Dreams of another day, p.36
Dreams of Another Day, page 36
‘I am sorry,’ whispered Flixe as she sat down. ‘I couldn’t get a bus this morning; the crowds were so awful. Am I squashing you too much?’
‘No; it’s quite all right,’ said the young woman. ‘I’ve room to move up a bit.’
‘I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?’ said Flixe, smiling in a friendly way. ‘Isn’t it interesting?’
‘I think it’s disgusting, actually.’
Flixe, wondering whether she had been identified, started to cough.
‘Oh, do excuse me,’ she said during a brief pause. She opened her bag and fumbled in it. ‘It’s the dust in the streets, I think. Would you like one of these? I find they help a lot.’
The plump girl’s brown eyes narrowed into a smile as Flixe held out the bag of peardrops and she took one at once.
‘Thanks muchly,’ she said with the first pleasant expression Flixe had seen on her face. It improved her, but its eagerness did much to reinforce Flixe’s suspicions.
‘Be upstanding!’
Standing with Connie between the warders, Ming looked down into the well of the court and saw the squat figure of Roger Sillhome. He looked so self-satisfied that she was suddenly struck by how much she hated him. The strength of her feeling shocked her. Roger looked up, caught her eye and obviously had no difficulty understanding her expression. He glared back at her, looking as angry – and as disgusted – as she had ever seen him. For once being the butt of someone’s anger did not trouble Ming at all. Her own loathing of him took precedence over every other feeling.
As the judge lowered his heavy frame into the great red-leather chair, it struck Ming that although she might be facing a prison cell Roger was confronting the possible ruin of his entire career. If she and Connie were to win and the Crown did not take over the costs of the action, as it might very well not, then Roger would have to pay. As Ming knew, he had no money beyond his parliamentary salary.
Into her hatred sprung a little pity for him that made it bearable.
‘Members of the jury,’ said the judge, leaning forward slightly and looking more Horus-like than ever, ‘although the issues in this case are very simple, your task is a difficult one. It is your duty to decide whether or not a crime has been committed. In order to help you in making your decision I shall summarise the evidence.
‘The prosecution has alleged that the translation of part of a French novel called Story of a Lost Love, which was published in the defendants’magazine, The World Beyond, is obscene – that is, that it would tend to deprave or corrupt those who might read it. You must decide whether you agree.
‘What you must not do is decide whether or not you believe that the magazine article was unpleasant, vulgar or in bad taste. Those are not crimes. Much is published that a great many of us would prefer not to read, but this court has no jurisdiction over matters of taste.
‘In coming to your decision you must take no account of other publications you have read which you might consider to be more obscene than this, or indeed less. A comparison with other published matter is not allowed as a defence.
‘Learned Counsel for the Defence has argued that the publication of this piece was for the “public good” in so far as it was intended to dispel ignorance of a matter that is now the subject of a parliamentary committee. It is for you to decide whether that is true or not. If it is true then you are entitled to offer a verdict of “not guilty”, because the law allows such a defence.
‘That is your task, ladies and gentlemen: to decide who is likely to read the publication; whether it would tend to deprave and corrupt them; whether that tendency would be outweighed by the greater public good of increased knowledge of the subject of the article.
‘Copies of the publication will be handed to you. You must read them again carefully, taking as long as you want, refer to all the evidence you have heard, and then deliver your verdict. If you have any difficulties with points of law please ask and I shall do my best to elucidate them.’
The three women and nine men shuffled out of their benches, taking copies of The World Beyond with them. Once they had gone and the judge had retreated to his room, there was a noticeable relaxation in the court. Julia leaned sideways to exchange some apparently cheerful comments with her antagonist, who seemed happy to smile at her and even seemed to be applauding something she said to him.
Flixe got up from her seat beside the woman who might have written Ming’s letters, and found a place beside Mark in the last bench in the gallery.
‘What do you think?’ she asked.
He shook his head and ran both hands through his floppy brown hair. Flixe thought that he looked as though he had not slept.
