George Passant (40 page)

In the afternoon he gave them a competent, tabulated account of the evidence over the business. It was legally fair, it was tidy and compressed. It went definitely in our favour.

He came to Martineau: ‘One witness has attracted more attention than any other. That is Mr Martineau, whom you may consider as the most important witness for the defence and whom the counsel for the prosecution wishes you to neglect as utterly untrustworthy. This is a matter where I cannot give you direct guidance. It is a plain question of whether you believe or disbelieve a witness speaking on oath. There is no possibility, you will have decided for yourselves, that the witness can be mistaken. It is a direct conflict of fact. If you believe Mr Martineau you will naturally see that a considerable portion of the prosecution’s case about the agency is no longer tenable. If you disbelieve him, it will no doubt go a long way in your minds towards making you regard the defendants as guilty on that particular charge. If you believe him, you will also no doubt reflect that the most definite part of the prosecution’s case has been completely disposed of.

‘In such a question, you would naturally be led by your judgment of a witness’ character. Here, if I may say so, you are considering the evidence of a witness of unusual character – against whom the leader for the prosecution was able to bring nothing positive but eccentricity and who has certainly undertaken, we must believe, a life of singular self-abnegation. I must ask you to consider his evidence in the light of all the connected evidence. But in the end you must settle whether you accept it by asking yourselves two questions: first, whether such a man would not estimate the truth above all other claims; second, whether even a good man – whom you may think eccentric and unbalanced – might not consider himself justified in breaking an oath to save a friend from disgrace.

‘I think it necessary to remind you that, according to his own account, you are required to believe him capable of an irresponsible lie.’

One of the jury moistened his lips. The judge paused, passed a finger over his notes, continued: ‘That is all I wish to direct your attention towards. But there is one matter which makes me detain you a little longer: and that is to require you to forget, while you consider your verdict, much that you have heard during the conduct of this case. You have been presented with more than a little talk about the private lives of these three young people. You heard it in evidence; both counsel have referred to it with feeling in their closing speeches. I ask you to forget as much of it as is humanly possible. You may think they have behaved very foolishly; you may think they have behaved very wrongly, as far as our moral standards allow us to judge. But you will remember that they are not being tried for this behaviour; and you must not allow your condemnation of it to affect your deliberations on the real charge against them. You must be as uninfluenced as though you accepted the eloquent plea of Mr Getliffe and believed that the world is in flux, and that these actions have a different value from what they had when most of us were young.’ For a moment he smiled.

‘That is not to say, though, because you are to assume what may be an effort of charity towards some of the evidence which you have heard, that you are to regard the case itself with lightness. Nothing I have said must lead you to such a course. If you are not entirely convinced by the evidence for the prosecution you will, of course, return, according to the practice of our law, a verdict of not guilty. But if you are convinced by the relevant evidence, beyond any reasonable shade of doubt in your own minds, then you will let nothing stand between you and a verdict of guilty. Whatever you feel about some elements in their lives, whether you pity or blame them, must have no part in that decision. All you must remember is that they are charged with what is in itself a serious offence against the law. It is the probity of transactions such as theirs which is the foundation of more of the structure of our lives than we often think. I need not tell you that, and I only do so because the importance of the offence with which they are charged must not become submerged.’

Several people later mentioned their surprise on hearing, after the tolerant advice and stiff benevolence of his caution upon the sexual aspect of the case, this last sternness over money.

As the jury went out, the court burst into a murmur of noise. One could distinguish no words, but nothing could shut out the sound. It rose and fell in waves, like the drone of bees swarming.

The light from the chandelier touched the varnish on the deserted box.

Getliffe and I walked together outside the court. He said to one of the solicitors, in his breathless confidential whisper: ‘I want to get back to the house tonight. One deserves a night to oneself–’

My watch had jerked infinitesimally on. ‘They can’t be back for an hour,’ we were trying to reassure ourselves. At last (though it was only forty minutes since they went out) we heard something: the jury wanted to ask a question. When we got back to our places, the judge had already returned; his spectacles stood before him on his pad, their side arms standing up like antennae; his eyes were dark and bright as he peered steadily into the court.

