The Itinerant Lodger

by David Nobbs

  “That’s very bad.”

  “You mean I’ll have a say with you?”

  “I’m here to serve you.”

  “Thank you,” said Simpson with definitive simplicity, and he smiled at Mr Burbage. A smile, which was shyly ashamed of being proud, jumped hastily from one of Mr Burbage’s eyes to the other when it thought that no-one was looking. His little moustache seemed to come and go, and the lines on his forehead broke and dissolved like waves on a beach. A warm, inarticulate comradeship sparked in their bodies, a shared embarrassment that brought them closer together and made each wish that he was alone.

  “Some more wine?” asked Mr Burbage.

  “Thank you.”

  “What is your defence to these charges, then?”

  “I know nothing about them.”

  “You weren’t there?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “But you don’t believe you committed any offence?”

  “I don’t feel that I did.”

  “Good. Nice wine, isn’t it?”

  “Very.”

  “It’s a pleasure to have an appreciative client. So many of one’s clients are layabouts. Well, now, we haven’t much time, Mr Simpson. The trial is tomorrow. I don’t quite see what line we’re to work on.”

  “No. What are we to say?”

  “Well, we’ll have to explain that you recall none of this whatsoever. So how could you have done it ‘with intent’?”

  “Will that work?”

  “It’s not brilliant, is it? But we have so little time, it’s not easy. But we’ll do our best.”

  “And if it’s not enough?”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have a spell in prison.”

  “And then I’ll be free?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry. But it could be worse. A large number of my clients like going to prison for short spells. We get people wanting to be purged, you know. But of course that doesn’t apply to you. You’re innocent.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll do my best for you, Mr Simpson. That’s all I can say.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I mean, we can’t provide witnesses even.”

  “No.”

  “More wine?”

  “Thank you.”

  “We’re in a pickle.”

  “Your time’s up,” yelled the warder, bursting in on them.

  “Oh, thank you. Well, I, I’ll be off then. My time? I’m not a visitor. I’m his counsel.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, sir. I thought you were a visitor.” The warder cast a stern glance at the wine bottle, and departed. Mr Burbage smiled at Simpson.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he said, “but don’t worry.”

  “What was I thinking?” asked Simpson, who had been thinking that he hadn’t known he could have visitors.

  “You’re thinking that I don’t seem very assertive. But please don’t worry. I’m quite different in court. A lot of my clients get cold feet about me, but I’m afraid that’s one of the penalties I pay for being what I am. I find it difficult to talk about myself, but you see—well, perhaps it’s because I find it difficult to talk about myself. I’m a retiring person. But on the other hand, professionally, I find it quite easy to slip into the way of it. There are so many phrases that are helpful. My learned friend, and so on. Seeing my learned friend and knowing that I’m his learned friend, you know, I slip into my robes and I slip into the way of things. The arguments are interesting; I care for my clients, and that is what I think about. There’s nothing personal involved. It must sound rather like a commercial, but I don’t mean it that way. I’m trying to reassure you. Things are bound to be hard, but we won’t do too badly. More wine?”

  “Thank you.”

  There was a pause.

  “I wasn’t thinking that at all,” said Simpson. “I was thinking that I hadn’t known I could have visitors.”

  “You’re allowed one visitor a week.”

  “This is a fine time to find out.”

  “They should have told you.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I don’t know. I don’t know if she’d have come.”

  “I could arrange it, if you like.”

  “No.”

  “If you’re sure…. Well, Mr Simpson, I must leave now. This has been a pleasure.” He paused for a moment. “When all this business is over, I was wondering…I don’t know if you’re a drinking man.”

  “Not really. But one has to be sometimes.”

  “Exactly. Well, I was wondering, if you have nothing else to do, when all this business is over, if you’d care to come drinking with me one night.”

  “Yes, I would.”

  “I like an occasional night. It’s quite nice at the Turton Arms. They have artists, but you don’t have to listen to them.”

  “Yes, I’d like to.”

  “Well, I shall have to be off. I have another appointment, I’m afraid. I should like to have stayed. I’ve enjoyed it. But there it is. I’d better take the bottle and the glasses, I suppose. Thank you. Well, I’ll have a look at the brief again tonight and check things over, and then I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Yes.”

  “If you think of anything, telephone me. Oh, you can’t, you’re in prison. Damn. Well, never mind, we’ll be able to talk before we get started tomorrow. Well, good-bye.”

  “Good-bye.”

  “I’m sorry to have to rush off like this.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye. Thank you for the wine.”

  “A pleasure. I like a good wine. Well, I’ll see you at the trial. Do you know how to get there? Anyway, I expect they’ll show you. Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye.”

  Chapter 15

  THE TRIAL WAS A BIG AFFAIR. THE ROOM WAS VERY full, and Simpson, who arrived late, was not given a very good seat. He glanced round the court. There was the judge with his wig and there were the counsel, whispering earnestly among themselves and passing each other important looking notes, and there was the clerk of the court, very lean and dry and very important, blowing his nose into his ledger and whispering earnestly to court officials, and there were the reporters, all with hangovers, frowning and scribbling and belching and whispering dirty stories, and there were the jury, eleven good men and one true woman, all whispering nervously and importantly among themselves and looking so isolated that it would have been no surprise if the foreman had suddenly run up a yellow flag. It was all very impressive, and Simpson, to whom nobody ever whispered anything, felt that he had no right to be there.

