Bond Street Story (38 page)

It was Mr. Privett, not Mrs. Privett, who objected. Not openly, of course. Just sulkily. He liked Irene to have her girl-friends to the house. They helped to keep the place cheerful. But a young man in the house was different. Young men smoked such a lot. And sat down heavily in chairs. And expected to be offered drinks. It wouldn't seem like home at all if there were a young man about the place.

And particularly not if he were someone from Rammell's. There are certain privacies that any father of a family demands. If he wants to keep his slippers in the alcove beside the fireplace there is nothing in law against it. But that doesn't mean that he would necessarily like other people to know about it. Least of all other people in the same firm. Somehow he didn't fancy having to walk through Travel and Theatre Tickets with the knowledge that the pair of wolf eyes on the other side of the counter shared even the smaller of his domestic secrets.

Not that the young man proved to be nearly so aggressively male as Mr. Privett had feared. He smoked only one cigarette. Proved to be good, even eager, about opening doors and passing things. And refused a drink when it was offered to him.

The only thing that marred the whole afternoon was the fact that when he did light a cigarette, Irene lit one, too.

Mr. Privett felt merely a sudden affectionate pang at the
thought that Irene should have grown up so fast But Mrs. Privett was more outspoken.

“And when did you start smoking, I'd like to know?” she said.

There was a pause for a moment after she had spoken. Irene looked across at her friend—the one from Classical Records—and they both raised their eyebrows. Ted himself continued to look downwards at his feet.

“Oh, years ago, Mum,” Irene replied. “I've forgotten.”

“We'll talk about it afterwards,” Mrs. Privett told her.

But Irene recognized her strength. With Classical Records and Ted both beside her, it was her moment more than Mrs. Privett's.

“No, we won't, Mum,” she said. “There's nothing to talk about.”

Mr. Privett dreaded Monday morning. He recognized the signs. From the way Mrs. Privett was taking Irene's rudeness, this was the sort of thing that might drag on right through the week.

But by the following morning it was completely forgotten. A letter from Mr. Hamster put the thought of everything else clean out of their minds. The date for the County Court case had at last been fixed. In consequence, Mr. Hamster wanted to see Mr. Privett as soon as possible.

Mr. Privett arranged the appointment by telephone. Not that there was any difficulty about it. Things were rather slack with Mr. Hamster at the moment. Any hour of the day would have been convenient. He would have stayed on until midnight if necessary. And Mr. Privett was only asking for six-thirty.

As soon as he got there, Mr. Hamster started. It was practically a dress rehearsal. Sitting back in his little swivel chair and with his thumbs tucked up into his waistcoat, Mr. Hamster gave his client a complete lesson in County Court procedure.

“ ... and remember, we've got nothing to conceal,” he said slowly and deliberately. “Just go into the box, and tell the truth. The plain simple truth. No hesitation. No pauses.” Mr. Hamster paused momentarily. “Don't rush it, of course. Give yourself time to think what you're saying. Don't give the impression of being too pat.” Mr. Hamster paused again. “And speak up when you say it. No mumbling.” There was another pause. “Mind you, that doesn't mean shout at 'em. They can hear you. And shoulders back so that you look as if you meant it.” This time
the pause was longer. Mr. Hamster was a thorough man and weighed every word carefully. “Don't try to look defiant or cocky, of course. No overdoing it. Be natural. That's the whole secret. Be natural.” This pause was the longest of them all, and it was obvious that Mr. Hamster was leading up to something really important. “Above all,” he said, “don't get rattled. If you're rattled, you're sunk. Keep calm. Calm and steady.” Mr. Hamster's voice was now rising with excitement. “This case means a lot to you. Remember that. Very serious if it went the wrong way.” He glanced out of the window for a second. “You're going to win. And you know it. But be prepared. That's the great thing. Be prepared. If they turn nasty, show some spirit. No rudeness, of course. Nothing funny. Just stick to facts. And keep cool. Cool and confident. That's the way. Be yourself. Be yourself, and you'll be all right.”

