by John Wilson
(Friday 13th December 1940)
Bateman was angry:
– What’s his name again?
– Falling. Mr Adam Falling.
– Is he really the best you can offer me?
– He’s very good, you know.
– Well. Why wasn’t he on the original list that you gave me?
– They’re all away, I’m afraid.
Bateman knew what that meant. He said:
– Oh God! So, either he’s a conchie, a cripple or drawing his pension?
– His clerk recommended him highly to me. And Stirrup Court is a very good set of chambers.
– Right. So what can you tell me about him?
– Not a lot, I’m afraid. But he is very sharp. Went to Cambridge. Destined to do very well. And not that old. Probably only in his late thirties.
Being no fool, Bateman read it right.
– You don’t know anything about him do you? You’re just parroting what his guvnor told you?
Jones laughed awkwardly and shifted in his seat, looking around the waiting room. Black curtains had been nailed over the window. The room was murky and a heavily shielded lamp cast shadows over the law books lining one of the walls. His mouth was dry and he wished, not for the first time, that barristers would offer tea or coffee, or even water.
– And why did we have to come here after dark? It’s a rabbit warren. I’d have had trouble finding the place in daylight, let alone during the blackout!
– Mr Falling is a Judge (sort of) – said Jones sensing a way out – and we had to wait until he’d finished … his business.
Jones and his client had been obliged to pick their way down from Fleet Street into the Temple and past Cloisters after night had fallen. Notwithstanding war, the old conventions remained and it was still normal to wait until 4.30 p.m. or later to see one’s barrister. The edge of an early moon had given a silver sheen to the Temple Church and the white stone of Cloisters’ arches glowed fluorescent beyond them. But for the rubble, Jones could have done it blindfold. He’d been doing it for years. They had stumbled past the wreckage of Fig Tree Court on to Stirrup Court and then up cold stone stairs, where they were shown to the waiting room by Arthur, the senior clerk.
– Sorry to keep you. Mr Falling won’t be a minute. He’s just popped out to Temple Church for a quick pray.
And they found themselves in the gloomy room. Nothing but the day’s Daily Mirror to sustain them. They’d both read it earlier.
– What’s he praying for, then? And if he’s only in his late 30s, what’s he doing here? He should be off with the rest of them defending the country.
– If he wasn’t here, I don’t know where I would have found a barrister for you.
They lapsed back into silence. Jones didn’t like his client’s mood. Ungrateful bastard! He’d spent an age phoning around trying to find someone who would take the brief. Bateman had no idea how difficult it was to find anyone. Let alone anyone good. Arthur had never put Falling forward before, even though he had been around – so he said – for over fifteen years. He had no idea what to expect.
Presently, Arthur came into the room again.
– Mr Falling will see you now.
And he led them up a further set of stairs. Bateman could not help noticing the fine cut of the clerk’s suit as the small fastidious man led them to their counsel.
****
Falling’s room was narrow and cold. The windows were heavily curtained but a warm light emanated from his desk. He looked like a barrister, though not a very well one, thought Bateman. He was about five eleven and a little older than Bateman himself. Certainly not forty. He wore a black jacket and white shirt. His black hair, which was slightly too long, flopped down over his forehead. He slipped a piece of notepaper under a small crystal paperweight, then steepled his long thin pianist’s fingers in front of him. Bateman noticed that his right cuff was fraying white. On the shelf behind Falling, Bateman saw a row of books – mostly Penguin paperbacks.
– Good day at the Tribunal, Mr Falling?
Jones asked, a little too cheerily and with no interest in the answer. Falling’s voice in reply was mellifluous but slightly breathless and broken:
– The usual business. Very good to meet you at last, Mr Jones. Good evening, Mr Bateman.
– Hello.
There was a pause whilst everyone considered whether any further pleasantries were required. Then:
– Well, Mr Bateman. I have read the instructions that Mr Jones has so carefully prepared on your behalf and it looks as though you may be in a spot of bother.
– I was fine until I received those papers. Or as fine as you can be these days.
– Yes. You were served two days ago as I understand it?
– In the office, would you believe?
– Does your wife know about these allegations?
– She’s dead.
– I’m sorry.
– Died three months ago. Run over by a car during the blackout. Found out she died when I got back from work.
Jones interrupted:
– Yes, I’m sorry. I should have mentioned that in my instructions. Mr Bateman is a widower.
It was a common story at the time. Strict imposition of the blackout and the prohibition on torches, streetlamps and headlights had meant that by December 1940 about forty people were being run down and killed every night on the streets of London.
– Anyway – said Bateman, forgetting that perhaps he should look more grieving – it’s bad enough as it is. I still have my reputation. And Jones here says it could be all over the papers.
– Yes. I’m afraid so. If this goes to Court I will have to wear my wig and gown – he motioned to a blue bag with his initials on it hanging in the corner – and the press likes a … a bit of fun (I’m afraid) at times like this.
– Fun!?
