“And so forth,” said Selena. “Would you like to read Dorothea’s affidavit, Ragwort, as she’s your client?”
“I haven’t quite finished going through the birth certificates,” said Ragwort. “Would you be kind enough to read it for me?”
Dorothea’s evidence regarding her protected life interest closely resembled that given by her sister — naturally so, since Selena and Ragwort had used the same precedent. Her solicitor had explained to her with similar care the ways in which she might have forfeited her interest; she had considered with similar conscientiousness whether she might have done so; she was similarly unextravagant and able to live within her income. The house where she lived in Corfu was owned jointly by herself and her husband and she also owned a flat in Hampstead, used by her children and herself on visits to London. She earned a salary as artistic designer for a small ceramics factory near Casiope, of which she was part owner, and enjoyed a generous income — very generous, it sounded, in the circumstances — from the settlement made by her first husband on the occasion of their divorce. She respectfully submitted, and so forth.
“Ragwort,” said Selena, “you look anxious. Is something the matter?”
“Do you happen,” said Ragwort, “to know what the date is?”
“The twenty-sixth of February.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Ragwort in tones of gloom. “Deirdre’s birthday was on the twenty-third.”
“Oh well,” said Cantrip, “I don’t suppose she expected us to send her a present.”
“Her eighteenth birthday,” said Ragwort. “She’s of age.”
Without perfectly understanding why, I perceived that the prospects of adjourning to the Corkscrew had receded. Ragwort, I would have supposed, could as competently represent a girl of eighteen as one of seventeen. But no, it was out of the question — it was the duty of her Counsel, now that she was of age, to make clear to her the nature of the Arrangement and her right to give or withhold consent; she might instruct him, after receiving such advice, to negotiate other terms than those agreed by Ragwort: Ragwort, if still representing her, would be severely embarrassed.
“It’s no use,” said Timothy. “They’ll have to instruct separate Counsel for her. We’d better ring the solicitors and tell them. It’s a pity, of course, given the urgency of the application — I don’t suppose they’ll manage to find anyone in time for it to be heard tomorrow.”
“Nonsense,” said Selena, “we’ll tell them to instruct Julia. I’ll just ring through to 63 and make sure she’s still there.”
Selena’s expression, when she joined us an hour later in the Corkscrew, was that of a woman who thinks the past hour well spent. She took her place at the candlelit oak table and allowed Timothy to pour her a glass of claret.
It had turned out, she thought, rather satisfactorily. Julia was content to accept instructions, Tancred’s to give them; the appropriate telephone calls had been successfully made; and the girl Deirdre was now in a taxi on her way to Lincoln’s Inn, where Julia waited to advise her.
“It will be good for Julia,” said Selena, “to be involved in an ordinary, down-to-earth Chancery matter. With a pure Revenue practice, she’s sometimes in danger of becoming a little out of touch with real life.”
Knowing that Julia’s strategy for dealing with real life, on those rare occasions when she came across it, was to keep very quiet and hope it would go away, I feared that the grim practicalities of an application under the Variation of Trusts Act might prove too much for her; but the financial rewards, I supposed, would justify the risk.
“I did mention to Tancred’s,” said Selena, “that they were asking Miss Larwood to take the case at very short notice and that her Clerk would expect this to be reflected in the brief fee. Then I rang her Clerk, and told him what he was expecting. So I think that the fee should be not ungenerous.”
Timothy purchased another bottle of claret, and the conversation turned, as it so often does among the Chancery Bar, to the imperfections of their administrative and clerical arrangements. The tyranny of their Clerk Henry and the incompetence of the temporary typist were recalled in lingering detail and with copious illustrative anecdote. The time was passing pleasantly in this manner, and a third bottle had just been opened for us, when there stumbled through the doorway of the Corkscrew the figure of a woman: her dark hair was dishevelled, her clothing in some disorder; she gazed about her with anxious bewilderment, as if not knowing where she was, or where she ought to be. This being Julia’s habitual demeanor, we suspected nothing amiss.
Traversing successfully — that is to say, without knocking anything over or tripping on anyone’s briefcase — the distance from the doorway to our table, she sank wearily into one of the oak armchairs. I perceived at once that something was troubling her: her manner, when she greeted us, was more than usually distrait, and even her compliments to Ragwort lacked their accustomed fervor. She lit a Gauloise, drank a deep draught of claret, and looked apologetically at her friends.
“I don’t quite see that it’s my fault,” said Julia, “but I don’t think you’re going to be pleased.”
“Of course it’s not your fault,” said Selena kindly. “What exactly is the difficulty? Didn’t your client arrive?”
“No — no, it’s not that. The solicitors delivered her in good order about half an hour ago, and left me to explain the Arrangement to her.”
“Can’t she understand what it’s about?”
“Oh, I think she has a reasonable grasp of the essential features.” Julia drank more claret, and drew deeply on her Gauloise. “I was, of course, at pains to explain to her that she was not obliged to agree to it and could say no if she liked.”
“Of course,” said Selena. “That was very proper of you, Julia.” Julia looked doubtful.
“Dear me,” said Timothy, “you don’t mean she
“She can’t say no,” said Cantrip indignantly.
“Oh yes she can,” said Ragwort.
“I wouldn’t say,” said Julia, draining her glass and gazing thoughtfully into its depths, “that my client says no, exactly.” She brightened, as at some happy inspiration. “It would be better to say, I think, that she instructs me to ask for an amendment to the Arrangement. A very small amendment, really — there would hardly be any re-drafting required. I do like this claret, I’m feeling much better now — may I have some more?”
“Of course,” said Selena. “Would you like to tell us the precise nature of this small amendment?”
“The Arrangement as at present drafted provides, if my memory serves me, for a sum of twenty thousand pounds to be paid to my client on the termination of the existing life interest?” They nodded. “The amendment we have in mind,” said Julia, “is the substitution of a figure of one hundred thousand pounds.”
There was a shocked silence.
“A hundred thousand quid?” said Cantrip eventually, with apparent difficulty in finding his voice. “If you think my client’s going to fork out an extra eighty thousand quid, you must be even further round the twist than I’ve always thought. Come off it, Larwood old thing.” The professional exchanges of Chancery Counsel are not always characterized by such robust informality; but Julia and Cantrip were once on those terms conventionally called more intimate than friendship, and this perhaps accounts for it.
“My dear Cantrip,” said Julia, “it’s no use your saying ‘come off it.’ If your client wants our consent to the Arrangement, it will cost her a hundred thousand pounds. I should add that the figure is not negotiable. No doubt you will wish to take instructions — I gather Camilla’s in London this evening, so there should be no difficulty.”
“Well, I’m going to advise her to tell your client to get lost. It’s blackmail.”
“I’m sorry you feel like that about it, Cantrip, Isn’t ‘arm’s length negotiation’ more the phrase you’re looking for?”
“No, it jolly well isn’t. ‘Blackmail’ is the phrase I’m looking for.”
“Ah, well — we have been friends too long, I hope, to quarrel over a question of semantics. You must advise your client as you think best, of course. I understand, however, that the prospective liability to capital transfer tax, if nothing is done in the lifetime of the widow, is not less than three million pounds. You will surely not allow a temporary sense of pique to expose your client to so severe an encroachment on her inheritance?”
“Look here, Larwood, do be reasonable — you can’t seriously expect me to tell Tancred’s to drag Camilla out of bed in the middle of the night—”
