The Loner, page 36
“I see,” the solicitor said slowly, trying not to judge his new clerk too harshly. “Well, I’ll show you to your room.”
He took Mark into the reception room and along a clean, brightly painted corridor to a small room, which opened onto it. Here status was obviously important. The ceiling was as high as in every other room at that level, but otherwise the office was small; the filing cabinet had no more than two drawers; the desk was less than half the size of the partner’s, and there was barely enough room to squeeze chairs on both sides of the desk. There was no window, but a single electric light. The room was decorated with a bright cream emulsion; the effect was not unpleasant, and Mark was not unhappy.
“You’re one of the lucky articled clerks,” the solicitor remarked kindly. “Most don’t have offices of their own.”
Mark sat down at the desk and began to feel at home. Mr. Brief returned to the general office. He came back with a pile of documents. He set these in a pile on Mark’s desk and explained his first duties:
“We always start our trainees with some simple tasks,” he said. “These are court documents and conveyances. I’m going to introduce you to the court and the stamp office. Come with me,”
They left the building through the same old rusty arcade Mark had come in b y. “Not the best premises for a lawyer’s business, is it?” said the solicitor apologetically. “Some day we shall have better accommodation. You may depend upon it!”
They walked down Dale Street, past the old Georgian town hall, into Water Street, and an imposing monument with an impressively columned marble arcade, which was marked “India Buildings” in bold capital letters. The court office was at the far end of the arcade in this building, and Mark watched, while his principal handed over one of the bundles of documents, and the civil servants behind the counter sealed the documents and checked the fees. Mr. Brief proudly introduced Mark as “our new clerk.”
Then they entered another grand, old commercial building on the other side of Water Street. Mark was introduced in the same way. Then the solicitor handed over a set of stiff, typed documents, with accompanying flimsy Forms, and the inevitable cheques. The documents were examined carefully by one official, who marked them in pencil, before another fed them into a heavy machine. There was a loud and impressive report from the machine, before the documents were handed back with neat indented red stamps impressed upon them.
When they returned to the office, there was another pile of documents waiting for them.
“There you are, then, Mark,” said the solicitor with a gesture towards the mountain of forms. “Everything’s ready. Just take the court documents to the court office in the India Buildings, and the conveyances, to the stamp office, will you?”
Mark examined the documents. He hardly knew the difference in appearance between a court document and a conveyance. But he didn’t have to worry about identifying the nature of the documents, as they were all assembled in neat bundles, with the cheques uppermost, where appropriate, and handwritten instructions on what forms to hand over at which office, and which to bring, back. He found details of the marks required for each document out of the vast range of variously coloured seals, printed and rubber stamps, which had always characterised the interface between the civil service and the legal profession.
Mark set out on his errands, and was surprised to find that, by the time he had made his round of the various offices, he had been away from his own office for nearly one and a half hours. It was lunch time, and no sooner had he returned to the office, than the receptionist greeted him with another pile of documents.
“Mr. Brief has asked if you will take these documents to the court office after lunch,” she explained, with the kind of polite smile that informed Mark that Mr. Brief’s request was very much an instruction.
Mark was, by now, quite dismayed. He wondered if he was going to have to spend all his articles running errands.
He found a shop, which sold hot pies, and took one back to the office to eat. He was sitting in the office, reflecting on the uncertainties of life, when Mr. Brief arrived.
“Hallo, Mark,” said the solicitor with a friendly smile. “How are you getting on then? Finding your way round town, are you?”
The clerk gazed up at his principal, and plucked up courage. “Yes, thank you,” he said. “But, when am I going to start work?”
The solicitor was glad to note the expression of impatience and enthusiasm. He smiled benignly. “All in good time,” he replied.
So, after lunch, Mark set off on his errands again. Half the afternoon had passed by the time he returned. He was reflecting on the relative state of his luck, and wondering whether he should be pleased with his good fortune in finding articles, or totally dismayed because of the mundane nature of the tasks which had been assigned to him, when his office door clicked open, and the receptionist floated gracefully into the room again.
“Mr. Flitley,” she, said. “We have a new client in the office, and Mr. Brief is too busy to see him. Will you take details, please?”
Our hero was beginning to wonder if the receptionist was the real boss – the person who was actually running the office. He nodded, and the girl ushered the client in.
The next day, Mark was summoned into his principal’s office. He was just in time to hear Mr. Brief conclude a conversation with Mr. Slik over the internal intercom. “Standards are falling, Jack,” he heard him say. “The legal profession is not what it used to be.”
He put the telephone down and peered at Mark. He did not look at all pleased.
“Sit down,” he said.
Mark sat down.
The solicitor picked up a piece of typed paper. “Is this your work?” he asked coldly.
Mark nodded. “It’s a statement,” he explained.
“Of the client you saw yesterday afternoon?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me,” asked the solicitor icily and leaning forward, “did it ever enter your head that half the information in the statement is irrelevant?”
Mark saw the other’s angry glare, and was too frightened to reply.
“And the other half is verbose,” the other continued acidly.
