Babyface. Elizabeth Woodcraft

inquiry room. Catherine Delahaye approached us with a sheaf of paper. She gave me a sheet and Adam a sheet. It was a timetable for the inquiry. It looked rather similar to mine, except she had set out the days the witnesses would be attending and her time estimate was longer. At this rate I would be here till Christmas.

      ‘By the way,’ she said, looking across the lobby, ‘Mr Frodsham would like to know which of your clients will be giving evidence.’

      ‘I bet he would.’

      She hesitated, but when I said no more she moved on to speak to the other advocates.

      The clients had gathered in a loose group protecting Shelly. She was smoking. I moved towards her purposefully, trying to convey a sense of achievement I did not feel. Shelly hadn’t asked, or even expected, to be treated so badly. I had to reassure her, and the others who were due to give evidence, that going through a horrible time in the witness box had served some purpose. ‘You were good,’ I said to her. ‘You were clearly telling it exactly like it happened.’ I noticed Wyatt hovering on the edge of the group, with a caring smile fixed to his lips. ‘Get rid of him,’ I said to Adam, from the corner of my mouth.

      Adam ushered Wyatt away. I went on, ‘For some reason you put the wind up Frodsham. I think we’re making some good points.’

      ‘Yeah, that last one were a killer.’

      ‘That was irrelevant. You were the first witness, Frodsham was just trying impress his little personality on the proceedings, to worry you. It reflected worse on him.’

      ‘I probably had him too,’ she said. She took a long drag on her cigarette. ‘He probably wants his fifteen quid back.’

      Frodsham’s plan, if that’s what it was, had worked. Leanne Scott and Janine Telford who were to give their evidence after the break, looked grey and anxious. I asked Adam to make sure everyone had a biscuit so we would all have the necessary blood sugar levels for the next session and I left the room, saying I had to make a phonecall.

      Earlier in the morning, wandering round the building, I had found a set of telephone kiosks in the basement that no one seemed to use. I stood in the phone booth now, staring at the wall. It was important not to get things out of perspective, I told myself. Being an advocate was my job, getting shouted at was my job. But protecting the clients was also my job and I hadn’t done that very well just now. I simply hadn’t seen it coming. But it wasn’t my fault, I told myself sensibly, Frodsham wasn’t playing by the rules. What were the rules? Perhaps I’d made up my own rules and everyone else was working to a completely different set. No, Frodsham was out of order. I was sure of it.

      After the break Leanne and Janine told their stories. They too had been regularly ‘punished’ for minor misdemeanours at the home. The advocate to the inquiry asked them clinical questions about the systematic nature of the abuse, the days of the week, the time of day. The women held their heads high, occasionally looking over at me, and I tried to offer support without moving a muscle of my face. Wyatt’s name was not mentioned and Frodsham’s cross-examination was desultory.

      We were adjourned until ten thirty on Monday, because Henry Curston had a case in the Court of Appeal. I could see my youth disappearing while I staggered through this inquiry in Birmingham.

      Leanne and Janine mingled with the others in the foyer, pleased not to have been attacked in the witness chair, but a little disappointed they hadn’t had the chance to shout at Frodsham. Perhaps I was wrong about Frodsham. The three women who had given evidence walked towards the stairs, sharing their feelings. After they had gone a few steps, I could hear them laughing.

      I went to my phone booths in the basement and rang chambers. ‘So you’ve started then?’ Gavin said.

      ‘Yes, but we’re not sitting tomorrow. In fact, I think we’re unlikely to go straight through. From the timetable, it looks as if we’re going to be jumping about with days here and there, to fit in with everybody’s other commitments.’

      ‘You’d better fax the timetable to me,’ Gavin said, ‘or bring it into chambers.’

      ‘Only if you promise not to book anything else in for me.’

      ‘OK,’ he said. ‘If you’re sure.’

      ‘Have I got any messages?’ I asked.

      ‘I’ll hand you to Jenna.’

      ‘Hello.’ Jenna’s pleasant voice was happy and enthusiastic. She had just been promoted to junior junior clerk. ‘You’ve got one message. Oh, it’s from Iotha.’ She was surprised that it was from another member of chambers. ‘Can you ring her? I don’t know what that’s about.’

      ‘Is there anything in my pigeon-hole?’ I asked. ‘Like a cheque?’

      She went away to look and I passed a few hopeful seconds dreaming of what I would do if she found a massive cheque there. Or even a small cheque. I could buy a new suit for work. I could pay my mortgage.

      ‘No cheques, I’m afraid, but you have got a memo, well, it’s an invitation really, well it’s a memo.’

      ‘What is it?’ I said, ‘I’m on a payphone.’ I put money into the box.

      ‘This is from Iotha, too.’ Iotha was a young practitioner who did crime and family, and who had taken over three cases of mine which were coming to court during my time out of town. ‘This is probably what her telephone message was about. She’s having a garden party,’ Jenna said.

      ‘Oh, that’s nice,’ I said. ‘But I thought her garden was in a terrible state.’

      ‘That’s the point. It says, “Gardening at three o’clock, dinner provided at seven. RSVP.” ’

      ‘Oh God,’ I said. ‘When is it?’

      ‘Sunday.’

      ‘Oh dear.’

      ‘Can’t you make it?’

      ‘I’m afraid I can,’ I said. ‘Tell her I’ll be there.’ I hate almost all types of gardening, I have nothing in common with most of my colleagues in chambers, and the time I had to spend at my lovely flat over the next few weeks was going to be severely limited. But it’s important to support young members of chambers, and chambers activities are necessary anyway, to raise morale. And we needed morale boosting in chambers, every one was feeling anxious about how little work there was around, about Legal Aid rates, and about the three civil practitioners who had left chambers in the past few months. I’d have to go.

      

      It was nearly nine o’clock when I got back to Stoke Newington. I drove through Dalston and up Kingsland High Road, past the Turkish shops with their lights coming on in the dusk, lighting up bright oranges and exotic vegetables. The florists opposite Amhurst Road welcomed me home with an enormous display of red and white flowers in pots outside the shop.

      I picked up my post, left by one of my upstairs neighbours in a neat pile outside my front door. It didn’t look even remotely interesting. There was a catalogue, a red bill and a couple of local newspapers. And a postcard which made me catch my breath. It was a picture of Edinburgh castle at night. I knew who it was from before I turned it over.

      I unlocked my front door and walked into the living room before I read it. The message was brief and heartbreaking, written in the scrawl of all her postcards.

       The gig last night was fantastic. Standing room only. Three encores. I still can’t believe it. Love Margo x

      Heartbreaking for me.

      Margo was the woman I had had a short, passionate affair with the year before, when I’d had my run-in with the police. Margo had definite priorities and I was very low down on the list, after her children and her career. But I had been pleased when she was booked to do some backing vocals at Ronnie Scott’s through a friend of a friend of mine, and then some supporting work at the Jazz Café, and when I had heard there was talk of a tour with Jools Holland I was delighted. And