Cat O'Nine Tales: And Other Stories (20 page)

Mrs. Abbott
rose from her place and returned the judge’s smile. She then proceeded to do
battle for every jot and tittle in Bob’s possession, even arguing over who
should end up with his college cufflinks, saying that it had been agreed that
all Mr. Radford’s assets should be divided equally, so that if he had one
cufflink, her client must be entitled to the other.

As each hour
passed, Fiona’s demands expanded. After all, Mrs. Abbot explained, hadn’t her
client given up a rewarding and happy lifestyle in America, which included a
thriving family business–something I’d never heard mentioned before–to devote
herself to her husband? Only to discover that he rarely arrived home in the
evening before eight, and then only after he’d been out with his friends to
play squash, and when he eventually turned up–Mrs. Abbott paused–drunk, he
didn’t want to eat the meal she had spent hours preparing for him–she paused
again–and when they later went to bed, he quickly fell into a drunken slumber.
I rose from my place in the gallery to protest, only to be told by an usher to
sit down or I would be asked to leave the court. Carol tugged firmly on my
jacket.

Finally, Mrs.
Abbot reached the end of her demands, with the suggestion that her client
should be given their home in the country (Aunt Muriel’s), while Bob would be
allowed to keep his London apartment; she should have the villa in Cannes (Aunt
Muriel’s), while he kept his rooms at Harley Street (rented). Mrs. Abbott
finally turned her attention to Aunt Muriel’s art collection, which she also
felt should be divided equally; her client should have the Monet, while he kept
the
Manguin
. She should have the Picasso, he the
Pasmore
, she the Bacon, etc.

When Mrs.
Abbott finally sat down, Mrs. Justice Butler suggested that perhaps they should
take a break for lunch.

During a lunch,
not eaten, Mr. Dexter, Carol and I tried valiantly to convince Bob that he
should fight back.

But he wouldn’t
hear of it.

‘If I can hold
on to everything I had before my aunt died,” Bob insisted, “that will be quite
enough for me.”

Mr. Dexter felt
certain he could do far better than that, but Bob showed little interest in
putting up a fight.

“Just get it
over with,” he instructed.

“Try not to
forget who’s paying her
costs
.”

When we
returned to the courtroom at two o’clock that afternoon, the judge turned her
attention to Bob’s solicitor.

“And what do
you have to say about all this, Mr. Dexter?” asked Mrs. Justice Butler.

“We are happy
to go along with the division of my client’s assets as suggested by Mrs.
Abbott,” he replied with an exaggerated sigh.

“You’re happy
to go along with Mrs. Abbott’s recommendations, Mr. Dexter?” repeated the judge
in disbelief.

Once again Mr.
Dexter looked at Bob, who simply nodded, like a dog on the back shelf of a car.

“So be it,”
said Mrs. Justice Butler, unable to mask her surprise.

She was just
about to pass judgment, when Fiona broke down and burst into tears. She leaned
across and whispered into Mrs. Abbott’s ear.

“Mrs. Abbott,”
said Mrs. Justice Butler, ignoring the plaintiff’s sobs, “
am
I to sanction this agreement?”

“It seems not,”
said Mrs. Abbott, rising from her place and looking somewhat embarrassed. “It
appears that my client still feels that such a settlement favors the
defendant.”

“Does she
indeed?” said Mrs. Justice Butler and turned to face Fiona. Mrs. Abbott touched
her client on the shoulder and whispered in her ear. Fiona immediately rose,
and kept her head bowed while the judge spoke.

“Mrs. Radford,”
she began, looking down at Fiona, “
am
I to understand
that you are no longer happy with the settlement your solicitor has secured for
you?”

Fiona nodded
demurely.

“Then may I
suggest a solution, that I hope will bring this case to a speedy conclusion.”
Fiona looked up and smiled sweetly at the judge, while Bob sank lower into his
seat.

“Perhaps it
would be easier, Mrs. Radford, if
you
were
to draw up two lists for the court’s consideration, that
you
believe to be a fair and equitable division of your
husbands
assets?”

“I’d be happy
to do that, your honor,” said Fiona meekly.

“Does this meet
with your approval, Mr. Dexter?” asked Mrs. Justice Butler, turning back to
Bob’s solicitor.

“Yes,
m’lady
,” said Mr. Dexter, trying not to sound exasperated.

“Can I take it
that those are your client’s instructions?”

Mr. Dexter
glanced down at Bob, who didn’t even bother to offer an opinion.

“And Mrs.
Abbott,” she said, turning her attention back to Fiona’s solicitor, “I want
your word that your client will not back down from such a settlement.”

“I can assure
you,
m’lady
, that she will comply with your ruling,”
replied Fiona’s solicitor.

“So be it,”
said Mrs. Justice Butler.

“We will
adjourn until tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, when I will look forward to
considering Mrs. Radford’s two lists.”

Carol and I
took Bob out for dinner that night–a pointless exercise. He rarely opened his
mouth to either eat or speak.

“Let her have
everything,” he finally ventured over coffee, “because that’s the only way I’m
ever going to be rid of the woman.”

“But your aunt
wouldn’t have left you her fortune if she’d known this would have been the
eventual outcome.”

“Neither Aunt
Muriel nor I worked that one out,” Bob replied with resignation. “And you can’t
fault Fiona’s timing.