Mark did not know what to say.
“And there is one important detail which is missing from the statement.” The solicitor’s voice rose sharply, as he stood up from behind his desk. “Here, take the statement, and tell me what it is.”
Mark took the paper, and studied it. The grievous error he was supposed to have committed was a mystery to him.
“I-I don’t know,” he stammered helplessly.
“Then tell me, where is the client’s address?” Mark’s jaw dropped. “A-address?”
“Yes, don’t you see, Mark: it’s a very simple principle really: if you don’t take the address, you won’t know where the client lives, and you can’t communicate with the client. And that looks bad!”
“I-I’m sorry.”
“And just tell me this, Mark...” the solicitor drew himself up to his full height, in order to deliver his most devastating blow, “how are we going to bill the client, if we don’t know where he lives?”
Mark apologised again.
“Now, let me tell you this, my boy: we can’t afford to make many mistakes like that in this practice. You’ll have to do better, if you want to stay with us.”
CHAPTER 25
Tight Rope!
It was with these words ringing in his ears, that Mark Flitley attended his next appointment at the psychiatric outpatient clinic.
Dr. Fortune noticed his patient was more than usually tense and agitated, and asked him if there was anything wrong.
“I’m worried about my job,” Mark replied nervously. “I don’t know how to do anything. I don’t know what to do – can’t get it right.”
The doctor rightly concluded that his patient was in a chronic state of anxiety. “Do you find it difficult to work with other people? Do you feel tense?” he asked sympathetically.
Mark nodded.
“Have you been doing your relaxation exercises regularly?”
Mark shrugged his shoulders in a guilty manner. “On and off,” he said.
“I can give you some tablets, which may help you,” the doctor suggested, sensing that Mark’s exercises had been more often “off” than “on.”
“Tablets?” asked Mark, alarmed.
“Yes. I’ll start you off with a small dose, and then we’ll increase the dose until you begin to relax, and I know the dose is at the right level.”
Mark shook his head defiantly. “I don’t want tablets,” he said.
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to depend on drugs, doctor. I’ve said so before.”
“These aren’t drugs, Mark. They’re a medicine. When you begin to relax, you won’t need them any more. I’m not prescribing heroin, you know.”
Mark was unconvinced. “If I take drugs now, how do I know I’ll ever be able to do without them?”
The doctor pressed on and made light of this consideration. He knew the tablets were mildly addictive, but that was not the point. “Look, Mark,” he said forcefully, “I understand what you’re worried about, and you’re right, if you suppose I can’t promise you’ll ever be able to come off these tablets completely. I can’t predict how long you’ll need to stay with them. All I can promise is that they will help you now.”
Mark was not persuaded. “It’s all happening to me just like Tony,” he muttered under his breath.
“And who is Tony?” the doctor enquired.
“You remember – he was one of your patients; he worked in a solicitor’s office too,” Mark explained. He continued in halting disjointed sentences: “He was a clerk. He saw you too. He needed to relax. So you gave him tablets. Those tablets made him slow. So he was given another lot of tablets to keep him awake. He’s a tramp now.”
The doctor listened respectfully. “I understand everything you say, and I do remember Tony,” he said gently. “I sympathise with your feelings – but are you sure it was the tablets which made Tony a tramp?”
“He lost his job because of them.”
Dr. Fortune stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Don’t you think he might have lost his job anyway, whether he took the tablets or not?” he asked.
Mark shook his head. “I-I don’t know,” he said. He was confused. All he could recall was the look of hopelessness on Tony’s face. He had a sense of dread and foreboding that he could be about to slide down the same slippery slope.
“Perhaps your friend Tony’s job might not have lasted so long if he hadn’t had the tablets,” the doctor suggested.
Mark nodded. That thought had occurred to him. Then the full implications of the doctor’s words suddenly struck him. He was speechless, as he wondered if the doctor supposed that, in his case too, the most he could hope for would be a short prolongation of his present insecure employment.
“You see,” Dr. Fortune continued, in a tone of clinical objectivity, “one of your problems is that you worry too much. You’re far too serious and introspective. That’s what makes you tense. You’ve got to get out of this state of mind somehow, Mark. You’ve asked me for help; I’ve given you some exercises in relaxation. You’ve done those, and you still need help. So, I’ve offered you tablets. There’s nothing more I can do. Now, what do you say? Do you want the tablets or not?”
Mark hesitated. Faced with this choice and an uncertain future in the office, there seemed to be only one sensible answer. He reluctantly accepted the prescription, and wondered if it was to be his fate to be dependent on mdeical drugs for the rest of his life, however long that might be.
The doctor wrote out the prescription. “Is there anything else you want to tell me?” he asked.
“I’m worried about the caving club, doctor.”
The psychiatrist froze. He tried to avoid taking a negative approach to something he wished his patient had never started, but which, he reflected dismally, might actually have been doing him a lot of good.
“Why are you worried, Mark?” he asked, rigorously suppressing his own feelings.
“I’m going to go down a very hard pothole soon – one of the hardest in Yorkshire.”
