A Crooked Sixpence Page 25

  ‘Yes.’

  O’Toole and Knight simultaneously turned and looked at each other, then returned their eyes to Sprogg.

  ‘And you took the photograph which is printed with the article in question, described as a picture of the plaintiffs victim?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Now, about this mask shown on the subject’s face, what can you tell us about it, Mr. Sprogg?’

  ‘I ordered it,’ said Sprogg. ‘I took the view that it would be unfair that this young lady should be publicly identified as a prostitute, because she has her life ahead of her, and according to Mr. Knight’s information she had been lured into an act of vice by the plaintiff.’

  ‘I see. Where is the negative?’

  ‘It has been mislaid,’ said Sprogg earnestly. ‘It is our normal practice to destroy unwanted negatives after each issue of the paper, because they clutter up the office, and there is always the risk of the wrong picture being used.’

  That’s why we keep a negative file, thought O’Toole.

  ‘I see,’ said Harrison.

  ‘I regret that this has happened,’ said Sprogg, ‘but you will understand that I had no idea this article might be the subject of an action, otherwise I should certainly have preserved the negative.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Harrison, and Barker rose slowly to cross-examine.

  ‘You say you took this photograph, Mr. Sprogg?’ he said gently. Smart boy, thought O’Toole.

  ‘Not exactly took it,’ said Sprogg. ‘I accompanied the photographer.’

  ‘Is he here today?’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s abroad on an assignment,’ said Sprogg apologetically.

  ‘I see,’ said Barker. Fair enough, thought O’Toole, missing girl equals missing photographer, plus one minus one is zero.

  Barker paused. ‘Thank you,’ he said, and sat down.

  Harrison then rose to address the court. The defence, he explained, was that the allegations against the plaintiff were true: that the evidence of Knight and O’Toole, upon which the article had been based, tallied closely as to the details of this, ‘I must say, rather sordid interview.’ However, it would be a sad day for Britain if newspapers were not free to attack vice and corruption wherever they found it: the general policy of the paper was not on trial, and neither, he must say in fairness, were the morals of the plaintiff: the issue was whether she was a prostitute and, more serious, a procuress, for this was the paper’s accusation, and in his submission her remarks to Knight and O’Toole and her conduct while they were in her flat left no doubt that, in fact, she was both. The jury were not being asked whether they approved of this manner of life, merely whether the facts were as the article contended, it not being denied that the accusation had been presented in a dramatic manner, as was customary with newspapers with a large popular circulation.

  Harrison pointed out that a great deal of the evidence was common ground between the parties: the plaintiff did not deny that she had entertained the two reporters, in what was agreed to be a somewhat indiscreet manner for a respectable married woman, as the plaintiff claimed to be. There were only two possibilities: either the newspaper representatives, investigating vice in the West End, had indeed found it, or by a remarkable coincidence they had stumbled upon an extraordinarily broad-minded woman who thought nothing of entertaining two perfectly strange men until a late hour with a young and presumably impressionable girl in her flat. But if the plaintiff’s version were the strict truth, why should Knight and O’Toole, agreed to be in search of vice, bother to concoct a false account of their interview with her, with all the attendant risk to their professional reputations, when he was sure that the jury, as men and, if he might be pardoned for saying so, women of the world, would know full well that they might easily have found the real thing in London with very little further search?

  Although it distressed him to say so, Harrison felt that it was his duty to point out that the plaintiff had not produced her husband, nor given any explanation of how she was able to live in one of the most expensive districts in London. The newspaper’s accusation supplied a complete explanation, and the jury might think that this was a powerful presumption for its truth.

  If they disagreed with his contention, then His Lordship might permit him to have a further word with them on the subject of damages: but, for the present, while he agreed that the plaintiff, who had fallen, or perhaps even been driven, into a shameful life, presented a pitiable spectacle, none the less it was the duty of the jurors to vindicate the proud British tradition of the freedom of the Press by finding for the defendants, much as it might pain their natural human sympathies to do so.

