Close to Death

‘You’re delivering the barbecue?’ It was as much a statement as a question. Kenworthy looked past him. ‘Where’s your van?’

‘No. I’m your neighbour. I just wanted to welcome you to the close.’ Andrew lifted the Tupperware box. ‘I made this for you.’

Kenworthy’s face fell. ‘God! What a stupid bloody mistake. I’m terribly sorry. We’ve bought a new gas barbecue and it’s meant to be delivered around now.’ He reached out and took the box. ‘That’s very kind of you . . . but you’re going to have to forgive me. I can’t invite you in right now. We’re both at sixes and sevens and one of the boys seems to have got whooping cough. Will you think me very rude if I take a rain check?’

‘No. I’m sorry if I’ve called at a bad time.’

‘Not at all. It’s a very kind thought. You didn’t tell me your name.’

‘Andrew Pennington.’

‘Well, Andy, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m sure we’ll be having a housewarming party in due course and that’ll give us a chance to get to know each other better. Which is your place?’

‘I’m over by the entrance.’ Andrew pointed. ‘Well House. You may have noticed the old well next to the archway. They say it dates back to the fifteenth century.’ He wasn’t quite sure why he had volunteered this information. ‘You should keep your boys away from it,’ he added. ‘You wouldn’t want one of them to fall in.’

‘I’m sure they’re more sensible than that, but I’ll have a word. And if you see the chaps with the barbecue, maybe you can point them in the right direction.’

‘I’ll do that.’

‘Thank you.’

The door closed. Andrew was almost surprised to find that the cake was no longer in his hand. He turned round and walked home.

It was only later that the doubts came clouding in.

It was true that he hadn’t looked his best. He had spent the morning doing odd jobs and he was still wearing his old corduroy trousers and a loose-fitting shirt. He should have taken a shower first and changed into something a little smarter. But could Kenworthy have possibly mistaken him for a delivery man when there was no van in sight – and didn’t most delivery people wear uniforms? And there had definitely been something a little fake, a little knowing about that opening statement. ‘It’s going round the back. You can use the garden gate.’ Giles Kenworthy had delivered it with a curl of the lip that had been dismissive in every sense, as if he were deliberately making a point.

Casual racism had been a part of Andrew Pennington’s life for as long as he could remember. He knew that he had been fortunate. His father had made a great deal of money in telecommunications, which had unlocked a private education and, when he announced that he wanted a career in law, entry into a big-name chambers in Lincoln’s Inn. Not for him the so-called ‘black ghetto chambers’ that would have seen him working with local solicitors on pedestrian cases funded by legal aid. First as a pupil and then as a tenant, he had worked tirelessly. He had never allowed himself a margin of error. There could be no mistakes. Twice as hard to get half as far – that was the old adage.

Nobody ever said anything. Nobody was offensive. But he could feel it the moment he walked into a room, the sense that he was different, because of his colour. And there was that strange lack of progress. He got on well with the clerks, but his name was never put forward for the more high-profile cases. He was still trawling through stacks of documents late into the night when he should have been, at the very least, a junior junior.

Even in the latter part of his career, when he had become a QC, it had continued. How many times had he been stopped on his way into court, mistaken for a clerk, for a journalist or – worse still – for a defendant? ‘Excuse me, sir. Can I have your name so I can mark you as here for your case?’ The security guards were always polite and apologetic, but he sometimes felt that they were all part of the same conspiracy against him. And then there were the judges who patronised him or dismissed him – at least, until he began his cross-examination.

He had never complained. Iris had always insisted that if he was going to advance in a world where black barristers made up only one per cent of the workforce, he should play the game, keep his head down.

‘But what about those who follow?’ he had asked her. ‘Don’t I owe it to them to speak out, to make a noise? I spend my entire life talking about justice – but how can I do that when there’s no justice for me?’

‘You are a successful man, Andrew,’ she had replied. ‘I’m proud of you. And you being so successful . . . that will lead the way for others.’