temple, sending drifts of dead leaves from the garden of the Master’s House into Inner Temple churchyard, forcing its way into the collars of clerks hurrying through Serjeants’ Inn and Hare Court. As the early dusk crept over the grey buildings and ancient stairways, lights shone in barristers’ rooms upon rows of briefs and humming computers, on high bookcases, on piles of documents, on polished tables and polished minds. In the murmuring courtrooms, judges listened and counsel soliloquised, clerks dozed and ushers yawned, witnesses fidgeted and juries daydreamed. Throughout the long winter afternoon the law and its agents toiled away endlessly, sifting and burrowing, piling up words and paper that would all be forgotten a century hence, while the world beyond the Temple and the law courts hurried on regardless.

Leo, leaning back in his chair, was yawning his way through a discussion with Michael Gibbon concerning the amendment of a writ.

‘I just don’t think Order Twenty can possibly cover it,’ he
remarked, folding his arms behind his head. ‘Not only have they got the plaintiff’s name wrong, they’ve got the country of incorporation and the place of business wrong, too. That takes it outside the slip rule, as far as I’m concerned.’

Michael leant his thin frame on a low table and pursed his lips. ‘I don’t see that. Anyway, since it was a genuine mistake, and since they amended it before the writ was even served, I don’t see how you can say that your people were misled.’

Leo smiled. ‘Well, we shall see. I have to say I think it most unlikely that Borchard will strike out the amendment, but I have to give it a go. In all conscience.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Michael smilingly agreed. He glanced at his watch. Six-fifteen. ‘Shall we?’

At that moment Leo’s phone rang, and he tipped his chair forward to answer it. ‘Oh, hello, Frank. Yes, that’s fine with me. Give me half an hour, would you? No, I’ll come to White’s. I don’t see why not … Yes. Goodbye.’ He put the phone down and glanced up at Michael, who was hovering hopefully. ‘Sorry, can’t do it. Frank Chamberlin has been wanting to have a word with me, and he’s free this evening. Can’t let the great and the good down.’

‘No, I suppose not. Oh, well, another time.’ And Michael went off to canvass support for a session in El Vino’s among the younger members of chambers, while Leo cleared up the rest of his work and then took a taxi to St James’s.

He found Sir Frank at his club, poring over the
Financial Times
. He looked up and over his spectacles as Leo greeted him. ‘Ah, Leo! Hello. Just reading this piece about the ruling on stop-loss policies. That will ease the minds of a few names at Lloyd’s, wouldn’t you think?’

Leo settled himself into a chair and crossed his legs, smoothing a hand back over his silver hair. ‘Depends upon one’s policy, I’d say. I know more than one chap whose policy specifies that
the money has to be paid into his premium trust fund, and not directly to him. Mind you, anyone at Lloyd’s who doesn’t have a stop-loss policy is a fool. It’s just another damned casino, after all.’

Sir Frank nodded thoughtfully. ‘Quite – well, yes, you’re right, of course.’ Then he brightened. ‘What will you have to drink?’

Their drinks were ordered, and Sir Frank settled back in his chair, folding up his paper and tapping it nervously against one of his long legs. He was uncertain how to broach the subject which he wished to discuss with Leo. Leo, however, did it for him.

‘I’m glad to get this chance to speak to you,’ he said, drawing his chair a little closer to Sir Frank’s. ‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you for a few weeks.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. I – oh, yes, thank you.’ He stopped as the white-jacketed steward set his drink down on the table next to him, then waited until he had moved away. ‘Yes, the fact is, I’ve put in my application for silk.’

‘Oh. Ah. Yes. Have you? Very good.’ Sir Frank frowned, then his face cleared, then he frowned again and looked at his drink.

Leo took a sip of his. ‘I really just wanted to ask whether I could count on your support, all that sort of thing.’

‘Oh, yes. Yes, yes, yes.’ Sir Frank looked at Leo. ‘I’d heard something of this from Bernard Lightfoot, actually. He mentioned it a little while ago.’ He paused. ‘Naturally, you have my support.’

‘Thank you,’ said Leo. There was a brief silence. Something’s up, thought Leo, and a small, icy fear crept into his heart. Sir Frank’s expressive face was alternately morose and anxious as he searched for words. Just as the silence had lengthened uncomfortably and Leo felt he should break it, Sir Frank began to speak.