  O’Toole studied the jury as Harrison concluded. They looked, indeed, warmly aware of their human sympathies, and just as determined on their duty. Nicely played, he thought, on the old banjo.

  Barker came eagerly to his feet like a boxer trying to beat the bell. His style was impressionist, rather than logical: the key phrases which he had already introduced into his questions, linked by mumbled and unimportant grammatical bridges. A young married woman in the prime of life, he said, victim of a foul and wanton conspiracy to libel the first innocent person who came along, yellow gutter journalism thinking only of sensations to pander to the lowest appetites, reaching down into the mire for filth to sling at defenceless people in the incessant jungle war for higher circulations, criminal, heartless, impudent, beastly, gross, and so is your mother. Just a few too many emotive words, thought O’Toole professionally: you don’t want the goose so deaf you have to say boo a hundred times to get a tremor out of her.

  ‘In the name of British justice,’ said Barker, ‘I ask you to teach these conscienceless people a lesson they will never forget by a salutary, stinging award of damages, recalling that their resources are large, and no sum of money, however great, can begin to recompense my client for the foul wrong they have done her.’

  The judge cleared his throat and, in a cool voice evidently intended to convey that he had not been hired by either side, began: ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. You have heard the evidence in this case, brilliantly marshalled and expounded by the eminent counsel at the bar.

  ‘I shall instruct you that, as a matter of law, the article in question is capable of bearing a defamatory meaning: this is a technical matter within my province with which you need not concern yourselves.

  ‘The defence which you have heard offered is called, by lawyers, a plea of justification. In substance, the defendant newspaper says, through its legal representatives, that the accusations it makes against this lady are true, and this is the question to which you must direct your attention.

  ‘In the connection, the word “true” bears as the consequence of recent legislation, a slightly broader meaning than it once did. It does not mean that every word in the article must be literally true, in its strictest meaning, for the defence to succeed. All that is necessary is that an ordinary person, and you may regard yourselves as that for the purposes of your deliberations, reading the article, will gain a true impression from it, that is, an impression which is substantially in agreement with the facts.

  ‘Now, you must ask yourselves, what are the facts? The skill of counsel has resolved this case into a direct conflict of testimony, a matter, as we say, of oath against oath. It is apparent that the accounts given by the two sides, particularly that of the plaintiff on the one hand, and the two reporters on the other, cannot be reconciled: one or the other must contain a considerable element of untruth. It is for you to decide which it is. It is proper for you to have regard to the demeanour of the witnesses as you saw them in the box: your impression of them, although not perhaps decisive, may weigh heavily in your deliberations. You may also bring your general knowledge of the world into account, in deciding which of the stories is the more probable, which, as one might say, goes more with the grain of human affairs as you have experienced them.

  ‘I need hardly tell you that two very important principles are here i
nvolved: one is that people should not be needlessly exposed to shame and humiliation, or undue invasions of their privacy; the other is that, subject to this limitation, the Press of this country has a jealously-guarded freedom to turn its searchlight on any matter which, in the public interest, the public should know. It will be clear to you that which of these principles should govern this matter depends on your answer to this question: Did the plaintiff invite the two gentlemen from the newspaper into her home for the purposes of prostitution, or for an evening of innocent social intercourse?

  ‘If you find for the plaintiff, I shall offer you further guidance on the matter of damages, but for the moment it is for you to consider your verdict on the question I have posed.’

  Simultaneously, the judge rose, the people in the courtroom followed suit, and the jurors began filing out. Knight and O’Toole went out to the corridor outside the court and lit cigarettes, and after a moment Sprogg joined them.

  ‘How did I go, boys?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine,’ said O’Toole. ‘I was wondering when the question of that picture was going to be solved.’

  ‘It only came up yesterday,’ said Sprogg, defensively. ‘Got to stick by the paper, you know.’

  ‘It might have saved me an awkward minute if I’d known,’ said O’Toole.

