2

Following the sergeant into the court Rogers was humbled by the pompous atmosphere of justice. He saw a crowded public gallery of people with appetites whetted for the revelation of other people’s secrets; most of them people he would know, but he was too awed to take in details and he didn’t recognize anyone except Flora. It gave him a great kick of encouragement to see her there; she had said she would come, yet by now he hadn’t expected to see her till it was all over. It was strange to see her and not be able to speak to her. There were the reporters at a table at the side; lawyers with gowns and short wigs, and clerks of whose function he was not clear; and as he stepped up into the dock feeling exposed to hostile publicity, and gripped the rail, he was awed by the judge, his wrinkled face with spectacles under the absurd long wig. It was hard to read any humanity behind those wrinkles, the thin lips and the tired eyes. To his right at the end of the bench sat an impersonal but bright-looking typist; Rogers recognized her as a girl who was several years behind him at school. It was strange, in a town he knew so well and so informally, to be the central figure in a pompous ceremony in which people he knew had taken on different functions, hostile to him; it was like a dream.

The clerk of the court passed a note up to the judge. He was new to this circuit. The last one had had a reputation for stiff sentences; no one knew much about this one, though he looked as if he was getting too old for his job. Already, Rogers thought, the seaman has been dealt with; he had a sudden temptation to whisper to the lawyer at the table below him, ‘How did the seaman get on?’ and the oddity of the desire made him want to snigger. ‘Pull yourself together,’ he thought.

He was brought round sharply by the voice of the clerk, loudly page 338 reading the charge, without expression, like a voice of doom in a Gothic novel or an opium dream. There was a fantastic antiquated atmosphere in the court anyway—the mock-Gothic windows and wooden mouldings, the wigs and gowns, the peculiar legal language. Rogers couldn’t help feeling he was acting in a play, though he knew that when the curtain rang down the outcome would be real enough. When he said, ‘Not guilty’, it sounded like someone else’s voice.

Then the judge addressed him. It startled him that that bird-like old man under a long wig should have any personal interest in him, as if he had any part in this play at all except to be a victim whose fate is decided by others. ‘I understand you are conducting your own defence,’ the judge said.

Rogers struggled for words. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘your honour.’

‘You’ve had to do this at short notice and you haven’t had time to prepare your case?’

‘No, your honour,’ His voice was more like his own now.

‘Do you want the case remanded?’

‘I’d rather get it over with, your honour.’

‘You know you can interrogate each witness when the Crown Prosecutor has finished his examination-in-chief?’

‘Thank you, your honour.’

This old man was assisting him. Rogers now felt completely at sea; nothing was predictable in this place.

The selection of the jury was got through without challenge. To his right they sat solemn in their box, in their best suits. Most of them he recognized. Alf Parsons, the baker, and elder of the Presbyterian church, an old associate of his father’s; Fred Hamilton, a draughtsman for the public works; Harry Silcock who ran a travel agency, a leading sponsor of a football club and always, according to rumours that were never substantiated, about to be named as co-re, in divorces that never came off; Dinnie O’Donovan, a grocer and secretary of the Hibernian Society; Fergie McLaren, on the local pipe-band and the Caledonian Society, a wholesale importer; a tobacconist-and-barber, a wine merchant who was on the Amateur Operatic Society, a surveyor who was on the Hospital Board and the School Committee, a building contractor, a public works inspector, an accountant and the captain of a little fishing vessel. The tradesmen and merchant adventurers, the officials and supervisors of the town’s work: the elders and betters of Greymouth, looking very conscious of it packed in their wooden box. Surveying them from the dock Rogers felt the strange and desperate clarity of mind of a man at bay. If this was society come to judge him, what a wooden, page 339 self-righteous and pompous society it must be. How could be expect an honest rational judgement from these men? Worthy men on their jobs, he supposed, even if small-minded; but here they were picked for a job too big for them, puffed up with self-importance to make up the discrepancy. They looked as if they were more concerned for their own dignity than for justice. They would go out into their little room and each in his turn would make some remark to let it be known that he was shocked by the case, as if to clear himself of any complicity. They would be like medieval people confronted with illness or insanity; there were some events in life they couldn’t face, at which courage and clarity of mind deserted them.

How would they have acted if the charge had been true, he wondered. How would he have felt if the charge had been true? He ran away from the question; that implied mental sickness, and that was something he couldn’t contemplate in himself. How would he act if he was in a jury trying a man guilty of such an act? Yet what problem of society or psychology was there that couldn’t be solved by courage and clear thinking? We were prisoners of our own taboos, Rogers thought, taboos made in a different country in an older period in a different type of society: if this jury was society come to judgement, we were not yet a mature society; these responsible and respectable citizens were afraid of something, afraid of their own humanity. In their pompous stiffness they were like German soldiers goose-stepping to terrify the enemy: only there was no enemy. It was just that they were afraid. Afraid of love.

