Читать книгу Good Bad Woman - Elizabeth Woodcraft - Страница 7

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 as Saskia was escorted into the dock. ‘I represent Miss Baker this morning, madam.’

They weren’t used to drunks looking like Saskia or being represented. The charge was put to Saskia, she pleaded guilty and I had hardly finished repeating my name for the third time for the benefit of the very old magistrate on the left when the chairwoman said, ‘Miss Richmond, we were thinking of a twenty pound fine and ten pounds costs or one day. Do you wish to say anything?’

‘No, madam.’

‘You may stand down, Miss Butcher.’

‘Baker,’ I corrected.

‘Yes.’

By being in custody overnight Saskia had served her one day in prison so she wouldn’t have to pay the fine. She knew that and grinned at me as she walked out.

I bowed to the bench, picked up my Guardian and slid along the seat. A shifty-looking man in his mid thirties, wearing a shapeless brown jacket with the collar up, and holding a spiral notebook, approached me at the back of the courtroom.

‘Miss Eh … ?’

‘Yes?’ I said pleasantly. I noticed that he bit his nails.

‘Your client there, isn’t she also known as Saskia Baron?’

‘You’d better ask her.’

‘And how do you spell your name, Miss Eh … ?’

‘Correctly,’ I said primly, and walked to the door of the court as he slid over to speak to the officer in the case. It was eleven thirty exactly.

Saskia appeared from the lavatory and we walked out to my car, which was parked in a side turning off Holloway Road. There was five minutes left on the meter.

‘Did that journalist speak to you?’ I asked her as she got into the car.

‘What journalist?’ she asked, clicking her seat belt into place.

‘In the courtroom,’ I said as I slowly turned the car in the narrow street where I had parked. ‘He had pock-marked skin and was wearing brown shoes. There he is –’ I watched him cross the road. ‘Why’s he leaving at this time? He can’t have finished work, it’s too early. And I doubt your case is the scoop of the day, it’s hardly frontpage news.’

As I waited for a large lorry to squeeze past me, I saw the man get into the passenger seat of a dark saloon car.

‘Where?’ Saskia twisted in her seat, as the car moved away in the opposite direction. ‘Where?’ Her voice was loud and anxious.

‘He’s gone,’ I said, irritated that she hadn’t seen him, concerned by her reaction. ‘Are you all right?’ I asked her. I didn’t tell her he’d had a driver.

Saskia sat with her head back and her eyes closed, as if savouring her freedom. As we turned into Holloway Road I asked, ‘Do you want to nip in and see Kay? Her office is just down here. You could have a wash and brush up, then we could go somewhere nice for coffee. There are some good places on Church Street.’

Saskia pulled down the sun visor and looked at her face in the mirror. ‘Oh my God, look at me,’ she said mournfully, touching her face with her fingertips. ‘My cheek, my eye – Frankie, I can’t go out in public looking like this. Can we just go to your place? Would that be OK? I can’t face seeing anyone. Perhaps I could I have a bath or something …’

I looked at my watch. I could hear the appeal papers in Morris calling me. Rapidly I reorganised my timetable. ‘OK,’ I said, ‘OK.’ We drove past Kay’s office and I touched her arm gently. ‘You don’t look that bad.’

She smiled at me gratefully. ‘You know, you haven’t changed a bit,’ she said.

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘You’re still … well, smart and crisp, all professional in your black clothes,’ she said. ‘I like your hair, is it different?’

‘No.’ I looked at myself quickly in the rear-view mirror. ‘It’s always been like this.’ It was short at the back and long at the front. ‘I’ve just had some blonde streaks put in, to highlight the brown or something.’ I flicked my fringe back.

‘Well, it’s lovely to see you,’ she said. ‘It’s like coming home.’

At my flat I ran a bath in my small white bathroom and found some green herbal essence which filled the room with something vaguely related to the smell of fields and trees as I poured it under the running tap. I put out two giant blue towels and an old clean shirt of mine and left her to it. In the kitchen I made coffee and took some apple strudel out of the freezer to put into the microwave on Saskia’s reappearance.

I rang chambers and told Gavin I’d be in later.

‘You’ve got a couple of messages,’ he said. ‘Can you please ring Dr Henry. And someone called Hayman or Wayman rang – I can’t read this, Jenna wrote it, she’s a lovely girl, but her handwriting’s shocking – anyway, I think it says it’s not urgent and they’ll ring back.’

‘Who is Dr Henry?’ I asked.

‘I thought you knew,’ he said. ‘She said he’d ring you at home, he has your number.’

‘Who did?’

‘The secretary. I thought it was personal.’ He gave me Dr Henry’s number again, reminded me of my appeal papers and rang off.

I dialled the number. ‘Dr Henry’s surgery,’ an efficient female voice said.

‘Is Dr Henry there?’ I could hear Saskia singing something folky in the bath.

‘I am afraid Dr Henry is in consultation at this moment. Could I ask you to call back later?’

‘Well, no,’ I said. ‘Dr Henry appears to be trying to contact me.’

‘What is this concerning?’ The thin voice was guarded.

‘I have no idea. My name is Frances Richmond.’

‘Oh, Miss Richmond,’ her tone was concerned, caring, ‘I’m afraid Dr Henry is so busy right now, but I’ll say that you called. I know that the doctor is very anxious to speak with you.’

I thanked her and put the phone down as Saskia came in, smelling sweet and looking much better than I ever did in my grey denim shirt. Her blonde hair stood up in wet spikes.

‘Frankie, that was a life-saver. Mmm, something smells wonderful.’ She sat down at the kitchen table as I poured coffee into two cups. The autumn sun cut through the French doors. Outside two late pink roses swayed in the wind. Saskia looked like a battered angel as her hair dried into soft pale layers.

The microwave pinged and I took out the strudel. I cut slices and put them on my blue and yellow Italian plates. ‘Now,’ I said, pulling out a chair, ‘we are going to do some serious talking.’

She nibbled her strudel.

‘First of all,’ I began, ‘where do those bruises come from?’

She picked up her cup and ran her fingers across the blue-painted rim. She took a mouthful of coffee. ‘Heaven.’

‘Yes?’

‘Well …’

The phone rang in the living room.

‘Frankie! You’re in! I was going to leave a message on your machine.’

‘Lena, I’m a bit busy at the moment. Can I call you back?’

‘Well, actually, sweetie, you can’t – that’s what I’m ringing about. I’m just off for three days to Paris.’

‘Paris!’ I turned to raise my eyebrows at Saskia, to see her disappearing into the hall.

‘Saskia!’ I called and heard the front door click.

‘Frankie? Frankie?’

‘Look, Lena, I’ve got to go.’

‘I’m ringing just to say I’m going to Paris with Sophie.’

‘With Sophie? My God. I thought you two weren’t talking to each other.’ I stretched the cord of the phone as far as I could and looked out of the large bay window. I banged on the glass as I saw Saskia heading towards Stoke Newington High Street.

‘She rang last night after I spoke to you and said she was exhausted and –’

‘Lena, I’ve got to go.’

‘You’re not upset, are you?’

‘No, no, have a lovely time, send me a postcard. Bye bye.’

‘It means I shan’t be able to make the film.’

‘No problem. Bye.’

‘OK. Bye. I’m sorry. Bye.’

I slammed down the phone and ran out of the house. At the corner of the road there was no sign of Saskia but a 149 bus was sailing majestically towards Dalston. ‘Shit,’ I said and turned back to the flat. ‘Shit,’ I said again as I realised I was locked out.