– I’m sorry. But that is how it will be seen. With bombs landing all around us and people dying all over the world it’s rather comforting to discover that men and women are still having sex with people they shouldn’t be having sex with. Gives things an air of normality.
– But I wasn’t, you know … having sex with Mrs McKechnie.
– Mr Jones has told me what you say. But why would Mr McKechnie make these accusations against you?
There was a long pause. Adam had time to study his client. A small red-faced man in a loud pinstripe with wide lapels, fidgeting in his chair. He knew the type.
– You understand, Mr Bateman, that anything said in this room is privileged and need be known to no one else. But if you tell me one thing is true and expect me to proceed on the basis that the truth lies elsewhere I will be obliged to withdraw from your case?
Jones had warned Bateman about this question.
– I know. There’s nothing in it. I don’t know why he’s done it. But I knew it was coming. Did Jones tell you how he set about me in the office about three weeks ago, in front of everyone, accusing me of screwing Victoria?
Adam knew about this. It was in his instructions in lurid detail. Graham McKechnie was Bateman’s immediate superior in an insurance office in the City. Without warning in early November he had approached Bateman loudly during the morning tea break and accused him of carrying on with his wife. He was waving her diary around and pointing to various entries, shouting “ABC.”? Don’t you think I know what that means?
– Tell me about the diary?
– Nothing to tell. Nothing I know at any rate. The four of us were friends and lived local to one another round Ilford. Victoria keeps a diary – I knew that much – and apparently she’d been putting these “mysterious” references to ABC in it. Well, I’m Arnold Bateman. Don’t know what the “C” could stand for. Could be the pictures or the teashop for all I know. Well, Graham thinks she’s acting oddly, looks at her diary and comes up with the answer that it’s something to do with me.
– Is there anything else?
Again, a long pause.
; – Not that I can think of.
– What does Victoria look like?
– What’s that got do with anything?
– It’s helpful to have a mental picture.
– I suppose she’s rather beautiful really. About five foot six with blonde hair in a curly frizz round her head. Slim … she’s got blue eyes … is that enough?
– Have you been sleeping with Victoria?
– No! I’ve told you that and I’ve told Jones that. Why would I be here if I had?
Adam could think of a number of reasons. He was overcome by a coughing fit before he could reply and it was over a minute before the conference continued. Wiping his mouth with a large white handkerchief, he said:
– Money, Mr Bateman.
– I thought we’d get onto that subject sooner or later.
– Money. If Mr McKechnie is telling the truth and you’ve been sleeping with Victoria, he’ll sue you for substantial damages and he’ll get his costs. It could be hundreds or thousands of pounds.
Bateman blanched, then went red. Adam waited for him to say something but he remained sitting in stunned silence.
– You’ve come to me for advice about your legal position. You have been cited as the Co-Respondent in divorce proceedings. The allegation is that you have committed adultery with Victoria McKechnie. Mr McKechnie is the Petitioner. If he succeeds in proving that then he will be entitled to recover money from you for breaking up his marriage. The proceedings will be contested in open court and the press will be there. It will be embarrassing for everyone. And not a little distasteful, I’m afraid. I will be representing you in Court if it comes to that. I am bound by the facts. If you say you did not do it then we will proceed on that basis. If you said you did do it we will have to adopt another tack. Perhaps that Victoria was an awful wife and he really has lost nothing by being relieved of such a dreadful person. That will cut the –
– How dare you!
– I’m sorry, Mr Bateman?
– Nothing. Carry on.
– If we can satisfy the Court that in any event Mrs McKechnie is no loss to her husband, that will certainly cut down on the amount of damages you will have to pay, but you will still have to pay his costs. If you have been sleeping with … Victoria … then we better try and cut your losses now. Have you been sleeping with her or having sex with her? I’m sorry to be technical but “sex” in this context means “actual penetration of her vagina by your penis”.
– This is disgusting!
Adam wanted him off balance.
– Have you been sleeping with her or have you had sex with her?
– No.
– Do you know what she says to these allegations?
– Yes … I mean no. Of course I don’t know. But I know that she will deny them.
– How do you know?
– Well … because we haven’t.
– Have you discussed the petition with her?
Long pause.
– No. Anyway, why would she deny it if she had been?
– Well. She may not want to be divorced and left to fend for herself. How would she support herself if he divorced her?
– I hadn’t thought about that.
– I see she has children. Ernest and Susan?
– Yes. But they’ve been evacuated. They may never hear about it anyway.
– But she loves them, doesn’t she?
– Yes, and they love her, and always will, I’m sure. What’s that got to do with it?
– Well, she wouldn’t want to lose custody of them, would she?
– Why should she lose custody of them?
– If it is proven that she has been having adultery with someone then her husband will be entitled to their custody. She will probably still be able to see them from time to time.
– This is bloody madness. They’ve always been with her, ever since we met them. Why should he have them? He’s never there.
