by Jilly Cooper
Finally, I like the way even the hoariest old chestnut gets updated. One woman friend, in despair that her son was ever going to pass his Common Entrance exam to Marlborough and driven crackers by his refusal to work in the holidays, ordered him to write an essay on a day in the country. Ten minutes later he returned with the following:
‘My day in Soho.
‘I decided to spend my £15 birthday money on a trip to Soho. Suddenly my eyes fell on a beautiful woman, who was wearing a red dress and red lipstick. She handed me a card saying: “The name’s Mabel, and I cost £12 plus VAT.” I accepted her ofTer, and we went to her bedroom. Her brown hair looked lovely in the light, so we both stripped off and had a lovely time. Suddenly her digital alarm went, and she said: “Time’s up.”
‘I got dressed. Mabel gave me a receipt and said, “See you next week”. It was well worth the money.’
Trial By Jury
BEING SELF-EMPLOYED, I’VE always dreaded jury service even more than shingles. Alas, last month, my luck ran out, and I was summoned to do my stint at the Old Bailey.
Having just joined the Mail on Sunday, and also having two books to finish, I was thrown into complete panic. What would happen if I was put on a tax case that ran for ever like The Mousetrap, or even worse some Ripper trial so riveting that I’d get thrown into prison for not keeping my trap shut at dinner parties?
The most unkindest cut was that my dear dog-walking friend, Tristram, had also been summoned for jury service at the Old Bailey, but starting the week before me, so we couldn’t even be new girls together. On the eve of his debut, we shambled gloomily round the common, discussing what we could wear on our respective first days to compel the counsel to chuck us out.
I opted for a pork-pie hat and at least a dozen National Front and CND badges.
‘I’m going in drag,’ countered Tristram sulkily. ‘I’m jolly well wearing my party frock.’
Next day I took off to Normandy for a week to steady my nerves. At least if I acquired a sun tan, I might while away the boredom wowing a few barristers.
Wednesday
First jury day dawned. Rose at six to waddle the dogs – so fat from holiday gluttony I’d be lucky if I got into the jury box. The court had already informed me they’d pay my fares if I travelled by public transport. Just dickering between 22 bus, which takes at least two hours in the rush hour, and alternative one and a half mile walk to station, followed by two tube changes, with half mile walk the other end, when my husband rang to say the Kings Road was blocked solid, so I’d better get a mini cab, and that he’d divorce me if I found anyone guilty.
As I left, the dogs looked at me in stunned disbelief. Having deserted them for a week, was I abandoning them again?
Just reached Old Bailey on time. Fought my way through blue forest of policemen to find a large crowd of first-day jurors, milling all forlorn, outside the Jury Bailiff’s office. Most of the men were sweating in suits. The women, Thatcherized in blazers, shirts with pussy cat bows, and pleated skirts, looked at my jeans askance. Perhaps they should form a Metropolitan Pleats force.
The next half hour was spent with everyone asking everyone else if we’d come to the right place. Then a white-haired man in a black gown made it seem even more like the first day at school by taking a roll call, and we all trooped into court.
Suddenly, in the back row, I saw a terrific chum: Mr P who runs the local off-licence. With any luck we’d be twelve good men and Ben Trueman. Gave loud shriek to attract his attention and was sharply shushed by black-gowned lady. Mr P went pink and waved back discreetly.
We were given a pep talk about never discussing any case we were on with anyone but our fellow jurors, and not taking it to heart if we were challenged.
‘It’s nothing personal,’ explained the black-gowned man kindly. ‘Prosecution might just want more ladies to balance a case.’
‘Mrs Higgins was on a drugs case last week,’ said a fat woman behind me. ‘Defence threw out anyone who was wearing a tie.’
Masterminding the Old Bailey must be rather like running a vast all-the-year-round Wimbledon, where you have to find twelve new umpires for each match. The staff was expected to produce different juries for the twenty-five courts on cases, which may be extended for days because of legal squabbling, suddenly terminated because of insufficient evidence, or unnaccountably held up because the judge wants to play golf. As a result the hanging about is ludicrous.