‘Leo,’ he said, ‘I feel I must be frank with you.’ He paused and then smiled. ‘Ha. “Frank” with you.’ Leo smiled politely and shifted in his seat, then took another swallow of whisky, wondering what was coming. ‘Yes, anyway,’ went on Sir Frank, ‘it’s rather in connection with your application … I don’t quite know how to – well, look, there are some things, Leo, which I feel – well, that I’ve always known about you.’ His voice was low, and he glanced around to check that no other members were within earshot.

‘Known about me?’ said Leo.

‘About your – ah – life. Your private life.’ Sir Frank smiled, an encouraging but bashful smile. He really did like Leo, he did so want to help him.

Leo put his glass down slowly and looked at Sir Frank. He could not be mistaken. Frank could mean only one thing. Leo cleared his throat. ‘I suspect I know what you are saying,’ he replied, his voice casual. ‘You mean that I – ah, as it were – have never married.’

‘Yes, yes – as it were. Quite.’ Sir Frank seized gratefully on this euphemism from the world of obituaries and nodded confidingly at Leo.

‘And so forth,’ added Leo, nodding in return. One didn’t wish to embarrass poor old Frank unnecessarily.

‘Indeed. And so forth.’

Leo took out one of his small cigars. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ he asked. Frank shook his head and watched as Leo lit his cigar. So far so good, he was thinking – but now that the subject was aired, albeit in a veiled way, how should he continue? Again Leo came to his rescue. ‘I imagine, then, that it is less of a closely guarded secret than I had thought? My – way of life, I mean.’

Sir Frank pursed his lips and made a so-so movement with his head, his gaze straying to the carpet.

Leo blew out a little plume of smoke. He was testing his
mind for a response to all this. It reminded him of situations in courtrooms where one’s witness suddenly says something entirely unexpected. Collect your thoughts and consider. That was what one always did. He had not imagined that Frank – or anyone else, for that matter – knew anything of his private life. Just how much was known and how much was rumour? he wondered, tipping the ash reflectively from his cigar. Clearly he had been naive. It was such a little, little world that they lived in, after all. He smiled to himself, then looked up at Sir Frank.

‘But Frank,’ he said, his voice cool and thoughtful, ‘you don’t honestly believe that it is of any importance, the fact that I might be homosexual?’ He felt that the situation now demanded a little clarity. He paused and thought of Sarah, of other women, of the various meaningless tarts who occasionally drifted into his dark and hedonistic life. They, of course, could be discounted. No point in using terms like ‘bisexual’ with Frank. It was the young men who mattered; they were the focus of all this. ‘Do you?’ He looked searchingly at Frank. He did not honestly believe that it could matter. A third of the Bench were probably queer. Well, a bit lopsided. In this day and age, it could not matter, surely? But then, it was Frank’s world; he knew the ways things went, the basis on which decisions were made. Leo drew on his cigar again, the fingers that held it tightening as he waited for Sir Frank to reply.

‘Normally,’ said Sir Frank slowly, ‘I would say, no.’

‘Normally?’ Leo mused, nodded thoughtfully. Shuffle the papers a bit. Wait for the witness to say whatever he’s got to say, even if you don’t know what it might be.

‘Well, you see, Leo, it was something Bernard Lightfoot said …’ He paused ruminatively. ‘I take it you don’t know the new Lord Chancellor?’ He glanced at Leo.

Aha, thought Leo. ‘No, I don’t, as it happens.’

‘No – well. He’s a decent enough man, Steele, but I gather
he’s got something of a bee in his bonnet about – you know, this and that. There was all that fuss in Scotland, you remember, about queer advocates and blackmailing and all that sort of thing. I think it may have – um – prejudiced him in his views somewhat. I think he is anxious to avoid any similar sort of scandal – ah – anywhere else. I have spoken to others, and it seems Bernard may be right. There is prejudice to be feared from that quarter.’ Sir Frank frowned and swallowed the remainder of his drink. ‘So you see.’

‘Are you serious?’ asked Leo.

‘Oh, quite. Yes, yes, quite.’ He sighed. ‘I’m afraid that his appointment may be something of a step back into the dark ages, so far as – as that kind of thing is concerned.’

So far as gay QCs are concerned, thought Leo.

‘And you know,’ added Sir Frank, ‘that whereas it might not normally matter – your life away from your work, as it were – well, besides this Scottish business, in a situation where there is any kind of competition between applicants from the same set of chambers … However, you will appreciate that I can say no more – discretion, confidentiality, all that kind of thing …’ Sir Frank’s voice murmured off into silence.