She only needed
another month after meeting my dear aunt before she accepted my proposal.” Bob
turned and stared at me, an accusing look in his eyes. “Why didn’t you warn me
not to marry her?” he demanded.

When the judge
entered the courtroom the following morning all the officials were already in
place. The two adversaries were seated next to their solicitors.

All those in
the well of the court rose and bowed as Mrs. Justice Butler resumed her place,
leaving only Mrs. Abbott on her feet.

“Has your
client had enough time to prepare her two lists?” inquired the judge, as she
stared down at Fiona’s counsel.

“She has
indeed,
m’lady
,” said Mrs. Abbott, “and both are ready
for your consideration.”

The judge
nodded to the clerk of the court. He walked slowly across to Mrs. Abbott, who
handed over the two lists.

The clerk then
walked slowly back to the bench and passed them up to the judge for her
consideration.

Mrs. Justice
Butler took her time studying the two inventories, occasionally nodding, even
adding the odd “Urn,” while Mrs. Abbott remained on her feet.

Once the judge
had reached the last items on the lists, she turned her attention back to
counsel’s bench.

“Am I to
understand,” inquired Mrs. Justice Butler, “that both parties consider this to
be a fair and equitable distribution of all the assets in question?”

“Yes,
m’lady
,” said Mrs. Abbott firmly, on behalf of her client.

“I see,” said
the judge and, turning to Mr. Dexter, asked, “Does this also meet with your
client’s approval?”

Mr. Dexter
hesitated. “Yes,
m’lady
,” he eventually managed,
unable to mask the irony in his voice.

“So be it.”
Fiona smiled for the first time since the case had opened. The judge returned
her smile. “However, before I pass judgment,” she continued, “I still have one
question for Mr. Radford.”

Bob glanced at
his solicitor before rising nervously from his seat. He looked up at the judge.

What more can
she want?
was
my only thought as I sat staring down
from the gallery.

“Mr. Radford,”
began the judge, “we have all heard your wife tell the court that she considers
these two lists to be a fair and equitable division of all your assets.”

Bob bowed his
head and remained silent.

“However, before
I pass judgment, I need to be sure that you agree with that assessment.”

Bob raised his
head. He seemed to hesitate a moment, but then said, “I do,
m’lady
”

“Then I am left
with no choice in this matter,” declared Mrs. Justice Butler.

She paused, and
stared directly down at Fiona, who was still smiling. “As I allowed Mrs.
Radford the opportunity to prepare these two lists,” continued the judge,
“which in her judgment are an equitable and fair division of your assets...”
Mrs. Justice Butler was pleased to see Fiona nodding her agreement...”then it
must also be fair and equitable,” the judge added, turning her attention back
to Bob, “to allow Mr. Radford the opportunity to select which of the two lists
he would prefer.”

“I
f
you
wanna
find
out what’s
goin
’
on in this nick, I’m
the I
man to ‘
ave
a word with,” said Doug. “Know what I mean?”

Every prison
has one. At North Sea Camp his name was Doug Haslett. Doug was half an inch
under
six foot, with thick, black, wavy hair that was going
gray at the temples, and a stomach that hung out over his trousers. Doug’s idea
of exercise was the walk from the library, where he was the prison orderly, to
the canteen a hundred yards away, three times a day I think he exercised his
mind at about the same pace.

It didn’t take
me long to discover that he was bright, cunning, manipulative and lazy–traits
that are common among recidivists. Within days of arriving at a new prison,
Doug could be guaranteed to have procured fresh clothes, the best cell, the
highest paid job, and to have worked out which prisoners, and–more
important–which officers he needed to get on the right side of.

As I spent a
lot of my free time in the library–and it was rarely overcrowded, despite the
prison accommodating over four hundred inmates–Doug quickly made me aware of
his case history. Some prisoners, when they discover that you’re a writer, clam
up. Others can’t stop talking. Despite the silence notices displayed all around
the library, Doug fell into the latter category.

When Doug left
school at the age of seventeen, the only exam he passed was his driving
test–first time. Four years later he added a heavy goods license to his
qualifications,
and at the same time landed his first job as
a lorry driver.

Doug quickly
became disillusioned with how little he could earn, traipsing backward and
forward to the south of France with a load of Brussels sprouts and peas, often
returning to
Sleaford
with an empty lorry and
therefore no bonus. He regularly fouled up (his words) when it came to EU
regulations, and took the view that somehow he was exempt from having to pay
tax. He blamed the French for too much unnecessary red tape and a Labor
government for punitive taxes. When the courts finally served a debt order on
him, everyone was to blame except Doug.

The bailiff
took away all his possessions–except the lorry, which Doug was still paying for
on a hire-purchase agreement.

Doug was just
about to pack in being a lorry driver and join the dole queue–almost as
remunerative, and you don’t have to get up in the morning–when he was
approached by a man he’d never come across before, while on a stopover in
Marseilles. Doug was having breakfast at a dockside cafe when the man slid on
to the stool next to him. The stranger didn’t waste any time with introductions,
he came straight to the point. Doug listened with interest; after all, he had
already dumped his cargo of sprouts and peas on the dockside, and had been
expecting to return home with an empty lorry. All Doug had to do, the stranger
assured him, was to deliver a consignment of bananas to Lincolnshire once a
week.