Mr. Hamster rose. He thrust out his hand.

“I'll ... I'll try,” Mr. Privett said.

But Mr. Hamster had not quite finished with him. He had just remembered one other point.

“Ten o'clock on the 15th,” he said. “County Court. Brecknock Road. Don't be late. If you are, they'll hear the case without you. Remember that. But don't get there too early. They'll think you're nervous. Just give yourself nice comfortable time. There's nothing to worry about. Get your mind clear. Then forget all about it. Don't lie awake thinking. And try to remember what I've said to you. It's for your protection. It's up to you now.”

The rest of that evening Mr. Privett was moody and preoccupied. He started drawing diagrams on the backs of envelopes, with X showing the motor coach and a poor demolished little Y that was himself right up in the corner practically under the stamp. But diagrams of moving objects are difficult to draw. They require dotted lines and arrows. And that is where the tricky part comes in. In some of the diagrams X and Y missed each other altogether. In others the dotted lines kept crossing as though he and the motor-coach had been playing dodge'ems up the whole length of the Kentish Town Road ...

And it was worse, not better, when he finally got off to sleep. Then the whole of Mr. Hamster's advice rose up and overwhelmed him. He was in the dock already. And things were going pretty badly for him. He had created quite the wrong impression. That was because he'd forgotten his trousers. And the false nose that he was wearing had definitely counted against him. The
judge had ordered him to remove it, but he had another one just like it underneath. And, even in the dream state, his own behaviour astonished him. There were some questions that he refused to answer at all. Others that he capped merrily with a quick joke or a snatch of song. He bawled. He whispered. He denied everything. He confessed and begged for clemency. He turned his back on the judge. He sat on the floor. He produced a banana and ate it. He blew soap bubbles ...

In the end, things got so bad that he started talking in his sleep and Mrs. Privett had to wake him up.

 

On the morning of the running-down case, Mr. Hamster woke an entirely happy man. And no wonder. Under his care and guidance, this case that might easily have been dismissed in a few minutes—might even never have come into Court at all—had branched and blossomed into an affair of unimaginable complexity. There were now claims, counter-claims, watching briefs springing up everywhere.

Mr. Privett, however, was already feeling the strain. He had not slept at all well. And he had a strange guilty feeling about turning right for the Brecknock County Court instead of bearing left as usual and popping into the Underground for Bond Street. Even though he had got special leave, it still felt like playing truant.

It was five minutes to ten when he reached the Court. The walk had helped to quieten his nerves. He felt righteous and confident. Then he met Mr. Hamster.

“Remember what I told you,” Mr. Hamster began. “Think before you answer. But don't hesitate. Be natural. Don't let them get you rattled. You'll be all right. But look out for catches. And keep calm. Above all, keep calm ...”

It was not until nearly three-fifty when Mr. Privett was eventually called. It was the last case the Judge heard that day. And, in the interval, Mr. Privett's morale had gone completely. If he had been asked to play a violin solo instead of merely giving evidence he could not have been more agitated.

He took the oath loudly and defiantly, as though he had been taking oaths and breaking them all his life. And then, having taken it, he simply stood there looking sulkily down at his feet, cutting everybody. The Judge even had to speak to him about it. He asked Mr. Privett to have the goodness to look in his direction when he was addressing him. Thereafter, Mr. Privett stared. It was a baleful, unflickering stare like a basilisk's. And it would have been downright rude if it had gone on a second longer.

It was broken, in fact, only by the solicitor for the motor-coach company. He coughed twice rather loudly and then asked if Mr. Privett would mind sparing him a little of his attention, too. Mr. Privett thereupon turned his hypnotist's gaze full on him. But he forgot about the voice. Twice the Judge had to ask Mr. Privett
to speak up because neither he nor the opposing solicitor could hear a word that he was saying. And Mr. Privett promptly began using a high-pitched strident kind of voice as though he were arguing with them.

They were now hard at it, the motor-coach solicitor and Mr. Privett. It was real diamond-cut-diamond stuff.