  ‘It doesn’t make any odds,’ said Knight. ‘If we lose this one there’s no justice in the world. Still, you can never tell with juries...’ and he launched into a reminiscence about the libel cases he had won and lost, mostly, by his account, won...

  Twenty minutes later an attendant put his head round the door and said, ‘They’re coming back.’ The three men pushed their way through the crowd squeezing against the courtroom door, and had just sat down when the judge came in and they had to bob up and sit again. The jurors were already in their places, giving nothing away by their looks.

  The associate rose. ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, are you agreed on your verdict?’ he asked.

  ‘We are’ said the foreman, rising.

  ‘And how do you find?’

  ‘For the defendants.’

  O’Toole felt a blow on his back. ‘We’ve won,’ said Knight, exultant. The agency reporters, bowing perfunctorily, were backing out of the court to get their stories away. Knight and O’Toole followed as soon as they decently could, and they were waiting for Sprogg to join them outside when Eileen, sobbing piteously, came out leaning on Ifor Morgan’s arm. The lawyer looked stonily at them and, just as he drew abreast, whispered ‘Scum!’ just loud enough for them to hear.

  ‘He won’t get far, he’s taken the case seriously,’ said Knight. ‘Or perhaps he’s worried about his fee. Come and have a drink, boys.’

  XXIV

  O’TOOLE had a thick head the next morning, having spent a good part of the night drinking with Knight. Sprogg, apparently ill at ease, had gone home early.

  Arriving at the office, he went straight to Starsh’s desk. ‘I’m glad we won, Nick,’ he said.

  ‘Oh?’ said Starsh stiffly.

  ‘Look, Nick, about that brush the other day, I want you to know that what I said doesn’t represent my considered opinion. You happened to walk into a personal crisis which you knew nothing about. I want you to know that I admired your gesture in court and...’

  ‘Oh, never mind,’ said Starsh. ‘Water under Piccadilly Circus. But before you submit me to any more of this obscene breast-beating, go and see Mr. Barr. He’s been asking for you.’

  ‘I get it,’ said O’Toole. ‘Well I may, or may not, have a chance to continue this. You get the drift of it, though.’

  Starsh nodded and bent his head to his work. O’Toole went to Barr’s office and found him grim and unsmiling.

  ‘Sit down, laddie,’ he said. ‘I want to have a serious talk with you.’

  O’Toole sat in the velvet-covered trap chair.

  ‘I won’t mince my words,’ said Barr. ‘Your work has been slipping lately, O’Toole, slipping badly. Something has happened to you. When you first joined, you were keen as mustard. Lately, you’ve been wandering in here at any old hour, arguing about unimportant details, and generally carrying on as if you didn’t want the job. What’s worse, when we do by some miracle succeed in getting a story out of you, it’s dull and flat...You’ve lost your old sincerity, your human touch. I know you’ve got it in you, but if you won’t deliver, there’s nothing I can do about it. We can’t afford to carry any passengers on the team here, you know.’

  O’Toole nodded.

  ‘I can tell you frankly, laddie, that I was on the point of sending you on your way. I’m deadly serious about this. On the other hand, I’m told that you didn’t do a bad job for us in court yesterday, and loyalty has to count for something. Beside, Nick Starsh has put in a good word for you. He told me that he believed you had some sort of personal difficulties. I’m not interested in your private life, but I’m telling you, settle your problem, whatever it is, and settle it quick.’

  ‘It’s settled,’ said O’Toole.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Barr. ‘Well, on thinking it over, I’ve decided to give you one more chance. I’m putting you on a month’s probation...If you can get the old snap and sparkle back, we’ll say bygones are bygones. There are still great chances here for you. Strictly between you and I, I’m not happy about the way Knight has been carrying on lately, either. He made a nice balls-up of this vice exposure, landing us in court through a silly mistake. Sometime in the future I think I’ll be needing a smart lad to take over gradually from him, and it could even be you. But first, I want that old human touch, bigger and better than before.’

  O’Toole nodded again.

