Charles Snow - Time of Hope

‘Too cold to jump,’ she said. She was laughing. Big Ben struck twelve.

‘How’s the foot?’ she said. ‘Strong enough to walk home?’

I could scarcely put it to the ground, but I would have walked with her all night. She shook her head. ‘No. I’m going to buy us a taxi.’

She came back to my room, where the fire was nearly out. She built it up again, and made tea. I lay on the sofa, and she sat on the hearthrug, just as we had done two hours before, and between us there was a kind of peace.

In the early summer of 1929 I had my first great stroke of luck. Charles March intervened on my behalf. He was a proud man; for himself he could not have done what he did for me. No man was more sensitive to affronts, but for me he risked them. He was importunate with some of his connexions. I was invited to a garden party and scrutinized by men anxious to oblige Sir Philip March’s nephew. I was asked to dinner, and met Henriques, one of the most prosperous of Jewish solicitors. Charles sat by as impresario, anxious to show me at my best. As it happened, I was less constrained than he. The Harts and Henriques were shrewd, guarded, professional men, but I was soon at my ease, as I had been with Eden. I had everything in my favour; they wished to please Charles, and I had only to pass muster.

In June the first case arrived. It lay on my table, in the shadow. Outside the window the gardens were brilliant in the sunlight, and a whirr came from a lawnmower cutting grass down below. I was so joyful that for a second I left the papers there, in the shadow. Then it all seemed a matter of everyday, something to act upon, no longer a novelty. The brief came from Henriques, bore the figures 20 + 1. The case was a libel action brought by a man called Chapman. It looked at a first reading straightforward and easy to win.

But there was little time to prepare. It was down for hearing in three days’ time. Percy explained that the man to whom the case had first gone was taken suddenly ill; and Henriques had remembered me. It got him out of a difficulty, and did me a good turn, and after all I was certain to have three days completely free.

I was sent a few notes from the barrister who had thrown up the brief, and worked night and day. My four or five hours’ sleep was broken, as I woke up with a question on my mind. I switched on the light, read through a page, made a jotting, just as I used to when preparing for an examination. I was strung-up, light-headed as well as lucid, and excessively cheerful.

Henriques behaved with a consideration that he did not parade, though it came from a middle-aged and extremely rich solicitor to a young and penniless member of the Bar. He called for a conference in person, instead of sending one of his staff; he acted as though this were a weighty brief being studied by the most eminent of silks. Getliffe was so much impressed by Henriques’ attention that he found it necessary to take a hand himself, and with overflowing cordiality pressed me to use his room for the conference.

Henriques made it plain that we were expected to win. Unless I were hopelessly incompetent, I knew that we must. The knowledge made me more nervous: when I got on my feet in court, the judge’s face was a blur, so were the jurors’; I was uncertain of my voice. But, as though a record was playing, my arguments came out. Soon the judge’s face came clear through the haze, bland, cleft-chinned. I saw a juror, freckled, attentive, frowning. I made a faint joke. I was beginning to enjoy myself.

Our witnesses did all I wanted of them. I had one main fact to prove: that the defendant knew Chapman well, not merely as an acquaintance. As I finished with our last witness, I thought, though still anxious, still touching wood, that our central point was unshakable. The defence’s only hope was to smear it over and suggest a coincidence. Actually my opponent tried that tack, but so tangled himself that he never made it clear. He seemed to have given up hope before the case began, and his speech was muddled and ill-arranged. He was a man of Allen’s standing, with more force and a larger practice, but nothing like so clever. He only called three witnesses, and by the time two had been heard I was aglow. It was as good as over.

Their last witness came to the box. All I had to do was to make him admit that he and Chapman and the defendant had often met together. It was obviously so he could not deny it; it left our main point unassailable, and the case was clear. But I made a silly mistake. I could not let well alone; I thought the witness was malicious and had another interest in attacking Chapman. I began asking him about it. I was right in my human judgement, but it was bad tactics in law. First, it was an unnecessary complication: second, as the witness answered, his malice emerged — but so also did his view that Chapman was lying and I was sweating beneath my wig. I perceived what he was longing for the chance to say. I pulled up sharp. It was better to leave that line untidy, and bolt to the safe one; sweating, flustered, discomfited, I found my tongue was not forsaking me, was inventing a bridge that took me smoothly back. It happened slickly. I was cool enough to wonder how many people had noticed the break.

With the jury out, I sat back, uneasy. I went over the case: surely it stood, surely to anyone it must have appeared sound? Foolishly I had done it harm, but surely it had affected nothing?

The jury were very quick. Before I heard the verdict, I knew all was well. I did not want to shout aloud: I just wanted to sink down in relief.

‘Very nice,’ said Henriques, who had, with his usual courtesy, made another personal appearance. ‘My best thanks. If I may say so, you had it in hand all the way. I apologize again for giving you such short notice. Next time we shan’t hurry you so much.’

Charles took my hand, and, as Henriques left, began to speak.

‘I’m glad,’ he said. ‘But whatever possessed you to draw that absurd red herring?’

Just then, I should have liked to be spared Charles’ tongue. No one expressed the unflattering truth more pointedly. I thought that I had recovered well, I should have liked some praise.

‘I’m very glad,’ said Charles. ‘But you realize that it might have been a serious mistake? You missed the point completely, don’t you agree?’

On the other hand, Getliffe assumed responsibility for my success. He came into my room in Chambers (I still had my table in Allen’s room) and spoke at large as though he had done it himself. He decided to organize a celebration. While I was writing to Sheila, Getliffe booked a table at the Savoy for dinner and telephoned round to make the party. They were gathered in Getliffe’s haphazard manner — some were friends of mine, some I scarcely knew, some, like Salisbury, were acquaintances none too well pleased that at last I should begin to compete. That did not worry Getliffe. Incidentally, though the members of the party were invited haphazard, there was nothing haphazard about the arrangements for payment: Getliffe made sure that each of the guests came ready to pay for himself.

Charles did not come. He was already booked for a dinner party, but Getliffe expressed strong disapproval. ‘He ought to have put anything else off on a night like this! Still,’ said Getliffe, ‘it’s his loss, not ours. We’re going to have a good time!’ Then Getliffe added, in his most heartfelt tone: ‘And while we’re talking, L S, I’ve always thought young March might have done a bit more for you. He might have pulled a rope or two to get you started. Instead of leaving everything to your own devices — plus, of course, the bits and pieces I’ve been able to do for you myself.’

I wondered if I had heard aright. It was colossal, Yet, as he spoke, Getliffe was believing every word. That was one of his gifts.