Next all the first-day jurors were sent up to the vast jurors’ canteen, where people were sitting round, chatting, reading, knitting and doing crosswords. A few dedicated individuals were trying to work: a lady in a caftan and sandals was indexing a biography, an architect had rather ostentatiously commandeered a whole table to draw plans of a house. I attempted to write but found it impossible to concentrate. Every so often the tannoy crackled incomprehensibly, or a black-gowned lady came in, reeled off a list of names and bore a group off on a case. It was like being trapped in some foreign airport, where you daren’t get stuck in a book in case you don’t hear your flight being called.
For the next ninety minutes, Mr P from the off-licence and I wrestled with the Sun crossword, and discussed the drinking habits of many Putney residents. At noon, my friend Tristram drifted in. He’d abondoned the idea of a party frock in favour of a pale grey suit. Having been in situ for a week, he was able to regale us with all the local gossip. In one corner huddled a butch lady with a crew cut, who, having been objected to on five successive cases, was thinking of consulting an analyst. Another man, said Tristram, had had a heart attack when he was challenged, and yesterday a Chinaman had been sent home for good because he rolled up with an interpreter.
‘Some people ’ave been ’ere eight days, and ’aven’t ’ad a case yet,’ said a crone in Kit-e-Kat pink, scratching a midge-bite.
At 12.45, the black-gowned lady returned and told me, Mr P and twenty-two other first-day jurors to go to lunch, and to report to Court 13 at two o’clock sharp. Tristram, who’d been told he could go home for good, whisked me off to the pub to meet his fellow jurors, who included a lady gardener from Hackney parks, and a woman who cleans engines in the Woolwich Tunnel. I was amazed how depressed they were that their jury stint was over. Most of lunch was spent discussing whether their employers would notice if they didn’t go back to work till Monday. Later they moved on to the judge on their cases. Every morning and afternoon, the clerk had evidently lined up fifteen toffees on the ledge in front of him, which his lordship had noisily sucked throughout the case.
They were all gleefully telling me about a fellow juror who’d gone all the way to Harrods in her lunch hour to buy a dress for Ascot, and been fined £60 by the judge for getting back eighty minutes late, when I suddenly glanced at Tristram’s watch, and saw to my horror it was five past two.
Belting back to the Bailey, I couldn’t remember the number of the court I was meant to report to. Finding a vaguely familiar group in the foyer, I followed them upstairs. It was only when an eager woman in a tweed skirt started spouting in front of an statue of Elizabeth Fry, and everyone began saying ‘Right’ and ‘Oh my Gard’, that I realised I’d joined a group of Nancy Reagan clones on a tour of the building. I was just having hysterics at the prospect of being fined £100, when I was gathered up by Mr P from the off-licence, saying our case on Court 13 had been adjourned, so it was back to the canteen.
The rest of the afternoon was spent being herded into lifts, hanging about outside various courts, and being herded back to the canteen again. Only thing missing was a commentary by Phil Drabble.
Finally sent home at 3.30. On endless bus journey, I listened to two women who’d just come off a skinhead mugging case.
‘I knew they was guil-ee,’ said the first. ‘Then I see them looking at me, finking we’ll do ’er in four or five years when we get art, so I said: “Not guil-ee”.’
Thursday
Rose at six to walk dogs in already punishing heat. No time to wash hair. Having w
alked to Putney Bridge, I experienced commuting for the first time in thirteen and a half years. Did not enjoy it. Now know what bunched asparagus feels when it is plunged into boiling water. Most of journey was spent clamped against hotly sweating young man, clutching envelope on which was written: ‘Nigel: too late to open. Please provide sperm whale figures for tomorrow’s meeting.’
Second morning at Old Bailey was just as much of a shambles as the first. Institutionalised feeling heightened by hospital smell in ladies loo, where a magenta-faced blonde was cleaning her neck with a roller towel dipped in TCP.
Nearby a large woman (with a motif on her bag of a womble playing the banjo) was holding a justifiable indignation meeting because she was not being compensated for her jury service.
‘If you’re an ’ousewife, you get nuffink, cos you’re not employed. Dottie gets ten pounds a day, cos she’s a sekketry.’
Her friends all clicked their tongues sympathetically.