– That’s the law, Mr Bateman. So you see, this could be extremely serious. If she is a good woman – and you aren’t giving me much encouragement that she is not – and you have been committing adultery it could cost you an awful lot of money and possibly bankrupt you. I wouldn’t think he’s doing it for the money. He probably knows you can’t afford it. He just wants to humiliate you … and humiliate his wife.
Jones coughed before interrupting.
– Actually, Mr Bateman probably can afford it.
Adam raised an eyebrow and took another look at Bateman.
– You work in an office in the City?
– Mr Jones is talking about my compensation.
– For what?
– For Marjorie’s death. She was insured. I got £10,000. I think that McKechnie wishes it was his wife that died. So that’s why he’s coming against me, I reckon.
– And according to the petition, he is saying that you’ve been having an affair since January of this year, at least, on the basis of the diary?
– Yes.
– So he’s alleging that you were unfaithful to your own wife before she died?
– That’s about the sum of it I suppose.
Adam sighed to himself. So many of the cases he had to deal with came down to secret, yet commonplace, acts in dark rooms. They all ended up in bedrooms or cars or on office floors. He thought of Victoria, with her blonde halo, letting her dress drop, or Bateman’s little red face getting redder. And the panting and groaning. Victoria bending backwards or forwards. The words of love and the promises that may – or may not – have been made. The act itself was ultimately uninteresting. It was how people got there – or how they got accused of being there – that was so infinitely various. Why did he ask what the women looked like? He told himself that it was a purely professional thing. Damages were lower for a scrofulous dwarf than they were for Aphrodite. A man would be more likely to commit adultery if a woman was beautiful – or if he thought that she was beautiful. He pictured Victoria, whom he had never met, bending forwards – or backwards. Little red-faced Bateman’s penis entering her vagina.
– And there is no other evidence, as far as you know, apart from these three letters from time to time in Victoria’s diary?
– I don’t know of any.
– Is there anything else you think you ought to be telling me?
– No.
– How long have you known McKechnie?
– About five years.
– When did you first meet Victoria?
– About four years ago.
– Where?
– At an office party in 1936. It was about December the 22nd.
– Did you see her after that away from the office?
– The four of us would go out to the pub or the pictures and things like that from time to time?
– Did you see her alone?
Long pause.
– I may have been for a walk in the park with her once or twice. That’s about it.
– Sure?
– That’s about it.
– So your instructions are that you have not committed adultery with Victoria McKechnie but if you had you cannot say in mitigation that she was a bad wife to her husband.
– I suppose that’s my case.
– Very well.
– So your advice is that if McKechnie proves that I’ve been having it away with his missus, I’ll have to pay him thousands of pounds and she loses her children and almost any financial support. And I’ll have my pictures in the papers?
– That’s about the sum of it.
– I hope one of those bombs lands on him!
– Mr Jones, I’ll draft a request for further and better particulars. I think we ought to try and find out the dates of all the occasions when it is alleged that intercourse took place. And where. And I’d like to see the diary if at all possible.
Adam then gave some further technical advice about the pleadings and tactics from here on, and drew the meeting to a close. It was getting on for six and he wanted to get to his wi
fe before the bombing started. He led them to the door to see them out.
– By the way – he said as they were heading down the stairs – if there is anything more to this than you’ve told me, you’d better watch your step. If McKechnie hasn’t got the evidence he needs yet, he may be working on you to find it.
– I’ll bear that in mind, Mr Falling. Good night.
****
– Can’t say that I enjoyed that experience very much, Mr Jones.
– I think, at least, that Mr Falling knows what he is doing. I was rather impressed by him. I don’t think we need worry about your being properly represented.
– Certainly knew a lot about adultery. I think he’s a pervert saying things like that.
The two climbed down the stairs and back into the little courtyard, then edged their way back up towards Fleet Street. Behind them a shadow moved against the shadows, and a large man, hat pulled down low, slanted after them. He seemed to have a lot of people to follow from Stirrup Court. But he knew where Falling was going that evening and decided, tonight, to track Bateman.
Chapter Two
Adam would have been unsurprised to be thought of as a pervert. Medical students juggled with brains in the autopsy rooms; divorce lawyers inevitably found themselves wondering about their clients. Commonplace. It was going on all around the city even during the war, even during the blackout. Especially during the blackout. All over the city life went on as it had to. Mostly in private, intimate and unspoken, men and women coupled and uncoupled. The divorce law, like a terrier in a badgers’ set, brought them out from time to time, blinking into the torches of their pursuers. And then he would become involved.
He lifted the small obelisk of crystal from the sheet of notepaper, unfolded the note and re-read it:
“Destroy this.”
Destroy this? He always did. He didn’t need to be reminded. “Destroy this”: there was an uncharacteristic urgency in the writing. He placed the note in the ashtray and put a match to it, watched it blacken and crumple, and then broke it up with the nib of his pen. Destroyed. Almost destroyed. Only someone who knew the writing paper would see the clue that remained as to its provenance.
