Then I heard the noise June makes on her computer keyboard with her long, black, brilliantly nailed fingers. Tip-tap, tip-tip-tap. I began shaking all over again. I had this moment planned and I was all nerves. I stood up and walked slowly over to her. She could not see me coming, but she could hear my footsteps, and even if she had not been told of my return, she would know that that was me walking towards her. I stopped in front of her desk. She looked up, but at my stomach, not at my face. Then she tilted her head downwards so that I could see the back of her long, elegant neck.
I said, ‘June, I’m sorry about everything that’s happened.’ I paused and swallowed. ‘I’ve had some problems,’ I said. ‘I shouldn’t have let them affect me in the way they did. From now on, things will be back to the way they used to be,’ I said. I moved my hands from behind my back. I handed her a bouquet of roses.
(If I can just come in here: those flowers – they were not really my idea. I had bought them as a result of a tip I received years ago from Simon Myers, my first pupil-master. If ever you have woman-trouble, he told me, buy them flowers. It always works. They know it’s a trick, you know it’s a trick, but they love it all the same. So I bought June roses.)
June accepted the flowers in silence. I stood there for a moment with my hands in my pockets, but I received no response. Then, as I turned away, she spoke.
‘So,’ she said. ‘You’re back.’
I gestured by raising my arms, Here I am, as you can see. I gave her an apologetic smile.
June said, turning to look me in the eye, ‘Did you have a good time? I hope so, because it’s been a complete nightmare here. I’ve had the worst couple of weeks of my life.’
I felt bad about what I had put June through, but I was not ready for this kind of conversation. I said in a soft voice, ‘Don’t say any more, June. You don’t know what happened. Things have been difficult for me just recently.’
‘Well, they’re going to get even more difficult from now on,’ June said. ‘What are you going to tell the partners?’
‘I’m going to tell them the truth,’ I said.
In the middle of the conference room at Batstone Buckley Williams is a large egg-shaped table bearing four decanters filled with water. I was seated at one tip of the egg, the twelve partners were seated at the other. They were all looking down at the portion of the table in front of them and toying with pens and paper-clips. Directly in front of me, fourteen feet away, sat Edward Boag, the senior partner. Just above his left shoulder the sun shone straight in my eyes through a gap in the Venetian blinds. I was hot, and I knew that my damp forehead was glistening in the rays.
The meeting was called to order. Boag looked embarrassed. Mumbling anxiously and tugging at his big ears, he stated the purpose of the gathering: to hear and consider the explanations I had to offer in respect of certain complaints made against me.
Boag put three matters to me. The first matter was the complaints the firm had received from various clients – some of whom had long-standing connections with the firm – who alleged that I had neglected their cases. He read out the clients involved and the gist of their allegations (these complaints, I realized, related to the work I should have been doing when I was writing about Donovan). The second matter was the Lexden-Page incident. Tugging hard at his ear, the senior partner described the incident as he understood it. It was to be noted, Boag mumbled, that Lexden-Page had taken the matter to the Law Society, and they were demanding an explanation from us. Then he moved on to item three, my abrupt departure from work eleven days ago. Boag coughed delicately and asked me whether I agreed with the facts as he had stated them. I said I did. Then he coughed again and said that this was a most regrettable matter. Only once in his forty-two years at the firm did he recall a meeting of this nature. Unfortunately, the conduct in question was on its face so serious as to require immediate investigation and, if necessary, action of a disciplinary nature. In considering what action to take, the partners were keeping all options open. Did I understand the gravity of my situation?
I did, I said. Then I put my side of the story to the partners. I explained to them how my brother Charlie had been seriously ill with intestinal cancer, and how my inability to concentrate on my work came as a result of my worry for him. The perpetual hospital visits, the operations, the chemotherapy … (Here I asked the meeting to forgive me for a moment and paused to gather myself. I took a deep breath and continued.) The incident with Mr Lexden-Page, I said. Yes, that was truly unforgivable. All I could say about that was that I had received the news that morning that my brother had slipped into a coma. That said, there was no excuse for the way that I had spoken to Mr Lexden-Page. My departure from work was to visit Charlie. (I coughed before continuing.) I could reassure those present that I would not be seeing Charlie on the firm’s time any more. Charlie was dead, I said. Three days ago he had passed away.
I cleared my throat and stole a look up the table to see how the story had gone down. Pretty well, it seemed. No one was moving a muscle.
After a profound silence punctuated by the sounds of pens dropping, Edward Boag spoke up. To my surprise, he seemed irritated. ‘Yes, thank you, Jones. It’s a pity we didn’t hear all of this a bit earlier, though, isn’t it? Never mind,’ he said, not waiting for a reply, ‘it can’t be helped now.’ He picked at his ear. ‘Thank you, Jones, you can go now unless anybody has any questions.’
I went back to my office. Half an hour later I received notification from the partners that in view of my bereavement I should have some days off. A final decision about what action, if any, they would take would be made on my return.
NINETEEN
I did not react to the news of my reprieve. I did not move from my chair. My body felt heavy, as though it had been leaded down for some underwater journey. I weighed a ton.