“How fast were you going when you reached the Kentish Town Road?”

There was a pause.

“I haven't got a speedometer.”

The solicitor frowned. He seemed a pressing sort of chap, Mr. Privett thought. His air of gentle patience only made him that bit more dangerous.

“I didn't ask you whether you had a speedometer or not. I asked you how fast you were going.”

Mr. Privett began looking down at his boots again.

“I wasn't going fast at all.”

There was a quick intake of breath by the solicitor, a sudden snake-like hissing.

“But I take it that you were moving?”

Mr. Privett thought for a moment. Then he gave a quick furtive glance in Mr. Hamster's direction. Mr. Hamster was half off his chair with excitement and anxiety.

“Yes, sir,” he replied quietly.

“Speak up, please. I still can't hear you. Were you moving?”

“YES I WAS!”

The solicitor pushed his glasses up on to his forehead and regarded Mr. Privett. Somehow the witness hadn't looked the kind of man who was likely to give trouble of this sort.

“Thank you,” he said. “Well, was it, shall we say, five miles an hour?”

Mr. Privett looked again towards Mr. Hamster. But the strain had been too much for him. He was now crouching back with his face covered by his hands. Mr. Privett was utterly alone.

“I never timed it,” he said.

The solicitor leant forward. He was doing his best to be quiet, persuasive, reassuring.

“Oh, come now. I don't want a stop-watch reading. I merely want your own estimate of your speed. Was it faster, say, than if you had been walking?”

Mr. Privett paused. Was it this that Mr. Hamster had warned him against?

“Will you kindly answer my question?”

“YES.”

“Well, may I have the answer?”

“Yes. It's ‘Yes!'”

The solicitor sighed. At this rate he would be trapped in the stiffling atmosphere of Brecknock Road Court until next morning.

“Now perhaps we are getting somewhere,” he said. “Was it faster than anybody running?”

There was a longer pause this time.

“There wasn't anybody running.”

“Well, then as fast as a horse and cart perhaps?”

Mr. Privett drew his tongue across his lips.

“I've never driven in a horse and cart.”

This was too much for the solicitor. He flung the batch of papers that he was holding down on to the desk in front of him.

“I put it to you that you have no idea how fast you were going. That you were scorching along with your head down and didn't see a thing. That you haven't the slightest idea what happened.”

There was no pause this time. It was obvious that if Mr. Privett had been holding anything in his hands he would have flung that down, too.

“YES I HAVE,” he replied. He was fairly roaring by now. “I WAS RUN INTO. RUN INTO FROM BEHIND.”

Mr. Hamster was waiting for Mr. Privett when he climbed down out of the box. And his eyes were moist.

“Magnificent,” he whispered. “Absolutely magnificent. Just like I told you.”

And it was now Mr. Hamster's turn. He had always rather fancied himself as a cross-examiner, a sort of Marshall Hall of the County Courts. He had cultivated a way of holding his head to one side while regarding witnesses, as though he were trying to make up his mind whether he had ever seen them before. It cast a vague but valuable aura of suspicion.

“Did you see my client's bicycle and trailer?”

“I did.”

The motor-coach driver was a large red-faced man who might have been a butcher. His expression was one of simple, beefish confidence. But that soon wore off as Mr. Hamster pursed up his lips and peered at him through one eye.

“Did you think you could avoid it?”

“I did.”

“But you couldn't, could you?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It cut across me.”

“So you expected the other vehicle to avoid
you
?”

“I did.”

“Do you always expect the other vehicle to do the avoiding?”

“No.”

“But in your view nothing you could have done on this occasion could have prevented a collision?”

“No.”

Mr. Hamster's one weakness as a cross-examiner was that he never had the slightest idea of where his questions were leading. He just went on putting them. Everything had been going so smoothly, too. Right up to this point he could hardly have done better. But now, he realized, he had practically cleared the coach driver. He recovered himself hurriedly.

“Was that because you were going too fast?” he asked.

“No.”

“Then how did you come to demolish my client's trailer?”