Jane Gardam - Last Friends

‘Fiscal-Smith! Good God! Over here, over here. Excellent!’ and he felt at once much better.

‘Been staying with old Pastry Willy’s widow in Dorset. Invited me back after Filth’s do yesterday. Very old friends of course.’

Nobody seemed to have heard of Pastry Willy.

‘Good do, I thought,’ said the oldest of the great fish. Touching. Very well-attended, considering his age. Weren’t you a particular friend?’

Fiscal-Smith sat down, comforted. Roast pork, vegetables with nuts in, gravy and apple sauce were put before him and he was asked if he would like a glass of wine.

‘Extraordinary,’ he told a childish-looking Silk beside him. ‘When I was starting out and we came to lunch here it was bread and cheese and soup and beer. And free. We were thinner, too. And more awake perhaps in the court in the afternoons.’

‘During the War?’

‘Afterwards. Just after. Place here all dust you know. Direct hit. First made me think there might be a future in Building Contracts. Early in the War I don’t think there was any lunch at all. But I was still at school then.’

‘Really? Were you? Where were you?’

‘Oh, in the north. I’m Catholic you know. Roman Catholic.’

‘Not much in the way of work in those days, I hear?’

‘No. Not for years after the War,’ said Fiscal-Smith. ‘Fighting was passé. We’d lost the taste for it. So poor we washed our shirts and bands ourselves. Fourpence at the laundry. We bought this new stuff — detergent. ‘Dreft’ it was called. And a Dolly Blue. Starched them too. Too poor for wives. Tramped the streets in our de-mob suits looking for Chambers.’

‘It’s said that even Filth and Veneering couldn’t get Chambers. Did they hate each other from the start? Did you know them then?’

‘I knew Veneering from being eight years old.’

‘Yet nobody ever really knew him — we understand?’

Fiscal-Smith kept a conceited silence.

At length he said, ‘I was Veneering’s oldest friend on earth.’

Then he added, seeing a suggestion of Veneering’s sour old man’s face somewhere up in the repaired rafters of the Great Hall, ‘He was much cleverer than I was of course. So was Old Feathers — they called him Old Filth. Both wonderful brains.’

‘So,’ someone eating apple-crumble and custard, called from down the table, ‘So we understand. One wonders why they stuck so long with the Construction Law. Charismatic, well-educated, intellectuals. Double Firsts. A life-time writing building contracts and a twilight of editing Hudson. No politics. No crime. No international high-lights.

‘I can tell you why.’

Fiscal-Smith stretched his short — very old — legs under the table, legs that earlier that day had been disguised under a choir-boy’s cassock. ‘I was present. They made a joint decision. It occurred in the Brighton County Court. I was Veneering’s unpaid pupil and I’d gone down with him there to observe. It was a gross indecency case.’

‘Yes,’ said the apple-crumble eater, ‘Can’t see Old Filth distinguishing himself there. Veneering — possibly. More worldly man. And merrier. Bit of a clown.’

‘None of us was merry that day,’ said Fiscal-Smith. ‘All of us fairly depressed. We went to Brighton of course by train — none of us had a car. Train called The Brighton Belle. Beautiful train. Ran every hour on the hour. Pink linen table-cloths and table lamps even in the Second Class which I think was still called Third. What the first class was like—. Maybe solid silver and bits of parsley on the sandwiches — I don’t know. Veneering and I sat at one table and aristocratic Filth sat as far away as possible from both of us at another, with his back to us, fountain-pen poised. Small glass of dry sherry. Filth and Veneering hadn’t then exactly quarrelled. It was long before the infidelity. Long before Filth marrying Betty. Or perhaps that is all forgotten now? It was just something brewing. Inexplicable. Witch’s brew. Or simple distaste.’

‘Ah, it happens,’ said the apple-crumble eater.

‘Well, the train was late. Stood still God knows how long. Fizzing steam. Could hear people cough. No information of course. No tannoys then. We stuck on the line for an hour, took two taxis to the Brighton County Court from the station, arrived after mid-day. Furious judge. Sent us to the back of the queue. Didn’t get on till after three o’ clock. Filth prosecuting, Veneering for the defence.’

‘Gross indecency?’

‘Yes. Ridiculous. Occurred in a circus.’

‘What, with animals? Bestiality?’

‘No. Lion-tamer’s apprentice.’

‘You’re not making this up, Fiscal-Smith?’

‘No. Lump of a lad. Retarded. Maybe Down’s Syndrome. Employed most of his time shovelling dung. Dirty-looking child. He’d been going round during the performances under the tiers of seats in the Big Top, and tickling the private parts of women in the audience with a long straw. Up through the slats.’

‘You are making this up!’

‘No. Tickle-tickle. They would all start wriggling and scratching. All round the tiers like a Mexican wave. In those days, you know, ladies’ tights hadn’t been invented (Yes thank you. I will. The claret is still excellent) and there were all these pale pink arcs of skin between the stocking-tops and the knickers. School-girls, I believe, used to call the gaps ‘smiles’ or ‘sights’.

‘Well, the lion-tamer’s boy went along beneath the rows tickling all the smiles and you should have heard the pristine Filth going on about him. “Obscene”, “Depraved” etc. and the judge nodding his head. Veneering and I wriggling about, at first trying not to laugh. Shaking the papers about. “Perverted.” Then Veneering just slammed down the Brief and walked out.’

‘What! Out of Court? He walked out of Court !’

‘Yes. Slam, bang up the aisle, through the swing doors and out. Filth had risen to his feet, turned and watched him go. Closed his eyes as if the King had died. And nobody said a word.’

‘So, I thought I’d better go and find him. I asked for permission and ran out. Judge said nothing. Looked struck by lightning. “Unheard of.” “Unbelievable.” “Taken ill?” etc. whispered around. I bowed, and then ran and found Veneering dragging on a cigarette in the corridor. I said — and by the way Filth’s solicitor, the dwarf, had appeared from somewhere—

‘Yes. The Albert Ross. Dodgy—.’

‘Veneering was shouting, “Bloody, pompous, fucking toffs.” Never been in the world — I happened to know that Veneering had a penchant for circuses — and he thundered back into court — no excuses — and put up a great performance about what fools we were making of ourselves. Wastage of court’s time. Harmless prank. Bleak life in the circus. Boy orphaned. Neglected. Confused. Unloved. Half-starved.

But that boy got three months. Three months ! Filth standing there, Holy Moses. Very pleased with himself. And we all paraded out except for the lion-tamer’s boy who was taken to the Black Maria in hand-cuffs.’

‘Unbelievable! When was this?’

‘Well — look it up. It’s in the statute book. Just after the War.’

‘I suppose a century before it would have been a hanging.’

‘A century before,’ Fiscal-Smith said, ‘it would not have come to court at all. Audience would have dealt with it on site.’

‘Thrown him to the lions,’ said the apple-crumble Lord.

‘Well, anyway — this is an excellent cheese — on the way home Veneering said to me — we’d treated ourselves to a small gin and orange—“That’s settled it, Fiscal-Smith. I don’t think I’ve much of a future in Crime. I’m going for the Commercial Bar.” I told him that he’d probably find Old Filth there too. Filth may have won but he was way out of his depth with circuses. And easily shocked. Veneering said, “Well, I suppose that will have to be endured.”