Through the sough of noise there came Porson’s voice, unrestrained and full. ‘It’s inconceivable that he shouldn’t send it before Easter,’ he was saying to his junior. His face was high-coloured, but carried heavy purplish pouches under the eyes. He was sitting, one leg over the bench, a hand behind his head, his voice unsubdued, with a bravura greater than anyone’s there. He laughed, loud enough to draw the eyes of Mr Passant, who was standing between his wife and Roy, at the back of the court.

The door clicked open. Then we did not hear the shuffle of a dozen people. It was the foreman alone who had come into court.

‘We should like to ask a question. We are not certain about a point of law,’ he said, nervously brusque.

‘It is my place to help you if I can,’ said the judge.

‘I’ve been asked to inquire whether we can find one of them definitely had nothing to do with – with any of the charges. If we do that, can we leave out that person and consider the others by themselves?’

The judge said: ‘I tried to give you instructions about the law under which they are charged. Perhaps I did not make myself sufficiently clear.’ Again he explained. His kindness held a shade of patronage. Two of them could be guilty of conspiracy without a third. It was possible for any of them to be guilty of conspiracy and not guilty of obtaining money by false pretences. (If the jury considered that any of them had not, in fact, profited after joining in a conspiracy.) If they were not guilty of conspiracy, in the circumstances they could not be guilty of obtaining money under false pretences. Unless the jury considered only one person to be responsible – in which case there was no conspiracy, but one person alone could be found guilty of obtaining money by false pretences.

‘You are certain you understand?’ the judge went on. ‘Perhaps you had better write it down. Yes, it would remove any uncertainties if you wrote it down and showed it to me.’

Many found this interruption the most intolerable moment of the trial. Someone said the most sinister – meaning perhaps the confusion, the sudden flash of other lives, of human puzzlement and incompetence.

Through the hour of waiting which still remained, it shot new fragments of thought to many of our minds. Whom did they mean? What were they disagreeing on? But none of us could go on thinking for long: we were wrapped in the emptiness of waiting. The apprehension engrossed us like an illness of the body.

The message came. The jury were coming back. The three were brought up, and took their seats in the dock again. George’s arms were folded on his chest. His face was curiously expressionless: but his hands were as livid as though he had been hours in the cold.

The jury came in. Automatically I looked at the clock; it was after half-past four. Their walk was an interminable, drumming sound. The clerk read out the first charge – conspiracy over the agency – with a meaningless emphasis on the name of the town. ‘Do you find them guilty or not guilty?’

The foreman said quickly and in a low voice, ‘Not guilty.’

Then the second charge – conspiracy over the farm. Again the name of the town started out.

‘Guilty or not guilty?’ There was a pause. In the silence someone coughed. Suddenly – ‘Not guilty.’

Then the individual charges of obtaining money by false pretences. There was a string of ‘Not guilty’ for Jack and Olive, and finally the charges against George were read out for the last time; the foreman replied ‘Not guilty’ twice again, in a manner by this time repetitive and without hesitation.

The judge pressed his lips together, and spoke to them with a stiff formal smile: ‘You are free to go now.’

THE court seethed with whispers. The three were surrounded by friends and walked to the door. I waited, with Porson and Getliffe, until we could leave ourselves, watching Mr Passant come out of the crowd and take George’s hand. Gossip was already in the air. ‘They didn’t expect–’ someone said as I went out with Getliffe. People were laughing with excitement, face after face suddenly leapt to the eyes, vivid and alive.

Getliffe talked in the robing-room until Eden fetched him.

‘It’s been nice to be together again.’ And then: ‘Well, one’s pulled it off for your people. It was a good case to win.’ He smiled. We’ll have a crack about it in the train tonight. I’ve learned from it, L S, I’ve learned from it.’

When he had shaken hands with Porson and followed Eden out, we heard his voice, cheerful and a little strident, down the corridor. I went across the room to say goodbye to Porson myself. His eyes were narrow with unhappiness.