  The case proceeded in a leisurely and inevitable way. Evidence was given, questions were asked and answered, examinations were made and crossed, and gradually, under the relentless questioning of Mr Leslie Walberswick, Q.C., the doleful happenings of the night of January 9 to 10 were revealed. They were much publicised in the newspapers of the time, but there was little that will go down in history. Mr Burbage did his best in defence, but he had little chance. There was tension, but it was of a slow and unexciting kind. The calm serenity of the court was disturbed only by one juryman, who, being allergic to oaths, entered upon a violent burst of sneezing as each new witness took the stand. Otherwise, most of the legal minds concerned took the opportunity of catching up on some badly needed sleep—there had been a Fancy Wig Ball the previous week—and woke up only to hear the summing up of Mr Justice Parkinson-Hoddinott.

  “Lady and gentlemen of the jury,” said Mr Justice Parkinson-Hoddinott, “You have heard the evidence that has been brought forward by both sides and you have seen, heard and smelt the various witnesses. You will have formed your own conclusions, and all twelve of you will have formed the same conclusion. If you have not already done so you will do so very shortly. It is not my task to put anything into your heads or to instruct you to return any particular verdict, although naturally I hope that you will. My function is simpl
y to direct you on certain matters, and to see that justice is, or is not, done, according to the verdict that you return today.

  “In considering your verdict you will have to consider in turn each of four charges, and in the case of each charge you must ask yourselves: ‘Is the accused guilty or not guilty?’ Your verdict will depend upon your answer to that question, and your answer to that question will depend upon whether you are satisfied that it has been proved by the prosecution beyond reasonable doubt that the accused committed the offence with which he is charged.

  “You have heard the case for the prosecution. On the first charge, that of uttering obscene documents and melodies, several witnesses—and the court is most grateful to them for allowing themselves to be grabbed by the police, and dragged here today in Black Marias—have told you that they heard the accused singing obscene parodies of Dutch hymns outside the Grease and Axle Tavern in Corporation Street on the night of January 9 to 10. You may be satisfied, from the descriptions given, that these were obscene melodies, and when I tell you that in law a melody, and indeed practically anything else, is often referred to as a document, you may feel satisfied that this charge has been proved. That is entirely up to you.

  “Other witnesses, to whom we are no less indebted, have described the accused’s behaviour towards his wife, and she in court has related more than thirty acts of cruelty committed by him. The defence, in its turn, has asked for a watering can to be taken into account. Today you are concerned with only one of these acts, that of wilfully and with malice aforethought parking his wife upon a bombed site. Witnesses have told you that this good lady was found, securely roped to the foundations of a ruined department store with rope bought by the accused that very afternoon. You may think that this is sufficient to prove that he was wilful and had malicious aforethoughts. That is a matter for you to decide.

  “You have also heard the evidence of another lady, a most material witness. This lady, Mrs Gertrude Walsh, who has been described here today as a lady of the very highest motives, has related the manner in which she was kidnapped, and she has told you that in her opinion—and you will bear in mind, when you decide that it is almost certainly the truth, that it was only an opinion—it was with intent. Several independent witnesses have corroborated her evidence of sudden abduction in a light goods van, and have given the opinion that it was with intent. One witness, a highly respected hairdresser, of impeccable reputation, has told you: ‘There could have been no other motive.’ You may feel that under the circumstances the charge has been proved—or you may not.

  “We come now to the charge of conduct liable to cause a breach of promise. It is a shocking tale that has been unfolded in this court during these last few days. You may feel, you are of course completely at liberty to feel, lady and gentlemen, that such conduct is fast becoming normal in this age of coca-cola, flick knives, drug addicts and pop records. On the other hand a parson has told you that he believes such conduct to constitute a breach not only of promise but also of probation, common decency and the peace. ‘One long breach from start to finish’ was how he described the incidents, but of course you may feel that he is not ‘a with it hep cat.’ That is a matter that each of you, searching your own conscience, will have to weigh for yourselves.

  “You are of course at liberty to decide that all these people, who have unblemished records and gave their evidence under oath, were lying. That is entirely a matter for you. But if you feel that they, or even some of them, are telling the truth—and no doubt you will pay proper attention to the fact that their statements, taken by several different officers, and their evidence before this court tally in every single particular—then you have no alternative but to return a verdict of guilty.