  ‘Now let’s delete the past from the copy, shall we, and you can make a fresh start.’

  ‘Good,’ said Barr, ‘I’ve got a story here that should be just up your alley. We’ve had a try-on’—he searched his desk, and produced a hand-written letter—‘from one of these sex-change queers. A medical pal of mine told me the other night that most of these people haven’t changed their sex at all, they’re just perverts who’ve had their cocks cut off for a new thrill. Got it?’

  O’Toole nodded. It was a theory, anyway.

  ‘Since the News of the World started it, there’s a raft of this sex-change stuff going round cheap,’ Barr went on. ‘There’s nothing in it straight, but I’ve got an angle which should liven this story up. This person, he, she or it, whatever it is, lives down in Gillingham. Now what I want you to do is to go down and con him or her along that we’re going to use the heart-rending story. Explain that we can’t use a full series, but we might be able to take a oncer for, say, twenty-five. Give him that bollocks about explaining his tragic plight to the public, you know.’

  O’Toole did know. He nodded.

  ‘Now the rest depends on clever treatment,’ said Barr. ‘I see the angle like this: “This disgusting pervert has had himself mutilated to get money from the innocent British public. He even had the nerve to ask money for the revolting details of his sickening operation. You ought to be in prison or a mental home, you’re not fit to breathe the same air as the decent people of Britain, you contemptible beast.” With this twist, it ought to make a page lead. You’d better get him or her to give you a flash of the operation, just to be on the safe side, I suppose. Now, here’s the address, and on your way.’

  O’Toole felt suddenly tired as he left Barr’s office. Across the newsroom, he saw Norman Knight, and went over to him.

  ‘Rough night, eh, Digger?’ said Knight affably, ‘I’ve got some interesting news for you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Victor Sprogg is now a permanent executive, as from today.’

  ‘Where does that get him?’

  ‘Well, if he lasts another twenty-five years on the paper, he’s eligible for the executives’ pension scheme, although it’s only fair to say no one has yet lived long enough to draw it. In the meantime, he gets the special tea.’

  ‘Orange Pekoe
?’

  ‘No,’ said Knight, laughing. ‘You know we ordinary slaves get our tea out of a big tea-pot.’

  ‘Twice a day,’ said O’Toole.

  ‘The executives get theirs out of a little pot,’ said Knight. ‘Just big enough to hold one cup, and they have the privilege of putting their sugar in themselves, instead of getting it already sugared. Oh, and they get the round biscuits instead of the square ones. It’s cheaper than a raise, and it has just the same effect as a carpet on the floor.’

  ‘Don’t give up hope, Norman,’ said O’Toole. ‘We’ll make the big time ourselves, one day.’

  In the train, O’Toole read the letter Barr had given him. It was written in purple ink on mauve paper, and said that the writer had recently changed sex, and thought there might be many people in Britain who had been told they were men, but felt themselves to be women. The writer said that an account of his/her experiences might give such unfortunate people the courage to proclaim openly that a mistake had been made, and live happier lives in consequence. It was signed, ‘Henrietta Marsh (formerly Henry Marsh).’

  O’Toole had a lot of trouble finding the address: it would probably mean something to a postman, but there were none about, and the writer had evidently intended to conduct negotiations by mail. O’Toole’s feet hurt after a mile walk down lanes flanked by bare trees, when he was driven to conclude that the address could only apply to a ploughed field, half-hidden by hedge. Doubtfully he pushed open the gate and walked a few yards into the field, wetting his shoes in pools lying in the furrows, already edged in the bleak late autumn dusk by rims of ice. Then he saw a caravan, half concealed behind a hedge, with a dim light burning inside. He knocked.

  The door of the caravan was opened by what seemed to be a woman, thirty or so, with long bleached hair.

  ‘O’Toole of the Sunday Sun,’ O’Toole said up to the personage. ‘You Marsh?’

  ‘Miss Marsh, yes,’ said the personage in a deep contralto.

  ‘I’m here to discuss your story,’ said O’Toole.