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