  “You have also heard the case for the defence. The defence have based their case upon a plea of not guilty and have asked that it be taken into account. I hope that it will be, but I venture to suggest that it does not, in itself, constitute an adequate explanation. Indeed the most significant feature of the defence seems to me, just as it will in a few minutes seem to you, to be that no explanation of these occurrences has been put forward. Yet they occurred. The defence has pointed out that the accused has absolutely no recollection of that night, and that surely such activities as kidnapping with intent, which a man does not do every day, would have stuck in his mind. To which one is entitled to ask: ‘What man?’ Most men, it is true, do not kidnap with intent every day. This man, perhaps, does. We do not know. We must discount this consideration. If this man can provide no explanation, and yet it is said that he did these things, and you accept that evidence, and I have outlined to you how reliable this evidence appears, on the face of it, to be, and if you accept the defendant’s profession that he knows nothing of these matters, bearing in mind that no doubt has been cast upon this profession by the prosecution, then you will I think be forced to conclude that he must have been drunk or drugged or that he is suffering from amnesia. Now a man does strange things when he is drunk. He may do them with strange intent, even with drunken intent, but none the less with intent. A man who suffers from amnesia nevertheless did those things that he did, and his intent was no less strong because he cannot recall it now. Ignorance is no excuse in law. The defence have asked you to take a good look at Mrs Walsh and consider whether an action of the kind alleged could possibly be taken against her with intent. You may think that this is an unwarranted comment upon a lady whose misfortune it is to be revoltingly ugly. You may also feel that this question serves only to obscure the real question: ‘Did this man do these things?’, since I think I have shown you that, however improbable the intent, it was intent if this man did these things. If therefore you believe that the whole defence has been merely a specious legal quibble, at a time when we are dealing with the kind of crime that threatens the safety of our whole civilisation, then you have no alternative but to return a verdict of guilty. If, however, you incline to the view that the defence has made a conscientious attempt to arrive at the truth in this matter, you will probably find this attempt pathetically inadequate. That, however, is a matter on which you, and you alone, have the final say.

  “In considering your verdict, lady and gentlemen of the jury, do not allow personal considerations to influence you. You must not be weighed by prejudice or ill-will, by fear or favour, nor must you allow your hearts to rule your heads. Do not be lenient to this man out of pity, or severe out of contempt, just because he happens to be an example of humanity at its most abject.

  “Do not, in the name of our great system of English law, listen to your emotions. Do not be swayed, gentlemen, by the fact that it could have been your wife who was so savagely and without reason parked on a bombed site on a bitterly cold January night. Ignore, lady, that it might have been your husband who left you to suffer the rigours of cold and desolation. Forget that the Dutch, extracts from whose hymns you have heard parodied in court, are not some primitive tribe of marauding barbarians, whose superstitious and ill-conceived chants we may feel at liberty to mock, but a tiny, brave, seafaring, flower-loving Christian nation, who fought, and suffered alongside us, in the most cataclysmal Armaggedon in the whole history of human kind.”

  Simpson was found guilty of all four charges. He was sent to prison for twelve months, with six weeks costs.

  Chapter 16

  SIMPSON WAS ESCORTED TO HIS CELL BY TWO VAST, cheerless warders who kicked him every few yards and then glared malevolently at him when he did not become violent. It was as if they were making tiny little chips at the great rock of violence which was embedded in their hearts. He felt sorry for them, but once inside his cell and left entirely alone he soon began to feel sorry for himself. He was cold, hungry and bruised, and the time that he had to serve lay heavily upon him.

  For many long hours during the days and nights that followed he reflected bitterly on the history of disasters that had been his life. What had he done that had brought him to such a situation? Here he was, five foot ten in his socks, an
d they were extremely thick socks—that was about the only compensation of prison life. Here he was, some eleven and a half stone, with a second class degree and receding hair, imprisoned in a tiny bare cell which, however ingeniously he might measure it, remained unbearably small. Here he was, approaching his fortieth birthday, still searching for the purpose of existence, and they had compelled him to spend the best part of a year, even allowing for any possible remission, in this confinement, while less than three miles away Mrs Pollard kept his room empty, or did not, in case he should, or shouldn’t, return. He wanted desperately, in those early days, to know whether his room was being kept empty or not, and he had visions of it in which it was empty, just as he had left it, and visions, horrible vivid visions, in which a flamboyantly moustachioed upstart was occupying it and had filled it with his big-game hunting trophies. The food was bad, and often in those early days he would not eat it, and a warder would kick him. His ankles swelled badly, and a doctor was summoned. He refused to believe Simpson’s story and diagnosed damp. Cognate failure of the lobes, he called it, and when Simpson suggested that ankles have no lobes the doctor gave him a sharp kick on the right knee which incapacitated him completely for several days. What could he have done to deserve such treatment?

  Bit by bit he began to remember. It was dark. Yes, dark. Extraordinarily dark. He was singing. The song was Dutch. Where could he possibly have picked up a song like that? That he could not recall. But evidently he had, on some youthful carouse, and it had stuck. One read of old ladies who recited vast stretches of the Koran on their death bed, not having been in contact with it for nigh on seventy years. And here he was, singing this wretched song in Corporation Street. What a place to be in at that time of night. The road was up, and he kept stumbling against the high wall which ran beside the railway. The wind was cold, and a few flurries of snow froze on his face. Somewhere to the left a woman laughed harshly. The laugh rang out very clear on the cold air, and then he recalled no more.