Leo crushed the stub of his cigar into the ashtray. Competition. That had to mean Stephen. He must have applied to take silk. Sir Frank was not going to say so outright, but that had to be the hint he was dropping. Leo put his fingers to his lips and gazed at the ceiling. So, when pitch comes to toss, he thought, the Lord Chancellor will give preference to Stephen. Stephen is safe, I am not. But this is all speculation, he reminded himself. It depends not on what Sir Frank knows, or Sir Bernard Lightfoot, come to that, but what the Lord Chancellor knows, or comes to know.

He regarded Sir Frank. ‘I don’t suppose,’ he said, ‘that you know anything about my file? My confidential file?’

‘Oh, good heavens, no.’ Sir Frank shook his head, scratching
at a tuft of grey hair beside his ear and then nervously smoothing his hand over his bald pate. ‘No, not a thing.’

‘I was just wondering,’ said Leo, ‘whether it was necessarily a matter of common knowledge, the business of my private life.’

‘Oh, ah, that I can’t say. As for the file, that is quite another matter. But these things do get about, I’m afraid. I heard Bernard Lightfoot mention it to Sir Mungo, for instance.’

‘Sir Mungo Stephenson?’ Leo stared at Frank. If Sir Mungo knew, if Bernard Lightfoot knew, then there was little chance of the Lord Chancellor’s Office not hearing about it. But why the hell should it matter? He felt angry at the bad luck and injustice of it. Bad luck that Stephen should have applied to take silk as well, and injustice in that the thing would probably never have mattered under the previous Lord Chancellor. Now he was to be the subject of some sort of witch hunt. He said as much, in terse tones, to Sir Frank.

‘Oh, no. Oh, no, I wouldn’t see it in that light, Leo. It’s just that … well, anyway, I felt it better that you should know about this. Forewarned, and so forth.’

Why? Leo wondered. Why? There was nothing to be done about it. It just meant that the next few months were now poisoned – more than that, the next few years. The rest of his life. Oh, he could always apply next year, but the damage would have been done, the seeds sown. Short of a new Lord Chancellor with more enlightened views, there was little he could hope for. He suddenly felt as though all the brilliance of his career had been blighted by this one conversation. All that he had hoped and worked for – his practice, his success, then the natural progression to silk, to further success and greater esteem, then ultimately to the Bench, to sit among the great and good – all this was finished. God, he had always wanted to belong – wanted it passionately. And now he must stop short, his career
stunted. Leo Davies would gradually become that most pitiful of creatures, an ageing junior, inhabiting a static, twilight world, while others rose past and beyond him. He would continue, year after year, to watch the ascent of people half his age, perhaps eventually be led by them in cases. He clenched his fists upon his knees until the knuckles were white. And kind Sir Frank had brought him to a premature understanding of all this, through whatever misguided motives.

He looked candidly at Sir Frank, who had motioned to the steward to bring them each another drink. What was the point of all this? He would rather have remained in ignorance, enjoyed a few optimistic, untroubled months until Easter and the shock of disappointment.

‘Well,’ he said lightly, and, lifting a hand, he unclenched it and let it fall back into his lap. ‘At least I know the worst. I must thank you for that.’ His voice was cool and level.

‘Oh, please!’ exclaimed Sir Frank, leaning slightly forward in his chair, his eyes earnest. ‘Don’t think that I told you any of this simply to upset you. No, no!’ He leant back, watched as the steward set down their drinks and whisked their empty glasses away, then lifted his gaze and let it wander over the dark panelled room, the heavy curtains drawn against the dank November evening. He looked back at last to Leo. ‘What I was wondering, Leo,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘was whether there might not be something one could do about all this.’

‘Do?’ echoed Leo. His heart felt heavy, injured, as he absorbed the full reality of what Frank had revealed to him. He was being excluded by narrow prejudice from the upper ranks of the profession which he had always striven to serve with every talent at his command; he was among the best, he knew. And yet, rather than be rewarded for it, advanced, he might be punished for leading a life which the Lord Chancellor thought could expose him and the profession to some nameless threat.
The very institutions which upheld the rights of ordinary citizens to regulate their own sexual and private lives as they saw fit, without the fear of prejudice and harassment, were to turn on him and deny him that same equality. It was a bitter irony.