Then I thought: this time off that I had been given – what if it was to give the firm time to check up on my story? Any private eye worth his salt would find out inside a couple of hours that I had told a pack of lies, that my brother Charlie was as fit as a fiddle, working in a bank in Chester.
Of course they would check up on my story. They were not stupid.
I forced myself to my feet. An idea, a long shot, had occurred to me. I would look in my personnel file and see if there was any indication there of exactly how much trouble I was in. You may think it ridiculous, that the confidential deliberations and decisions of the partners should be placed in such a vulnerable place, but it is amazing how often bungles of this nature occur in organizations like Batstone Buckley Williams. There was always a chance that I would find out something.
I stepped into the personnel office and walked nonchalantly over to the filing cabinet. I opened my folder.
There was nothing which bore on my current position. But then I saw something else. A letter with a 6 Essex Court stamp caught my eye. It was signed, Michael Donovan.
26 October 1978
To whom it may concern:
I can confirm that James Jones was my pupil for six months. My recollection, so far as it goes, is of an industrious and capable young man. I can recall nothing to suggest that he would not be an asset to your firm.
At first, I thought nothing about this curious little discovery – at the time I was too numb to think about anything. Then, that evening, something puzzled me. The reference was dated 26 October 1978, about a month after I had finished my pupillage with Donovan: why, then, did he give the impression that he was racking his brains to think of something to say about me? If he had been referring to a pupil of some years past, or to someone he barely knew, then it would have been understandable – but we were talking about someone who, until thirty days previously, had seen him more often and more regularly than anyone. We were talking about me, not some fly-by-night. Why, if that was so, did he have such difficulty in bringing me to his mind?
I did not give the question more thought, but now, a day later, at home, that letter makes me angry. No, it makes me
furious, I am pressing down hard on my pen in my fury. Donovan! He was supposed to be my referee! Was that all he could come up with, this mealy-mouthed reference? What was all this about ‘my recollection’ and ‘I can recall’? Was I no more than a feat of memory? Did I amount to nothing further than the contents of one of his precious engrams? I am made of flesh and blood! He knew that! He knew that I existed independently of his recollection of me! So why, then, did he not simply and unequivocally affirm my qualities – James Jones is a capable young man, James Jones will be an asset to your firm?
I deserved better. I am not saying that the man should have lionized me, but I was due an accolade, a proper pat on the back. That he failed to do this, to do his duty by me, is a black mark against his name. You may say, Well, he’s an important man, he has a hundred and one things to do every minute of the day, he cannot be blamed for falling short on matters of detail. Tell that one to the marines. If he was a genius, a man of history, then I might buy that – but Donovan, it has transpired, is nothing of the sort.
Yes, if Supranational Law had appeared as planned, I would not have minded how Donovan treated me. It would not have mattered, my association with him, even if painful, would have been worthwhile. I could have said, Those footsteps on my back are where history went striding by, those bootprints on my neck are the treadmarks of progress. But I cannot say that. All I can say is, I’ve been walked all over. I’ve been trampled on. And betrayed, too. I know this is a strong word, betrayed, but am I not right to use it? I was banking on Donovan. If he came good, I came good. Whatever he went on to I went on to also, in my own way. My road ran on to his road.
But Donovan’s road has gone nowhere. Donovan’s road is a dead-end. He has not come good, he has gone bad. All he has ended up as is an overworked divorcee. A socially inadequate, self-centred man who has nothing to say for himself, a man so one-dimensional that he is unable to write a love-letter to his wife without striking the stiff, ridiculous note of the lawyer.
(I pause there to note that I have just opened a bottle of Bulgarian wine, downed a glass in one mouthful, and refilled it to brimming.)
Something has occurred to me about one of those letters, about the last one, the incoherent, emotive one where Donovan begged Arabella to come back to him. Let us think for a minute about what was not said in that letter, let us home in on that scratched out, unfinished phrase Remember everything we have done together, remember when … Well, I have been visited by a moment of lucidity. It has come to me what that uncharacteristic little correction is all about. The answer arrived just now, as I put down my wine glass and picked up my pen. I felt it prickling its way up through my legs and down through my wrists: Donovan had quit on that phrase not because he felt that its sentiment would be out of place, or because something else had occurred to him, but because he simply could not remember anything he and Arabella had done together. That was it. He had no memories of himself with Arabella.
Yes, I think that I am right. I think that, for once, and at last, I have hit the nail on the head. Donovan had wanted to woo Arabella by reminding her of the good times they had had together, unforgettable magical moments and blissful dawns; but he had simply been unable to: he had not stored away any such times. When he had tried to dig up a few episodic souvenirs, a telling memento of his love for her, his mind had gone blank. For once that beautiful memory of his, that golden bin, had let him down.
It all makes sense: that is why he had not recognized me at that party and yet still was able, years later, to remember my name and the name of the firm I worked for. His mind was too crammed with words to accommodate the face of James Jones. James Jones and Batstone Buckley Williams, yes, that was no problem, he could slot those appellations in with all the other case-names, theories, laws, languages and other semantemes he had stashed away – but James Jones himself, the little guy with the bald head, chubby neck and wrinkly suits? The fellow who leaned towards kebabs, daydreams and late-night taxis? Sorry, full up. The same thing applied when he came to write my reference: once I had finished my pupillage, out came the mental eraser. He had rubbed me out of his life.