At 11.30, we were summoned to a court on the ground floor. On the way we passed a statue of Bloody Mary the first, brandishing an orb like a hand-grenade. Why that vicious old bitch, the incarnation of persecution and bigotry, is honoured in a court of law is beyond understanding – perhaps because she kept the legal profession constantly in work.
We then sat for half an hour outside the court admiring Charles II’s excellent legs. Lawyers sauntered back and forth with the elitist swagger of airline pilots at Heathrow. Policemen bustled in and out. Evidently there was a technical hitch.
In our group was a railway engineer with Reagan black hair and a handsome foxy face who was totally demoralised because he’d already been objected to on three different cases.
At long last, we were summoned into court, and twelve names including mine, Mr P’s and the railway engineer’s were drawn out of a hat. We filed nervously into the jury box under the coldly appraising gaze of the two counsels. The defence barrister, who had heavy-lidded eyes like Charles II, threw out a lady who looked like Mary Whitehouse.
Suddenly I desperately wanted to be accepted and tried very hard to look like Richard Baker – respectable and compassionate at the same time. It worked – I was sworn in. So was Mr P and, to his amazed joy, the railway engineer. The rest of our jury included an ex-clippie, a transport manager, a pretty barmaid, a part-time secretary, a sweet German housewife, a gardener, a Belfast bricklayer, a forklift truck driver, and an unemployed swing attendant from Hackney parks who had a huge love-bite on her neck.
The railway engineer’s cup really ranneth over when we selected him as our foreman.
‘He’s tall, and a foreman should be tall,’ said the part-time secretary approvingly.
Indeed the railway engineer seemed to have gained two feet in the last five minutes.
At last we were going to do some jurying. But not a bit of it. Another hitch, and the judge dismissed us until after lunch.
‘That judge lives in Putney,’ said Mr P in disgust.
‘Customer?’ I asked.
‘No, buys his wine at Peter Dominic.’
Cheered up by jolly lunch with my publisher. On my return, nice German housewife gave me a peppermint to conceal the Muscadet fumes, and the Belfast bricklayer gave me a tip for the 3.30 which I couldn’t use – owing to broken telephone. Finally we started our case, which had a beautiful defendant, and was utterly fascinating, but which I can’t tell you a thing about in case I go to prison.
Unable to face tube home, I took alternative bus route, and got hopelessly lost. Tramping the length of Park Lane, I was approached outside Hilton by a Dutchman who was convinced I was one of the singers in the Eurovision Song Contest.
Home by 7.30 with three blisters, and announced I was at last on a case.
‘Did you wear a wig?’ asked my daughter in awe. Replied that I soon would if I didn’t get a chance to wash my hair.
Friday
Even hotter and more muggy. Limping to Putney Bridge, met fellow dog walker returning from Common with two Great Danes, green from rolling in deceased hedgehog. Before I could leap away both dogs greeted me ecstatically. Despite liberal spraying of Diorissimo, stench clung pervasively. Could always say I was upholding the forces of law and ordure.
Arrived at the Bailey to find the usual shambles, with fellow jurors banished from the court by new hitch. All the women, except nice German housewife, had reverted to trousers. A new intake of jurors had just arrived, giving us all a great feeling of superiority. Did we really look as bewildered and over-dressed on our first day?
To pass the time, I smiled winningly at the defence barrister, who was quite good looking, but who promptly averted his eyes like the maiden of bashful fifteen. Soothed my bruised ego with excuse that he must be terrified of sucking up to the jury. However when we returned to the canteen, a tea lady informed me that Gayle Hunnicut had been on jury service recently, and while she was in court, no one ever looked at the judge.
Midday:
By some miracle back in court. Noticed prosecution counsel’s nostrils flaring ominously. Had he caught a whiff of deceased hedgehog? A few minutes later, our case was adjourned for ten minutes. The barmaid and I looked at each other longingly, then nodded, and scuttled out to the nearest pub, hotly pursued by our foreman and the Belfast bricklayer. Returning after several doubles, the bricklayer gave me five to one we’d be adjourned till after lunch. Our foreman said he’d now conduct the entire jury in a chorus of ‘Nellie Dean’. Yo, ho, ho and a bottle of Rumpold, I sang happily. Mercifully, as the bricklayer had predicted, the hitch had acquired new technicalities, and we were dismissed till after lunch.
