Justin Cartwright

Born in South Africa, Justin Cartwright lived in Britain after studying at Trinity College, Oxford. He worked in advertising and directed documentaries, films and television commercials, and wrote seventeen novels. They include the Booker-shortlisted In Every Face I Meet, the Whitbread Novel Award-winner Leading the Cheers and the acclaimed White Lightning, shortlisted for the 2002 Whitbread Novel Award. His novel Look At It This Way was made into a three-part drama by the BBC in 1992, and he also published three works of non-fiction. He died in December 2018.

Also by Justin Cartwright

Interior

Look At It This Way

Masai Dreaming

Leading the Cheers

Half in Love

White Lightning

In Every Face I Meet

Justin Cartwright

www.sceptrebooks.co.uk

First published in Great Britain in 1995 by Sceptre

An Imprint of Hodder & Stoughton

An Hachette UK company

Copyright © Justin Cartwright 1995

The right of Justin Cartwright to be identified as the Author of the

Work has been asserted by him in accordance with

the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any

means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be

otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that

in which it is published and without a similar condition being

imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance

to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

Paperback ISBN  9780340637838

eBook ISBN  9781529340372  

Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

Carmelite House

50 Victoria Embankment

London EC4Y 0DZ

www.sceptrebooks.co.uk

For Penny

One

I wander thro’ each charter’d street

Near where the charter’d Thames does flow

And mark in every face I meet

Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every man

In every Infant’s cry of fear

In every voice, in every ban,

The mind-forg’d manacles I hear.

How the Chimney-sweeper’s cry

Every black’ning Church appals;

And the hapless Soldier’s sigh

Runs in blood down Palace walls.

But most thro’ midnight streets I hear

How the youthful Harlot’s curse

Blasts the new born Infant’s tear

And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.

William Blake, ‘London’

November 1990

The boom in mozzarella, trade or consumer led?

The freelance writer Julian Capper has failed to come down firmly on either side. He has concluded that the boom, the one-thousand-percent increase in consumption of mozzarella in the last five years, is a product both of promotion by the supermarkets and demand created by holidaymakers returning from package tours to Italy. The situation is complicated by the fact that pizza is becoming ever more popular, and some of the cheese used for pizza is not the authentic mozzarella, which is produced in Campania. Even in Italy, there is debate about real mozzarella, with the claims of regions like Salerno and Calabria discounted by some experts.

Still, it is clear that the supermarkets have promoted mozzarella successfully. British consumers are even trying the traditional buffalo mozzarella. This cheese is of an immaculate whiteness and is best accompanied by a glass of crisp, Italian white wine. That is what he has written. He has also pointed out that mozzarella has an affinity with tomatoes, basil and good olive oil. (He has written about olive oil two or three times in the past.)

Julian Capper conjures the delights of eating mozzarella under a vine in places like Aversa, Agerola and Battipaglia. He has never been to these places, nor indeed to Italy, but he can well imagine the fragrance of the hillsides, the warmth of the sun, the cheerfulness of the peasant population, the simple pleasures of milking the family buffalo, the large vats in which the milk is stirred by hand with a wooden paddle, the conviviality of the local trattoria, the distant views of the Bay of Naples – in fact the all-round love of life which you acquire when you purchase a round ball of mozzarella, suspended in lightly salted water.

He writes for a number of trade papers, but The Grocer is perhaps the most demanding. He is hurrying to get his article on mozzarella in the post because he is doing jury service. He has to report at the court each morning at ten and may be required for two weeks or more. He has sent off two other articles: one commissioned, to Travel Trade Gazette on Romany caravan holidays, and one speculative, to Software User (who are not returning his calls at the moment) on spreadsheets and the home office. He is short of money. There is a possibility of a loss of earnings claim from the court, which he can make backed by a letter from his accountant. He has no accountant at the moment because his last accountant’s fees were taking nearly a third of his earnings.

There are a number of attractions to spending two weeks as a juror. Although he had never intended to write for trade papers, he has found that a writer can profit from all sorts of experience, even the simple one of discovering the origins of mozzarella. But cheese and Romany holidays are not really in the same league as murder and bank robbery and rape for providing an insight into the workings of society. He knows, of course, that by the time a case reaches court it will have been repackaged (a word he uses frequently in The Grocer), but he believes he will be able to see behind the artificiality and the formality to the human issues. He feels that he will be exploring the real world in some way. As a writer he is always on the lookout for the real world. So he has no doubt that he will profit by his time in court.

He has also found the last five or six years lonely. Writing is not as fulfilling as he had imagined it would be when he set out, after leaving the advertising agency, to go freelance. The agency seemed to be concerned only with the patina of life; he regarded his inevitable sacking as a badge of honour. At the time he believed that he would be freed to pursue larger thoughts and nobler activities, which included writing a stage play about the nature of language. But instead of occupying his mind with spacious thoughts, he has found himself brooding on the rudeness of editors, the smallness and lateness of cheques, and the closed shop of national newspapers. Far from writing his play, or even starting a novel, he has become caught in a solitary round of telephoning and proposing stories to unenthusiastic editors, or chasing payment of the few commissions he has been able to secure. He also spends a good deal of time thinking about the business of being a writer rather than writing.

So he is setting a lot of store by his two weeks (or more) of jury service. He is proposing to use the time to think more deeply, to relaunch himself, to use the term which the trade press favours. He hurries to the post office, pressing the back of the manila envelope down hard as though it may still spring open, and pushes his copy into the postbox. He can hear it land, like a pebble thrown into a well. (In Aversa, where they certainly still have wells.)