Donovan does not even know who I am!
Now I am beginning to see how Arabella must have felt. If she formed no significant part of Donovan’s memories, how could she be said to exist for him? She could not, is the answer. Donovan had reduced her to a thing of naught. Yes, and if I think about it, that is how Donovan has made me feel about myself. Like a zero, a nullity, because whatever I did for the man glanced off the surface. It was as though he was composed of bumper rubber – you bounced off him, nothing you could do could leave a dent. And if you cannot leave a dent somewhere, who is to say you are anywhere at all?
It is the middle of the night and rays are arriving in my room. A new day – and, it might be thought, the time to say, Enough. That is enough about Donovan. No more. The water has flowed under the bridge.
I agree. I too think that it is over between us, that it is time for a divorce. But although I am letting Donovan go, I am not going to let him off. No; he may think that everything is hunky-dory, but most assuredly I do not. There is one last matter to deal with before I acquit him: he has to face the charge that he, Michael Donovan, did ruin the life of James Jones. Yes, it is time that the action of Jones v. Donovan was commenced.
Members of the jury, I am the plaintiff in this matter. I am the one who has suffered loss and damage – look at me, look how I have ended up, writing furious nonsense in the middle of the night, my career in ruins, my favourite women alienated, myself in turmoil, my world flat and lustreless. Members of the jury, I will show that the cause of all this sits over there – Michael Donovan.
Donovan comes in at this point. I can see him getting to his feet to make, in his warm, inevitable voice, two points. Number one: my life was not ruined. In fact, I had suffered no lasting loss at all. My career was recoverable, as were my friends. The turmoil of the past months I would soon get over. Number two: there was a problem of liability. Even if my life was in ruins (which he denied), he, Donovan, was not to blame. My downfall was my own fault. The facts spoke for themselves: he came to me as a client and, unbeknown to him, this triggered off a whole set of ridiculous and destructive fantasies on my part, which fantasies had led me to my present position. The problem here was not Donovan, it was me. Donovan could not be blamed for the fact that, when he met me, I was full of dammed-up desires and memories. He could not be blamed for the neurotic symptoms I was displaying because this repressed material had suddenly been released. That was his case: why should he be responsible for my character deficiencies?
Here Donovan regains his seat, an amiable, confident look on his face. I say nothing to this, but I do allow a mysterious smile to play on my lips.
I call my first witness. He comes striding across the court, a good-looking, well-dressed man in his early thirties. I clear my throat and start to my examination-in-chief.
Is your name Oliver Owen?
It is.
You are a barrister in the chambers of the defendant, Mr Donovan, are you not?
I am.
Mr Owen, can you describe the responsibilities of a pupil-master to his pupil barrister – in outline only – please?
Certainly. It is the responsibility of the pupil-master to instruct the pupil in the skills of a barrister. It is also his responsibility to take an interest in the career of his or her pupil.
Thank you, Mr Owen. And would you say that the pupil-master’s responsibilities extend to informing the pupil of the tenancy application procedure in his chambers?
I would.
Unequivocally?
Unequivocally.
Would it be fair to say, Mr Owen, that a pupil who failed to apply timeously to his chambers for a tenancy because he was unfamiliar with the procedure could hold his pupil-master responsible for the detriment he suffers as a consequence?
All other things being equal, I would.
Now, Mr Owen, I would like
you to cast your mind back to September 1978. It is a long time ago, I appreciate that.
I remember that month well, it was the month I was taken on as a tenant by 6 Essex Court.
You recall, do you, my own departure from 6 Essex?
I do. It was in the second half of September.
Did, shortly after my departure from your chambers, in 1978, a vacancy arise in your chambers?
Yes. Bernard Tetlow, as the late Lord Tetlow of Heme Hill then was, was appointed to the bench.
(Here the judge intervenes: May I say that it was the start of a most distinguished career on the bench by the Noble and Honourable and much-regretted Lord.) Quite so, my lord, and may I respectfully express my agreement with your lordship’s sentiment. Mr Owen, did the chambers attempt to fill the resulting vacancy?
Yes. We attempted to contact you to offer you the place.
You’re quite sure I would have been offered a place?
Yes. It was the view of chambers that you clearly possessed the necessary energy and intellectual ability.
When did you attempt to contact me?
Throughout October, I believe. We rang every chambers in the Temple, and every firm of solicitors we knew of.
And what were the results of these efforts?
We were unable to find you. It seemed that you had left the Bar. No one knew where you were.
Not even Mr Donovan?
Not to my knowledge.
(At this point I produce Exhibit 1, a letter, and pass it to the witness.) Mr Owen, could you read out the letter please? (He does. It is my reference from Donovan to Batstone Buckley Williams.) The letter is dated 26 October 1978, Mr Owen. Was it at this time that you were searching for me to offer me the tenancy?
(Oliver looks put out.)
Yes, I …
And what is your response to that fact, Mr Owen? (Again, Oliver looks uncomfortable.)
This is the Life Page 20