What was the purpose of the law then? What had they done already to the seaman and the thief? The law said, ‘You will not, because if you do, you’ll be punished.’ It didn’t say, ‘Use your willpower, conduct yourself like a civilized man.’ It prohibited, it didn’t exhort; it punished, it didn’t cure. And who was the better for the retribution? The seaman? The girl he had taken into the bush? Society? Other potential offenders?

The first witness was Constable Rae. The prosecutor rose to question the constable. He had a quiet disdainful way of putting his questions; it was hard to know what he was looking for, but there was a suspicion of a sting in them. But the constable’s evidence wasn’t crucial, and the lawyer didn’t ask him much.

The prosecutor sat down. Rogers hadn’t much idea what to ask the constable, but he made a stab in the dark.

‘When Mr Herlihy came to you, did he seem sure of the accusation?’

‘Well, he just told me what the boy had told him.’

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‘He had no evidence of his own?’

‘No.’

‘Did he seem uncertain?’

‘He was very worried. He thought it should be aired in a public court.’

‘He wasn’t absolutely certain then?’

‘No, he didn’t seem altogether certain.’

Then Mike Herlihy shuffled into the witness-box, carrying his bartered old hat which looked as if it had been brushed and not very well pressed for the occasion. He was wearing a navy serge suit of a cut twenty years old. The prosecutor stood again.

‘On the night of the alleged offence, the accused visited you?’

‘Yes, he did.’

‘Was there any purpose to his visit?’

‘He came to tell me the boy hadn’t been going to school.’

‘Did he say anything else?’

‘He wanted me to give up my beer, because of the boycott,’

‘What sort of state was he in?’

‘He was rather agitated.’

‘When your boy came home, did you ask him whether he had been missing school?’

‘Yes.’

‘And he had been?’

‘Yes.’

‘You asked him why?’

‘Yes. He said he was frightened of his teacher.’

The prosecutor sat down again.

Rogers asked Herlihy, ‘Did your son actually say that I had done the thing I am accused of?’

‘Well, not in so many words.’

‘Did he volunteer any of this information—without any prompting, I mean?’

Herlihy, who was also hurt at the implication that he didn’t know the meaning of volunteer, resented having to be questioned by the man he was accusing.

‘Are you suggesting that I put the words into the boy’s mouth?’

‘Answer the question, please,’ Rogers said, now savouring his power, drawing on his reading of court cases in the newspapers. He felt far more in command of himself. ‘Did he volunteer the information?’

‘Yes, ’course he did. I don’t go round telling lies.’

‘How long after I left you that night did your son come home?’

‘It was about nine o’clock.’

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‘What time was it when I was there?’

‘About half-past seven, I think.’

‘Does your son often stay out so late?’

‘He usually gets in earlier than that.’

‘About what time does he usually get in?’

‘Seven or eight o’clock.’

‘Would you say your son was a difficult child?’

‘No.’

‘You once sent him to a convent?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m a Catholic, that’s why.’

‘Was it because you and your wife could not manage him?’

‘There’s nothing wrong with the boy. Just a bit of devilry, like all kids.’

‘Has your son been in trouble with the police?’

‘No.’

‘Have you been interviewed by Mr Rae about him?’

‘Well, there was a complaint about him throwing stones.’

‘When your son came in on the night of this alleged offence, what did you say to him?’

‘I asked him why he had been staying away from school.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He said he was frightened of you.’

‘Did he say why he was frightened?’

‘He said you had hit him with a ruler. He said you told him secrets too.’

Herlihy was flushed and accusing. Rogers was no longer concerned to avoid this admission of his treatment of Peter.

‘What did he mean by secrets?’

‘Filthy stories. He said you told him a story about a man and a woman in the bush.’

‘Will you give us the details of the story?’

‘I’m not mentioning any names.’

‘Did he say the story was about actual people?’

‘People from Coal Flat.’

‘This story that your son said I told him—what did he say they did.’

Herlihy blushed. ‘He didn’t say anything about that,’ he said.

Then Peter came in, looking guilty and distrustful of the policeman who led him in. ‘Now, son,’ the judge said. ‘We want you to feel at ease in here, and tell us what happened.’

Peter looked at him and then at the jury and the prosecutor and page 342 the clerks, then stared sullenly at the floor. ‘Haven’t you got anything to say?’ the judge asked.