Yesterday was his first day. They were shown a film about their duties. They keep a surplus of jurors in the huge holding room. These jurors are called at random to the various courts. He was called, but the case could not start for legal reasons. Jurors are not privy to legal argument, but Julian Capper likes to keep himself informed, if possible. They have been assured that they will sit this morning. Although they have not been told the nature of the case, Julian Capper has discovered, by looking at the lists posted in the entrance to the court, that they are sitting in a case of murder. He has established contact with some of the other members of his jury. He has spoken to them and said, ‘Sounds as though it is going to be an interesting case.’ He hopes to be elected foreman. They don’t know – how could they? – the weight he is attaching to this experience. They don’t know that for him this experience could mark a turning point in his writing career, an opportunity to break away from writing about the grocery trade to tackle more cosmic issues. He cannot explain to them, and they might resent it if he did, that he feels that he is more responsible for the outcome of the case than they are. He feels as though his life, never mind the defendant’s, could turn on this case. The defendant is not just a man on a murder charge, but a character in a drama imbued with personal significance for Julian Capper. It’s an exalted feeling.

He has equipped himself with notebooks and plenty of finepoint pens. And he is looking forward to familiarising himself with the ordinary intercourse of daily life. Re-acquainting himself, he thinks, because he has never lost his sense of society around him, even though he has been living a solitary life. He believes that we inhabit a thinking, interconnected universe. (His article on the communications revolution, ‘We’re All Neighbours Now’, comes to mind.) He doubts if the murder they are about to try took place in isolation from society.

They are already gathering in the jury collection room. Julian Capper thinks that if you saw his fellow jurors in the street you would be pressed to decide what brought them together. They have a frayed look. There is nothing urgent about their clothes or their shoes or their haircuts; apparently none of them has very pressing business elsewhere. Julian Capper is certainly in that broad category.

Joyce, their bailiff, is a handsome black woman with glossy hair cut in an executive style. It may be hair extensions. Her eye sockets are deep and her eyes carry no wounds of anxiety or doubt. Life has given the jury more wounds. Many of them carry their possessions in shopping bags. Joyce summons them to Court Four. She is wearing a gown, which twitches and sways as she leads them out of the holding pen and into the corridors beyond. They follow, like schoolchildren, excited and a little nervous although Keith, the personal fitness trainer, is walking with a small group of admirers. He is on his second week and knows the ropes. They are now asked to wait in their own jury room, which is where the deliberations will take place and where Julian Capper hopes to be elected foreman in due course. He feels that his work has equipped him to make order of the facts.

There are six men and six women. One of the women wears a sari. Between her eyes is a deep, red dot. The oldest of the men coughs at regular intervals; his face is dry and deeply engraved. Another small woman checks her handbag constantly. There is a woman in a jogging suit, called Lynne, who sits dose to Keith. Keith is wearing a sweatshirt and baggy trousers with a large, white band down the side. One young man wears a blazer and a club tie, responding to some idea of the court’s dignity which doesn’t appear to be shared by the others. Joyce explains to them that they will be called into court soon. They will be asked to take an oath, but they can opt not to swear on the Bible if they wish. There is a knock on the door and they are called. The court itself is not far away down the green carpet. They file in, to find that the lawyers are already there in their gowns and wigs. Julian Capper thinks it is like walking on to a stage, already lit and with the scenery in place. In the dock is the defendant, and sitting next to him a police officer. The jurors take their place directly opposite the defendant, in two rows.

– Court rise.

The clerk of the court and the barristers bow their heads briefly as the judge appears via his personal back door, through the panelling. The judge probably has a lonely life. He has his own chambers and his own servant – and his own entrance – but Julian Capper imagines that he, too, is isolated from human warmth. The jury stands obediently as the judge takes his place. Back there, just before the door closes again, Julian Capper gets a glimpse of some green leather chairs. It’s back there that deals are struck, of course.

The judge glances up from his papers as they are sworn in. In his wig and red gown with a black sash, he is an imposing figure, although it is hard to tell what he might look like in a suit or in leisure wear. He looks directly at the jury.

– Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Before we start, I would like to tell you that under the jury system it is for you and nobody else to decide the facts. My job is to direct you on points of law, and you are obliged to follow my direction, but I am not here to decide the facts. That is for you. The prosecution will give you an account of the facts of – he glances at his papers – of February the fifth earlier this year, and they will attempt to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that the defendant is guilty of murder. The burden of proof rests on them. The defence do not have to prove anything. But they will, of course, give you an account of what happened on that day which will differ greatly from that of the prosecution. Witnesses will be called by both sides. You will be asked to evaluate their evidence. You should wait until you have heard all the evidence before you make up your minds. Let me tell you now that you may choose to believe all, or nothing, or a part of what a witness says. You may think a witness is not telling the truth in some particular, but you may still believe some of his or her evidence. In order to convict the accused, you must be sure beyond a reasonable doubt that there was an intention to kill. You must also be sure that the accused was not justified in killing the deceased. There are occasions under our law when one person is entitled to kill another. These are when this person believes, or is entitled to believe at the time, that his life is in danger. Under our law a person is only entitled to use as much force as is necessary under the circumstances. Before we begin, may I thank you in advance for your public service, and may I remind you that if you have any questions of clarification you wish to address to me, notify your bailiff and she will pass them on. This case is likely to last for eight or nine days. Mrs Badenoch, would you like to begin the prosecutions’s case?

One of the barristers stands up.

– Thank you my lord.

Julian Capper is poised, his pen is ready. Mrs Badenoch turns to the jury.