Good Bad Woman. Elizabeth Woodcraft

Can you make yourself a back sheet?’

      ‘I suppose so. What name is Saskia using now? And what is she pleading?’

      ‘Susan Baker. I think it’s a straight guilty plea, unless she tells you something that makes you think you should fight it.’

      ‘Are you all right? Do you want me to come over?’

      ‘I’m fine, fine.’

      ‘OK, I’ll ring you tomorrow when I’ve finished.’

      I rang Lena.

      ‘Hiya,’ she said, brightly. ‘How are you?’

      I told her about my evening. Despite being in a traumatic relationship, which was more than I was, Lena’s always good for a bit of advice, the telephone equivalent of a cup of Horlicks. Not that I drink Horlicks. But then, she regularly gives me advice that I ignore.

      ‘Do you think she really was burgled?’ Lena asked. ‘You don’t think she was … required elsewhere?’

      ‘No, no. She was burgled, you could tell from her voice. Anyway, how are you? Is the gorgeous Sophie accompanying us to the Screen on the Green tomorrow?’

      ‘She might.’ Lena sounded doubtful. ‘We’re not seeing quite so much of each other at the moment.’

      ‘Oh dear,’ I clucked.

      Our conversation continued along the old comforting lines. I forgot about Dr Henry and went to bed, clicking on a Motown cassette and drifting away as the Four Tops implored their woman to get out of their life and let them sleep at night.

TWO

       Thursday Morning – Highbury Corner

      Highbury Corner Magistrates’ Court was full of cigarette smoke and depressed young men. Susan Baker was listed as appearing in Court 5 and I made myself known to the usher, smiling so that we would be called on early. Saskia herself was in custody and I made my way down the concrete stairs to the cells to see the jailer.

      ‘Have you got Miss Baker here?’

      ‘Indeed we do, madam,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Just along there, past matron’s room on your right.’

      I made my way along the dark corridor, past solid, locked cell doors, breathing in the smell of disinfectant on concrete. A woman asked me for a light. I could see her lips through the open wicket. I didn’t have any matches. Each door had a small blackboard beside it. I stopped by the board with the word BAKER chalked in clumsy capitals. I peered through the hatch.

      ‘Saskia?’ I asked into the gloom of the tiny cell.

      ‘Frankie!’ Saskia crept up to the door. Her face was a mess. Not so much peaches and cream as pork and beans.

      ‘What has happened to you?’ I looked at her in alarm.

      ‘I’ll tell you later,’ she said. ‘I’m going to get out, aren’t I? Have you got your car here? Oh, Frankie, get me out.’ She was crying.

      ‘OK. First of all, how did you come to be charged with drunk and disorderly? Were you?’

      ‘No. But I’ll have to say yes, won’t I? Yes, say I was, say I was. Because I don’t want to plead not guilty, I just want to get out. I will get out, won’t I?’

      ‘Yes, you will, whether you plead guilty or not guilty. If you plead guilty today you’ll get out, with a fine probably. But you could fight it. They’d have to give you bail unless there’s any serious reason why they shouldn’t. Are you living in London now?’

      ‘Yes … well, I was. Yes, yes, I am.’

      ‘Saskia, are you OK? Have you seen a doctor?’

      ‘What? In here? You’re joking. Look, Frankie, I’m just going to plead guilty to this. OK, I was on Balls Pond Road and I was singing, rather loudly. Things have been a bit heavy recently. Then the cops came and we had a bit of a discussion about one thing and another. The only thing of any relevance was that they said I was singing flat. I knew I wasn’t and the lamp-post agreed with me. And I asked lots of people in the street what they thought. I don’t think they like music in Balls Pond Road.’ This is just what she used to be like in those demonstration cases. Talking to lamp-posts! I could imagine how they would feel about that in Balls Pond Road. It was a busy road with huge lorries pounding along day and night, but it couldn’t make up its mind whether it was a select residential area, with its large houses converted into expensive apartments, or a lively friendly place with high-rise local authority flats. Either way they would think she was drunk.

      ‘Well,’ I said, trying to find the right tone, ‘was it right-on music? Did it have Important words?’

      I remembered her singing in court one day, years before, about the purpose behind one of the direct actions she and her mates had done outside a porn cinema. The song had about fourteen verses, but the magistrates were so shocked they listened to every line. Perhaps singing did mean she got her message across. I sighed. I felt old and cynical.

      Now she looked at me disapprovingly, as if she knew I still ate meat and that I did not take my bottles to the bottle bank.

      ‘None of us can claim our music is important. Only history will tell whether it was.’

      ‘All right, what was it about?’

      ‘That, Frankie, can only be told over a cup of coffee. You used to make lovely coffee. Are you still in the flat with the Danish pastry shop across the road? Mmm, warm cherry.’ Saskia was obviously beginning to perk up, which I knew had nothing to do with my presence or any sense of confidence she had in my courtroom skills. It was because we were having something like a political argument.

      ‘Saskia, were you drunk?’

      ‘I don’t know. Maybe. It was sunny and I was drunk on the crisp autumn air.’

      ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Saskia, shut up for a minute,’ I snapped, momentarily losing my professional veneer.

      She smiled at me, a shadow of her normal smile, tinned pineapple and Dream Topping, but devastating just the same.

      ‘Do you consider that your behaviour was disorderly?’

      ‘I don’t know. What do you think?’

      ‘I think the magistrates might.’

      ‘I’m pleading guilty, Frankie. I want to get out.’ She was desperate again. I was surprised. This woman had gone in and out of prison very regularly at the height of the demonstrations. She never agreed to be bound over to keep the peace, she was always sent to jail.

      ‘OK.’ She knew the score. I would follow her instructions.

      It was five to ten. I went back upstairs and spoke to the man representing the Crown Prosecution Service, who looked about fourteen. He had a large pile of buff-coloured files in front of him and was trying to talk to six barristers at once. I pushed myself to the front, hissing, ‘I’m a quickie, I’m a quickie,’ and got him to tell me what evidence the police were intending to give. Extraordinarily, their story was almost identical to my client’s, except that they said she asked a Belisha Beacon whether she was singing flat. ‘Lamp-post? Street furniture?’ I suggested hopefully. We settled on ‘inanimate object’ and I told him we would be pleading guilty. He seemed relieved.

      The usher was bustling importantly at the back of the court, her black gown occasionally revealing flashes of a shocking pink dress. I pointed to the name of Baker on the list attached to her clipboard and told her that we were a five-minute job and we could be in and out before she had time to turn round. I thought I was being irresistible.

      However it wasn’t until twenty-five past eleven that I leapt to my feet