‘I ought not to say it to you, I suppose,’ he said, ‘but it’s incredible these clods of juries should–’ then he stopped and laughed. ‘Still, goodbye, my boy. We’ll run together again one of these days. I hope the job goes well. Let me know if I can be of any use, I expect I can.’

On the pavement outside the court, George and the others were being congratulated by a large party. Olive and Jack had their arms round each other’s waists. Soon I was shaking Mr Passant’s hand, listening to Olive and Jack and their friends, being invited to visit them later, saying goodbye. In the crowd, someone had put an arm through mine, our voices were raised, there was a great deal of laughter; simply by being together, we were filled with intimacy and excitement. We were careless with the relief, greater and unmixed because others were there to share it. It was only for a few minutes: then Olive took Jack to her car, and Daphne followed after making a sign to George.

The others scattered. I was leaving the town that night, and George told his mother that he would join them in an hour. Roy took the Passants home, and George and I walked up the street alone. The fog had cleared but the sky was low and heavy. Lights were shining in the windows. Neither of us spoke for a few minutes, and then George said: ‘This mustn’t prevent me doing the essential things.’ His voice was sad and defiant. ‘I’ve not lost everything. Whatever they did, I couldn’t have lost everything.’

We walked on; he began to talk of his plans for the future, the practical necessities of making a living.

‘I shall have to stay with Eden for a few months, of course,’ he said. ‘Unless they’re going through with their persecution. After that–’ He became cheerful as he invented schemes for the years afterward: how he would leave Eden’s, and get a job at some similar firm where he could work his way through to a partnership. ‘I’m ready to leave this place,’ he said. ‘You used to try to persuade me against my will. I’m prepared to go anywhere. You won’t find me so enthusiastic to spend myself without any return.’

It was strange to hear how he enjoyed developing the details of these plans, and the gusto with which he worked them out.

‘I’ve still got time to bring it off. I mustn’t leave anything to chance. I can work it out beforehand.’

It reminded me curiously of some of Martineau’s happiness as he gave up his career, except that George’s hopes were not wild, but modest and within his powers. He was inventive and happy, walking under a sky which seemed darker now we were in the middle of the town. He was in the mood, full of the future, and yet not anxious, which I had not seen since the nights when we first walked in these streets; years before, when he was delighted with the idea of his group of friends, luxuriously thinking of their lives to come and the minor, vaguer, pleasant plans for success in his own life.

After one bitter remark, when we were first alone, everything he said was hopeful and full of zest; several times he laughed, hilariously and without resentment. Just as we were passing a shop, a bicycle, which had been propped up by its pedal against the kerb, toppled over on to the pavement. At the same moment, we happened to notice a man with an unconcealed, satisfied, and cunning smile.

‘I wonder,’ said George, ‘if he’s smiling because that bicycle fell over?’ Then he broke into a shout of laughter. ‘No, it’s not that, of course it isn’t. He’s smiling with relief because there was no one on it.’

We ended the walk at the café near the station, where we held our first conference over Jack. But the café had been respectabilised since then. There were now two floors, and neat waitresses. We went upstairs and sat by the window. We looked down the hill, over the roofs below, out to the grey, even sky.

George elaborated his plans, laughed, drank cup after cup of tea. Then, when I spoke to him, I found his face grown preoccupied. He replied absently several times. At last he said: ‘I’ve got to show them that I’ve not lost everything. They’ve got to realise that I’ve not lost anything. Not anything that I put a value on. They mustn’t think they’ve dispensed with me as easily as that. I shall keep the essentials. Whatever happened, I couldn’t be myself without them. I mean, one way or another. I’m going to work for the things I believe in. I still believe that most people are good, if they’re given the chance. No one can stop me helping them, if I think another scheme out carefully and then put my energies into it again. I haven’t finished. You’ve got to remember I’m not middle-aged yet. I believe in other people. I believe in goodness. I believe in my own intelligence and will. You don’t mean to tell me that I’m bound to acquiesce in crippling myself?’