‘I don’t know.’
‘I’m going to go down to see whether they’ll let me see her. Will you come? Show her, at least, that you don’t care what the verdict is?’ As she spoke Flixe was surprised to see the expression of drawn anxiety disappear into something that looked almost like happiness.
‘She knows how much I care for her and that whatever the verdict is, it will make no difference,’ he said with unassailable confidence.
‘Ah,’ said Flixe, realising that there had been some communication between the two of them after all. ‘I’m glad. Well, I think I’ll go down. If you’re staying up here, will …?’
‘Yes?’ There was some amusement in the grey eyes that looked so intelligently at her. Flixe smiled slightly in return.
‘That unpleasant woman in the front row who seems to have a peculiarly personal animosity towards Ming is here again today. Can you find out who she is?’ The amusement in Mark’s eyes was replaced by surprise.
‘I could try, I suppose. I’ll do my best.’
Flixe left and went to find Ming sitting quietly on one of the leather-covered seats outside the court. Connie was walking up and down, but Ming hardly moved at all. Her legs were crossed and she held her gloves and small black patent-leather bag in her lap. She still looked ill, but in her deliberate stillness, Flixe recognised the courage that Peter had always seen.
‘Well?’ Flixe said as she sat down beside her sister. ‘What do you think?’
‘Julia told us at one of those conferences before all this started that when a judge gives a clear direction in an obscenity trial the jury tend to do what they’re told, but that when he lets them make their own decision, they don’t agree. Nothing could have been fairer or more even-handed than the summing-up we’ve just heard.’
‘A disagreement would be better than being convicted,’ said Gerry from the other side of Ming. She shook her head.
‘In stern principle, perhaps, but not in reality; if they were not to agree a verdict, there would have to be another trial. The expenses of this one are going to be hard enough to meet. A second could ruin both Connie and myself.’
‘And it’s such a gamble,’ said Flixe. ‘I’ve never served on a jury, but friends of mine have and their descriptions of the kind of thing they base their decisions on are terrifying.’
A deliberately ironic smile disturbed the unnatural calm of Ming’s face.
‘That’s very comforting, Flixe. Thank you.’
‘Oh, damn!’ she said, irritated with her own clumsiness. It was as though all her skills of managing other people had deserted her when she needed them most. ‘I’d better shut up.’
Ming laughed out loud then.
‘Poor Connie,’ she said, watching the tall slim figure loping from one end of the hall to the other.
‘It’s no worse for her than it is for you,’ said Gerry, immediately angry and partisan. Ming turned her head slowly to smile at her eldest sister.
‘Yes, it is. She set up the magazine for Max. If we have to close it down, then she’ll feel she’s failed him twice over. It’s not so bad for me – not nearly so bad. There’s only me, and all I’d lose would be a ready market for my articles. I’d just have to work harder to get them published elsewhere.’
Gerry looked so taken aback that Ming allowed herself to chuckle.
‘I told you, Gerry: I’m not a child, and I’m not afraid any more; well, not much afraid. Even of prison. Whatever comes will come and I’ll deal with it in whatever way I can.’
‘Good for you!’
The exclamation had come, most unexpectedly, from Mr Ratterley. He held out his hand. Ming, surprised but pleased, shook it.
‘I’d like to retain you as a special adviser to clients facing trial,’ he went on. ‘I don’t know that I’ve ever seen such good sense or, I might add, good manners. You and Miss Wroughton are a splendid example of … a splendid example.’
‘I’m very touched,’ said Ming. ‘May I tell Connie what you’ve said later?’
‘If you think,’ he was beginning when the doors to the court were opened and the usher beckoned.
‘Connie!’ called Ming. Smiling at her sisters, she collected Connie and together they walked back to the dock.
‘Chin up,’ Connie whispered as they climbed into it.
‘Good luck, Miss,’ said one of the uniformed warders.