Peter said nothing. The judge told the prosecutor he could proceed. For the first time it struck Rogers what a strange system British justice was. He had been brought up to believe it was the best in the world and had never questioned it. Now how precarious it seemed: a contest between prosecution and defence, neither interested in establishing the truth; the prosecution hungry for a conviction, sometimes a death, whether in fact the accused was guilty or not, the defence using every means to clear him, even if he was guilty. How many men had hanged because the prosecutor had a sharp mind and a persuasive tongue? And here was this lawyer bent on getting him into prison, for no other reason than to satisfy his professional pride or perhaps further his career. How cynical it was.

In more desperate circumstances he himself would have been struggling just as dishonestly to avoid prison. But in this case, which could hardly end in a conviction, he could afford to pursue the line demanded by the intense clarity in which, it seemed, he saw this court. That was to establish the truth, suppress nothing, and mislead no one; put all his cards on the table. Don and Miss Dane—it would all have to come out. What if the jury had the minds of shopkeepers? You had to refer to some authority; then the best referee would be a group of other men. These twelve of his peers. If society was not the clear-minded fearless community he would have liked it to be, then he could only trust that society would eventually change itself. They were men, after all, even if they had been maimed and limited by the values and institutions they had been born to. On their goodness, their justice and their sympathy he would have to rely. It was the only honest course.

Peter answering the prosecutor’s questions spoke only in mutters or nodded. Then he stopped answering at all.

‘And what did he do then? … Don’t be afraid.’

Peter looked up, his eyes lit distrustfully. ‘Is Mr Rogers going to get into trouble? … What will you do to him?’ he asked in that intense whisper. He had come full circle, Rogers thought; back to where he started. He was now no freer of his obsessions than he had been when he first walked into the classroom clutching his raincoat and answered Rogers in that same fierce whisper. Rogers looked away from him. It was painful to see this gratuitously malevolent lawyer tormenting him.

The lawyer coughed with slight amusement. The judge said, ‘You must not presume the guilt of the accused.’

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‘I beg pardon, your honour…. Now son, I want you to imagine I’m your father, someone you can trust, and tell us what happened that night.’

‘You wouldn’t punish him. You’re too scared,’ Peter whispered. There was laughter in the gallery and the clerk called for silence.

Peter broke into tears and a loud whine.

‘Sit down for a while, son,’ the judge said. To Rogers he said, ‘Do you wish to question the boy?’ Rogers couldn’t bear to see the boy tortured in public like this. ‘No,’ he said.

Peter was led out, whimpering now.

The next witness was Dr Alexander. He said that he had examined the boy and saw no sign of injury consistent with the charge. Rogers did not question him.

The judge asked Rogers if he wished to give evidence on oath. Rogers said yes and went into the witness-box.

Rogers began: ‘First, I say I am not guilty of the charge. Second, there are some facts of which the Court is not aware because so far they have not been brought out. This boy Peter Herlihy whom you all saw comes from an unhappy home. His father would not admit it, but his father is not an unbiased judge. I can speak with authority on this since I know one grandparent, I know the father, and the boy himself has told me of his home life. His parents married against the wishes of the mother’s family: they were Protestants and Mr Herlihy a Catholic, in fact, a man who had been studying for the priesthood and had given it up.’

‘This is irrelevant,’ the prosecutor interrupted.

‘The objection is overruled,’ the judge said.

‘The mother is not a Catholic,’ Rogers went on. ‘You have heard the father say that he is and that he sent the boy to a convent. I have heard that the mother was opposed to this though not opposed to sending him away, and I suspect that the boy was sent there because he was unmanageable. At any rate, I know that when he came back he was a difficult boy, a problem child, with the making of a delinquent who might have ended—with more justification—in this dock. As his teacher I felt that something should be done for him; as one who had no kinship with him I felt it would be impudent of me to interfere with him. When his father was in the witness-box I did not ask him a certain question, but with the judge’s permission if he can be recalled I propose to ask him if I did not, early this year, call on him and suggest that the boy should have psychiatric treatment at Seaview Hospital.’

‘I object,’ the prosecutor called.

‘Are you suggesting that the boy is insane?’ the judge asked.

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‘Certainly not,’ Rogers said. ‘But it was plain, when he came into my class, that he was a prisoner of unhealthy guilts and fears and obsessions. The boy’s father laughed at my suggestion. I had to do something. The boy was disturbing my class. He used to torment little girls, he ran round the class with a piece of plasticine between his legs.’

There was a shocked gasp from the gallery, the prosecutor again objected, without success.

‘I tell you this not to condemn the boy, who has suffered and is suffering too much already. I tell it to put myself in the clear: I had to do something, both to preserve order in the classroom and to save the boy. If his parents were too blind to see he was ailing, someone had to do something.’

