“As you’ve asked so sweetly, I’ll tell you.”
His grey head emerged from behind a stack of legal prints, glass frames and loose receipts. Nineteenth century cartoons of lawyers and judges most of which only served to reinforce the Bar’s reputation of pomposity and infantile vanity adorned the yellowing walls.
“A peculiarity of London, my dear. The numbers increase along the left side of the street. You cross the road and find they decrease down the other…”
I nodded, half dazed with the enormity of the events which lay ahead and the detail which had to be negotiated before meeting them.
“And if you’re looking for a wig and gown, go next door! They’re much cheaper than Ede and Ravenscroft”
I thanked him and stepped back into the street which I had now trodden twice. Chancery Lane wound its way ahead of me. Eighteenth century shop fronts bearing items that no other human being other than a barrister could require lined the narrow street. Every so often a suited, bespectacled figure clutching piles of papers would cross my path. The fixed, slightly lowered look of a barrister just before or after a conference with clients was almost uniform in their faces. I was about to become one of them. That evening I was being called to the Bar in Middle Temple Hall.
I pushed the door of Ede and Ravenscroft open and was greeted by a bald, pinstriped man with widely spaced teeth and a fixed grin. In another setting he could have been a boxer.
“If madam would like to go straight through to “legal,” they’ll be able to deal with the shirt and bands. Madam’s wig and gown are here.”
He spoke as if he’d known I was coming and exactly the purpose of my visit. I arrived in “legal.” Sample shirt collars and cuffs adorned wooden hand and necks. A high wooden counter lit by a brass lamp protected two assistants from the twenty first century. A book marked “wig orders” lay on the shelf.
I explained somewhat nervously that I was looking for “bands.” Maybe it was the way I said it but a maternal Irish lady took charge of me.
“Lace or plain, dear?”
“Oh plain,” I started, terrified of having something akin to an eighteenth century ruff thrust into my hand. I had a remarkably wooly idea of what I had asked for other than it had appeared in the list of “kit” published by the Middle Temple. It transpired that bands are the two pieces of stiff, white cotton which stand proud of a barrister’s collar. Lady barristers (for the sum of sixteen pounds) can buy a false shirt front with a high collar and bands all in one.
Several hours later to the delight of my shaking hands I found that it all slipped neatly under a jacket like a baby’s bib, fastening with a Velcro strip. There was then the rather shattering experience of seeing myself for the first time in a wig .Standing before the bathroom mirror I stared slightly disbelievingly. It sat on my head snuggly enough. It seemed to grip obligingly of its own accord – only a small tug to the left to line it up. There was just one rather unnerving detail – I looked like another person. Doubtless there are some, probably who would claim to be my close friends, who would argue that this was entirely beneficial but at that moment my heart sank. It was like having all your bad hair days rolled into one and it seemed I was doomed to spend a large part of my working life like that. The pale faced fringeless bespectacled person continued to stare back at me from the bathroom mirror. A wig unlike a hat cannot really be adjusted, unless the wearer wishes to risk looking as if he or she relies on Dutch courage before a Court appearance. There is no comfort of a jaunty angle. I tried to comfort myself with the thought that maybe; just maybe, the full court outfit would make a difference. Probably jeans and a t- shirt were not ideal and the bathroom cabinet, not the best setting.
Next time it was different. There was no time to think. I was standing in the ladies’ cloakroom at Middle Temple Hall. The call was only a matter of minutes away. A hand tugged on the back of my wig and then suddenly swung me around 180 degrees by the shoulders.
“That’s it dear you’re sorted now. No hand bags in the Hall, though. You’ll have to give that your guest…”
She was gone. The lady in black seemed to have stepped out of a wardrobe and back into it. Another would be barrister dashed into the mirrored room calling for help from anyone with her collar. The lady in black reappeared. Quietly and efficiently administering to her in Estuarine tones.So that was her role. Her inspection and adjustment of my court dress had not been mere kindness but professional obligation. A day ago I would have dismissed the idea of anyone being employed in such a role as old fashioned and elitist. Now I was deeply grateful for her very existence.
The callees were lined up in columns in the Hall facing front. Suits of armour from the Civil War lined the walls. Coats of arms covered the wooden paneling. I scanned the Hall and tried to imagine the first performance of Twelfth Night which it is claimed took place there. Three sharp knocks of a wooden staff announced the arrival of the Benchers or the Council of Middle Temple. They strode steadily to the platform at the end of the Hall. Master Treasure, a very senior Queen’s Counsel would call each of us. I waited for the twenty ahead of me to call, my feet starting to ache, my cheeks flushing under the combined weight of a shirt, collar, suit and gown. The wig now felt more like a thermal helmet. Then finally my name was called,
“Master Treasure I present to you…”
It is rather odd hearing your name being announced in such circumstances. There is a momentary pause when you assume that the voice must be referring to somebody else. I walked forward to Master Treasure who stood on the platform or the Bar. I bowed to him – the wig was still on! He uttered something about me being called to the Bar and offered his hand to me. I shook it and lifted my gaze to meet two cool blue eyes appraising me. His demeanour was almost motionless. Then I heard the words,
“Well done.”
“What have you known and what are you thinking?” I wondered.
I then remembered – two steps to the right – sign the Roll. I leant forward and finally found the place where I was supposed to sign. I scribbled my name. I was now a member of the Bar. The rest of the ceremony continued with words of congratulation followed by a kindly warning. There would be days when every word we spoke would be golden and others when it would leaden, only to be met with a foul judge’s disdain. That was life at the Bar but there would always be help in the form of colleagues’ guidance. Master Treasurer concluded by reminding us that the Middle Temple had been founded by soldiers and fighting men. The priests had gone to Inner Temple, one of our rival Inns. That was something as Middle Templers we might care to bear in mind.
The following day I found my way back to Chancery Lane to return my wig and gown. I could not resist revisiting the picture shop from whence I had received directions the previous day. Wrapping the print I had just bought, the grey haired man seemed absorbed and unrecognizing. Then as he deftly pulled the cellotape from its role he commented,
“You know the thing about the Bar is you either succeed or you don’t but you got to have that extra something. I know exactly which ones are going to make it a soon as they walk through that door…”
I started at his cool detachment; unable to decide whether to brave the possibility of an answer that I was probably unable to bear at that moment. Failure seemed all too real a possibility but maybe he could tell. I checked myself, how could anyone know from the way another person entered a shop whether he was another George Carman or my cousin, Vinny. More to the point, how could I allow myself to be disturbed by a passing comment from a stranger about my professional future? I smiled politely but the shopkeeper had read me.
He smiled quietly to his colleague,
“This young lady called to the Bar last night and I don’t think that she’s quite got over it.”
I stepped back into the street and stared ahead. Elegance surrounded me but it held no comfort. At that moment, it served merely as a reminder of the challenges I would face. The next time I saw Chancery Lane it would be as a pupil barrister.
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