It was all the doctor could do to summon his self-control and stop himself from screaming. Why the Hell hadn’t the cavers told Mark he couldn’t go, he wondered. Oh, for a quiet life, and drugs!
“I thought you still found caving difficult,” he suggested tactfully.
“I do, doctor – but I do try!”
“Then, why are you trying one of the hardest ones in Yorkshire?”
“It’s only ladders I’m bad at, doctor. The ladders in this cave aren’t too bad. There’s one very difficult squeeze, though.”
Dr. Fortune clasped his hands and wrung them nervously as if he wanted to wash his hands of Mark’s whole unfortunate case. He made a determined effort not to bite his fingernails. Why would this ordeal not go away, he thought.
“Have you been through many tight squeezes before?” he enquired clinically.
“No, doctor.”
The doctor twitched involuntarily. “Wasn’t there someone who got stuck in Peak Cavern some years ago?” he continued, imagining Mark trapped in a desperate narrow space, while the efforts of an entire County’s fire brigade failed to rescue him, and Mark’s last pathetic and accusing dying words: “I tried, but my doctor didn’t stop me!”
“That’s right. It was the Neil Moss disaster. They never did get him out, and his body’s still there.”
The doctor leaned back, with outstretched arms thrust against the desk, as if recoiling in horror. The enthusiasm in the patient’s eyes, when discussing his favourite subject, was anything but reassuring.
The doctor had endeavoured to approach Mark’s caving career in a neutral way: he hadn’t wanted to discourage the patient from doing something which was clearly benefiting him: on the other hand, he hadn’t wanted to encourage him to pursue a dangerous sport which could result in disaster. Miraculously (or perhaps it was the luck of the Devil!) Mark had persisted and was still alive. Perhaps now was the time for some discouragement, he thought.
“Mark,” he said softly. “You know you’ve made a lot of progress while you’ve been with me, and I’m proud of that: but I’m wondering if you really ought to embark on this hazardous caving expedition – the one we’re talking about. You’ve got a degree; you may have done well at your professional exams, and you’re being trained to be a member of a very distinguished profession. It would be a pity to throw away everything you’ve achieved. Have you thought you could end up crippled for life?”
There was a look of obstinacy and sheer determination in Mark’s eyes. “I must go, doctor,” he said.
“Why must you go?”
“I like the caves.”
“So you do, Mark, but you don’t have to go down a very difficult cave, just because you like caves. Wouldn’t an easier one do?”
“It wouldn’t be the same.”
“Why not Mark?”
“I-I’m t-terrified of everything – must stop being frightened. If I can conquer my fears underground, I won’t be afraid of other things.”
Dr. Fortune shook his head sadly. “That just doesn’t follow,” he said. Then he saw his arguments could not prevail against Mark’s determination. So he said: “Good luck, Mark; I’ll see you again in two weeks.”
“Hello, stranger, it’s a long time, no see.” Fiona was busy doing her ironing, her slender figure highlighted by the tight blue jeans she was wearing. Her hair hung loosely over her face. “You haven’t been to see us for months, Mark,” she added. “Where’ve you been?”
Mark was about to ask if she had missed him, but decided against it. Of course she hadn’t, he thought. So he replied, instead, in a matter of fact way, “I’ve been studying for my exams. Then I took a holiday.”
“I understand, Mark,” she rejoined, with a knowing smile. “So now you see what you’re in for in the legal profession: no fun any more you know. All work and no play – but you won’t be short of money!”
“I had to study until nine o’clock at night. There was so much to learn.”
“Do you think you’ll pass, Mark?”
A show of confidence was not one of Mark’s strong points. “I-I d-don’t know, Fiona,” he stammered.
She put down her iron, and studied him slowly. “Will you know soon?” she asked.
“In about ten weeks – perhaps sooner.”
She picked up a blouse, and set it on the board. “I can’t understand you, Mark,” she said slowly. “You’ve got a degree – a good degree at that – and in a good subject – and you still look worried!”
“Do I?”
“Do you? There’s worry written all over your face. Come on, Mark. What does it matter if you haven’t passed your professional exams? You’ll still be well off with your degree.”
Mark did not want to argue. So he changed the subject. “I’ve just started my articles,” he said proudly.
“Oh? How do you like working in a legal office?”
“I-er-I don’t know.”
“You sound ashamed about something, Mark. So you should be – making all that money out of buying and selling houses! Tell me what it’s like, though. You must know what you do.”
“I don’t know really – haven’t been there for more than a few days. They keep me busy delivering things.”
“So that’s what they’ve got you for,” she exclaimed teasingly. “You’re the office boy! No wonder they pay you buttons. I wouldn’t stand for that if I were you.”
Mark took her seriously. “What can I do about it?” he asked incredulously.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she replied carelessly. “Tell them you’ll go somewhere else, I suppose.”
“Articles aren’t easy to find, Fiona. Besides, it’s early days yet.”
“Have they let you see any clients? Have you got any exciting criminal cases? Or juicy divorces?”
