There was a squeak and a toddle of little girl across the room, all curls and smiles, arms outstretched. Mahoney picked her up, and hugged her and kissed her, and his eyes were burning at the thought of losing her.
He left ten minutes later, in his only decent suit. It was grey pinstripe, which was unfortunate because his Inn of Court required black. Shelagh was still in the bath; he called goodbye, got into the car, and drove slowly through the woods on to the road for London, thinking.
He parked and walked into Holborn, through an arch, into the courtyard of Gray’s Inn. He walked grimly across into the cloakroom. He took a gown, paid the clerk, signed a register, and walked into the Inn. It was crowded, students finding places at the tables, a clamour of voices. Half the students seemed to be African. He muttered to himself: ‘I thought more than three constituted an Unlawful Assembly …’
At the top of the old hall was a dais, where the benchers dined. Below were rows of tables, the length of the hall. There were stained-glass windows and high beams. Mahoney walked up an aisle, and sat down at the first empty place. ‘Good evening,’ he said.
He was sitting between a portly black gentleman and a thin Indian gentleman. Opposite sat a fresh-faced Englishman, and a pretty Chinese woman.
‘I think you happen to be Mr Senior of our mess tonight,’ the young man said, ‘if you’re sitting in that place.’
‘Oh, very well.’ He reached for the strip of paper and printed his name. He got the names of the other three and printed them in order of their seniority within the mess: Mr Fothergill, Mr Obote, Mrs Chan. He then asked for the names of the people in the messes immediately to right and left of his, and printed them, in order of seniority. Just then there was a loud knock, and all the students stood up.
The door opened, and in walked the benchers, a solemn single file. The senior bencher said grace. Everybody sat down and the tucker began.
Waiters went scurrying down the aisles thumping down tureens of soup. As Mr Senior, Mahoney started ladling. The wine steward passed with two baskets.
Mahoney filled the glasses and picked up his elaborately: ‘Mrs Chan, Mr Fothergill, Mr Obote, lady and gentlemen of the best, your good health. May you live long, plead well and judge with humility.’
He drank solemnly to that. After a minute Mr Fothergill proposed his toast to the mess. They smiled politely. They resumed their soup. Mr Obote picked up his glass.
‘Mr Mahoney, Mr Fothergill, Mrs Chan, I wish you good health.’ He added with a twinkle: ‘May your children be as numerous as the stars in the sky, and your goats and cattle even more numerous.’
Mahoney laughed and slapped the black man on the shoulder. ‘Thank you, Mr Obote!’
Mrs Chan piped up, blushing: ‘Mr Mahoney, Mr Fothergill, Mr Obote, I wish you good health and happiness.’
Mahoney took a weary breath and muttered, ‘Let’s get it over with.’ He leant forward and addressed the mess to his left. ‘Mr Senior of the Upper Mess, may I interrupt your scintillating conversation by proposing a toast?’
‘Why, certainly, Mr Senior, if you can tear yourself away from the illuminations of your own mess.’
‘With difficulty, Mr Senior.’ He read from the list: ‘Mr Johnson, Mr Patel, Mr Patel, and Mr Patel – may your cups run over with happiness and may your seed, both severally and jointly, be more numerous than the stars in the sky, your progeny even more fertile, and theirs after them, and your herds even more prolific than the whole damn lot of you put together.’ He added, ‘All this in your lifetime.’
He drank. The two messes were laughing, except Mr Fothergill. Mahoney then turned the other way and said, ‘Mr Senior of the Lower Mess, may I pray your silence while I drink to your sterling health? …’
And so on. Lord, Mahoney thought, this is supposed to train lawyers?
Finally they were through the dessert and on to the coffee and port. Then the shouting started.
‘Up, Junior!’
But Mr Junior of the lowermost mess, the person closest to the door, studiously ignored the call.
‘Up Junior! … Come on, Junior! …’
For five minutes the shouting went on. Finally Mr Junior stood up. Except Mr Junior was a woman. Immediately the jeering and bellowing began.
‘Mr Senior,’ Ms Junior shouted across the hall, ‘may we have permission to smoke?’
The boos and jeers drowned her. Mr Senior of the uppermost mess studiously ignored the request.
‘Louder, Junior!’
Ms Junior shouted again and the boos and jeers doubled.
‘On the table, Junior!’
Ms Junior was looking very embarrassed, though she was smiling. She climbed on to her chair, put her hands to her mouth and bellowed.
‘Mr Senior, may we have permission to smoke?’
‘Shut up, Junior!’ ‘Louder, Junior!’ Mahoney put on his spectacles and looked at Mr Senior of the uppermost mess. He was sipping his port as if nothing was happening. Mahoney looked at Ms Junior, and he felt sorry for her. She was about thirty, ten years older than the youngsters ragging her, and Mahoney thought she was beautiful. She had tawny hair in a bun and her embarrassed smile was wide. Now she was clambering up on to the table. She was tall, with good legs.
‘Mr Senior!’ she bellowed – but Mahoney could only see her mouth moving. He sighed. This was supposed to teach law-students the art of public speaking? Mr Senior was looking up as if he had just noticed something.
‘I beg your pardon, Junior?’
Laughter and sudden silence. She started again: ‘May we’ – and the gleeful catcalls burst out again.
‘Smoke?’ Mr Senior said, looking puzzled. ‘Oh, very well.’
The woman climbed down off the table, and blew out her cheeks.
Mr Mahoney began to get up. ‘Well, Mrs Chan and gentlemen, excuse me …’
‘One moment, Mr Mahoney, please!’ Mr Fothergill said. He stood up. He bellowed: ‘Mr Senior in Hall!’ The hall fell silent. Fothergill shouted: ‘I have two serious charges to make against Mr Mahoney … Firstly, when proposing a toast to our mess, he first addressed Mrs Chan, who is Junior of our mess, instead of first addressing me. Secondly, he is wearing a grey pinstriped suit.’
Mr Fothergill sat down, grinning.
‘Mr Mahoney,’ Senior in Hall intoned, ‘how do you answer these weighty allegations?’
Mahoney stood up.
‘Mr Senior,’ he shouted, ‘they are as weightless as the area between Mr Fothergill’s ears.’ (Laughter.) ‘Surely it is customary, even in those dark corners of England which Mr Fothergill hails from, to address a lady first? If I am wrong, I am glad to be so, and my only regret is that