Ming was astonished and delighted, but there was no time to say anything in return. The jury emerged from their room and shuffled back into their allotted places. Ming thought that most of them looked satisfied, but could not decide what that meant.
The familiar cry of ‘Be upstanding’echoed and for the last time, they stood to await the judge’s arrival.
‘Members of the jury,’ said the usher, standing squarely in front of the jury box, ‘are you agreed upon your verdict?’
‘We are,’ said the foreman, one of the grey-suited, middle-aged men who might have been a schoolmaster.
‘How say you?’
Flixe, sitting beside Mark, felt her left hand grasped. She found it difficult to breathe and was astonished by the lack of emotion shown by both Ming and Connie.
‘Not guilty.’
Despite her calm, Ming was so overwhelmed by the verdict that she could not concentrate on what was happening all around her. She clutched the rail in front of the dock and felt dizziness rocking her. The judge said something before he retired from the court, but she could not remember afterwards what it was. The warders congratulated her. Connie kissed her. Ming kissed Julia and shook Mr Ratterley’s hand once more. Gerry hugged Ming. Roger stared at her for what felt like a full minute.
His dark eyes looked like holes in his white face and his lips were twisted into a death-like grimace. He looked desperate. Then someone walked between them and hid him from her sight.
Somehow Ming reached the doors to the cold-floored hall, where Flixe was waiting. She, too, flung her arms around Ming.
‘We must go and celebrate,’ said Connie. ‘Ming, what would you like to do?’
Everyone heard the invitation but Ming. She was staring over Flixe’s shoulder, oblivious of everyone else. Flixe disengaged herself, half-turned, saw Mark, and quickly said:
‘Actually, as I told Ming on the telephone this morning, I’ve prepared a celebration lunch, which is waiting for us at home with Peter. Will you all come?’
As the others agreed, Flixe hustled them away, murmuring a reminder to Ming as they left.
‘Mark?’ Ming’s voice was tentative and slightly husky, as though she had not used it that day.
‘Congratulations,’ he said, stopping about three yards away from her.
Ming walked towards him with as much effort as though she were wading through seawater over an uneven beach. When she was close enough she put out both hands. Mark reached for them at once.
‘Ming.’ His voice quivered and, as his hands closed over hers, Ming could feel them shaking too.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked clumsily. A smile like sunlight on shallow water broke over Ming’s face.
‘I am now,’ she said. ‘Mark, let’s get out of here.’
Together they left the Old Bailey, looked conscientiously for the others, whom Flixe had spirited into a taxi that was already on its way to Kensington, and walked slowly down towards the river. When they reached Blackfriars, Ming stopped.
‘Where are we going, Mark?’
He looked around, as though he had just woken up, and shook his head.
‘I don’t know – or care very much. Ming, darling, I can’t tell you …’
‘Tell me what?’ she asked gently. ‘You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want, but …’
‘I do want to tell you all of it, if you can bear to listen, but what I meant then was that I can’t tell you how much I’ve hated sitting watching you go through all that, quite unable to help.’
‘Your roses helped,’ she said, cupping the flower on her lapel with gentle fingers. ‘They helped a lot.’
Something about the way she touched the rose petals suggested that she really did care. Mark resisted the temptation to sweep her into his arms amid the hurrying lunchtime crowds.
‘I’m glad,’ he said, making an effort to sound calm and normal. ‘Ming, there’s an awful lot I want to say to you – and ask you, too – but your sister’s expecting you. Shall I take you to her house? We could talk on the way. Or we could meet later if you’d rather.’
‘Shall we meet later? I have a feeling that we’ll need time, more time than a taxi-ride to Kensington.’
‘You’re probably right. What time will you …? No, how can you guess that? Dinner tonight, or do you want to be with your family?’
‘I’d rather be with you tonight,’ she said simply. ‘But I must go to Flixe’s lunch now. She’s planned it all so carefully for us. Shall I meet you somewhere this evening?’