Feeling guilty about my unseemly debauch, I refused to be persuaded back into the pub, and went up to the canteen for a frugal cheese salad.
After lunch, even though our case wasn’t finished, we were taken upstairs and locked into our little jury room, which contained a large table, twelve chairs and copious net curtains – presumably to knot into an escape rope if they forgot to let you out. The foreman then said: ‘Don’t all talk at once’, which we promptly all did. Why do I always believe the last person I haven’t listened to?
2.40. Back in court, case naturally adjourned till Monday. Feel very strongly that when you are summoned for jury service, your family and employees should be warned that you will not automatically be closeted in court every day from ten till four. One juror dismissed at lunchtime earlier in the week had evidently caught his wife in bed with the lodger, while a stern female boss had rushed back to her office at a quarter to twelve to find the entire staff had played truant, except one typist who’d raided the drinks cupboard and was ringing America.
Made mental note to bang front door noisily and shout ‘Cooee!’ several times when I get home, to give senior cat time to straighten his fur and smuggle neighbouring tabby out on to roof.
Monday
After frantic weekend, was unable to face commuting (how the hell do people do it every day?) and ordered a mini cab. Desperately worried about senior dog, who was going into a decline at my continued absence. Contemplated changing her name to True, then I could bring her into court as an essential accompaniment to twelve good men.
As usual my fellow jurors were kicking their heels outside court. By now we all knew every marbled varicose vein on Charles II’s legs. The swing attendant had acquired another love-bite. The Belfast bricklayer arrived in a panic because he’d met a familiar-looking girl and carried her bag all the way from the tube before he realised she was the defendant on our case.
Back to the canteen, where to my amazed delight I found Donald our postman among the first-day jurors. A resplendent redhead, Donald is even more of a fund of Putney gossip than Mr P from the off-licence. Recently our entire street went into mourning when he was transferred up Putney Hill to another beat.
Donald the postman was just telling Mr P and me how he’d been bitten by a horse while delivering a parcel last week, when another friend, a literary lady from the British Council, rolled up. It was
getting more like a cocktail party every minute.
‘Meet Donald,’ I cried. ‘He’s a distinguished man of letters.’
‘Really?’ she asked, looking very excited. ‘What’s he working on at the moment?’
‘Mailbags,’ I said airily.
It was as well, perhaps, that we were called back to court for the summing up by the two counsels. I found myself totally agreeing with Richard Ingrams that ‘when lawyers talk about the law, the normal human being begins to think about something else’.
Fortunately, by contrast, the judge’s summing up was blissfully succinct. As we went up in the lift, even Mr P had to admit he was a clever fellow. ‘Even,’ he added grudgingly, ‘if he does shop at Peter Dominic’s.’
The lady clerk locked us into our jury room: ‘You may now resume your deliberations.’
‘Didn’t know we’d taken them off,’ cackled the ex-clippie.
Happily we reached a unanimous verdict in five seconds flat, then let everyone finish their cigarettes so it appeared that we had thrashed the matter out.
As we came out of court, Donald the postman ambled past on his way to lunch, saying wasn’t Charles II’s spaniel exactly like Lady Weldon’s at Number 8.
Tuesday
Suicidal about not being able to work, and because my husband, children, dogs and cats were getting increasingly ratty at my extended absence. Took another mini cab.
Found fellow jurors equally ratty. Were we going to endure more days of hanging about before we got on our next case? Our foreman and Mr P were frantic to get back to work. The barmaid had hayfever and was getting behind with her housework. The German lady was fretting about greenfly. The swing attendant had a necklace of amethyst love-bites. Everyone was praying we weren’t put on a long case, when out came the Jury Bailiff.
‘Nothing much on this week,’ he said. ‘You’ve done a good stint, so go upstairs, get paid and push off home.’
We all stared at him utterly aghast. Looking round I realised not only how fond we’d all got of each other, but also how insulated I’d been over the past week from the telephone and the doorbell, and the demands of family and friends. I felt quite incapable of facing the outside world. Dispiritedly, we had a last cup of coffee in the canteen, vowed to keep in touch, and at least meet for a Christmas drink every year, then collected our wages.