Not wanting to let her out of his sight until they broke through the misunderstandings of the past few months, Mark was tempted to ask if he could wait for her in her flat. But if she had wanted that she would have said so. He had too much at stake to risk it by snatching at her.
‘What about the Ivy again? We had such a good dinner there before the Attingers’dance.’
‘Couldn’t we go somewhere new?’ Ming asked without analysing her powerful need to avoid the places where they had been together in the past. ‘I loved it, but it would be nice to go somewhere we’ve never been before.’
‘All right.’ There was a look of understanding in Mark’s grey eyes and a smile of great affection on his lips. ‘We’ll start again. What about Stephano’s in Dean Street? It’s said to be very good.’
‘I’ll be there at half-past seven. Mark, thank you for being in court today and … and for being you.’
He touched her face very briefly with his ungloved hand and then turned away to summon a taxi for her. As soon as the cab had driven away Mark walked quickly towards the tube station, feeling young again and half-drunk with excitement. He wondered how on earth he was going to fill the hours until half-past seven and could not stop himself from imagining what she might say to him and how she might look at him.
He spared a glance for the view down the river, which he had always loved. The mixture of dereliction, cranes and building sites, and the wonderful, galleried dome of St Paul’s rising above it all pleased him to a degree that seemed surprising. He thought that perhaps it was the knowledge of St Paul’s survival that gave him such a feeling of comfort: among the innumerable things that are lost to time, mischance, and malice, some endure.
The lunch at Flixe’s house was long, lavish and very emotional. Peter Suvarov was at the front door to greet Ming when she eventually arrived and he held out his arms. Leaning against him, she listened to his voice telling her of his pride in her, and she felt the first waves of exultant triumph pound through her. At last she stood back.
‘It’s over,’ she said, meaning the trial. A strange expression twisted his mouth.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘Flixe has told me. If he’s good enough for you, I’m very glad.’
‘I didn’t mean that,’ she answered, understanding immediately what he had intended. ‘But he is. More than that. I hope you’ll like him. That matters.’
Peter’s old, beloved smile took the bitterness from his face. He carefully took out the hatpin that held Ming’s hat skewered to her hair, lifted the hat away and kissed the top of her head.
‘If you love him, I’ll like him. Come on, the others are waiting.’
He ushered Ming into the pale, trellised drawing room, where Flixe thrust a glass of champagne into her hand.
‘I’ve telephoned the parents. They’re terribly pleased and both send their love. If you can bear it, they’d love to speak to you.’
‘I’d better ring. May I, Flixe?’
‘Yes, but quick as you can. Julia has to rush back to chambers as soon as we’ve finished lunch.’
Ming went into the chilly little room where the telephone and shoe-cleaning equipment were kept and asked the operator for her parents’telephone number. Her mother answered.
‘Hello,’ Ming said, suddenly unsure of her welcome.
‘Ming darling, is that you?’
‘Mother! Yes, it’s me. We won.’
‘I know. Flixe telephoned the news. It is such a relief. We both wanted to say congratulations and to send our love.’
‘Daddy too?’ said Ming doubtfully.
‘Yes. He still doesn’t understand why you did any of it, and he’s still bothered by it, but of course he’s as relieved as I am about the verdict.’
‘I’m glad. It’s a bit much to hope that he’d understand.’
‘I think it is. May I give him your love?’
The quick smile on Ming’s face made her voice warm.
‘Please. And lots of it to you, too. There go the pips. I’d better stop. It’s Flixe’s telephone. Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye, darling. Thank you for ringing.’
Ming returned to the party. Sitting between Max and David Wallington, she did little justice to the hot consommé, cold lobster or iced bombe, and she found she could not talk much But the pleasure and exuberance of her friends and family were celebration enough.
Connie’s face had returned to its customary relaxed amusement and it was only then that Ming realised how different it had become during the horrible weeks of uncertainty. She was sitting between Peter and Tibor Smith, talking as though she had been a prisoner in a Trappist monastery for years.