‘Could you not have spoken to the headmaster and had him removed?’ the judge asked.

‘The headmaster and I did not see eye to eye. The headmaster would have told you at least that the boy was a problem child. The boy’s trouble as I saw it was that he had never had much affection. His grandmother doesn’t recognize him, his mother doesn’t want him, his father is a drunkard.’

The prosecutor rose. ‘Your honour, because Mr Herlihy had the courage to defy a beer boycott imposed by his trade union, there is no need for the defence to call him a drunkard.’

‘Objection sustained. You must realize that reference to this boycott is not relevant.’

Rogers continued. ‘At home, then, he didn’t get the affection and security he needed. To report him to the headmaster would have only brought more punishment on his head. It would have turned him even further in on himself.’

‘What did you do, then?’ the judge asked.

‘I had some knowledge of psychology. I wanted to set the boy free of his fears. I gained his confidence and asked him questions. It became clear that he was obsessed with certain violent incidents which occurred on Saturday nights in his mother’s bedroom.’

More gasps came from the gallery, the prosecutor objected, and the judge said, ‘I can’t let you go into all that.’

Rogers continued. ‘Then at least I can say the boy had sex on his mind. A boy of eight. He drew pictures with sexual themes. I didn’t prohibit them. I thought it best for him to work this out of his system. After a while he stopped drawing them and I felt I had been successful. He used to shy away from other boys; after I had dealt with him, he began to play with them and became the leader of a gang.’

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The prosecutor was busy writing notes.

‘What sort of a gang?’ the judge asked.

‘A harmless gang of boys playing. But I found I had bitten off more than I could chew. There were too many people down on him. I won his confidence and then let him down. I had to keep my job. I couldn’t protect him against other teachers if they punished him, and two of them had a set on him. He felt that I had deserted him. On the night of the alleged offence, when I met him, he told me that another teacher, Miss Dane, had made him take off his pants and had put him across her knees and slapped him. She hit him later with a ruler. That was why he stayed away from school. He had no protector at school, since I had failed him. I told him to come back to school or I’d have to see his father. He threatened that he would accuse me of something.’

‘Of what?’ the judge asked.

‘I must go back a bit. Some time before this he told me he had been hiding in his special hidey-hole in the scrub at night, when a man and woman had come into the scrub and unwittingly had performed an act before his eyes. He didn’t say who they were. I told him not to talk about it. On the night of this alleged offence I’m accused of, he told me who they were. The boy told me that if I told his father he had been wagging school, he would tell his secret and say it was me. I said no one would believe him. He said that he would say it was me and some of the schoolchildren. When I met him that night I was on my way to the father’s. I only ran into the boy by accident. I was never closer to him than three yards away. I only spoke to him. I didn’t touch him. I’ve never done or suggested or intended or dreamt of the act I’m accused of, I didn’t hit him with a ruler or make him remove his pants. That story must be based on what the other teacher, Miss Dane, did. I know no more about it than what the boy told me.

‘You may not know that my political beliefs are not reputable in some quarters.’

‘I object,’ the prosecutor called.

‘Objection sustained.’

‘I only mentioned it to show that there may be motivation on the father’s part for believing more than his son said. The father was the occasion of a strike, with which I sympathized. Since then I have been working on the dredge myself. Naturally enough, he is sour about it. I believe that the boy made up some fantastic stories based on what he saw in the scrub one night, on a story about an imaginary incident with other children behind some bushes, and on Miss Dane’s punishment of him before he began to stay away from page 346 school. I don’t believe he alleged what his father suspected and this court is trying me for. I don’t believe he has heard of such perversion. I suspect that the father wants to get his own back on me.’

Rogers finished and the prosecutor got up to cross-examine him.

‘You encouraged the boy to lead a gang?’

‘Yes.’

‘A harmless gang, you said. What did this gang do?’

‘They played cowboys and Indians with another gang. Sometimes they made raids on each other.’

‘You encouraged the boy to draw obscene pictures?’

‘Obscenity is often enough in the eye of the beholder. I looked on them as therapeutic.’

‘The prosecutor turned to the jury and smirked. ‘Therapeutic means health-giving,’ he said.

‘I mean that they enabled him to get rid of his obsessions. I didn’t comment on the drawings. They embarrassed me. But I didn’t prohibit them. And, as I said, he lost interest in drawing any more. That proves my approach was correct.’

‘Was it not your duty to have reported the strangeness of the boy’s conduct to your headmaster?’

‘It would have done him more harm than good.’

‘You didn’t like your headmaster?’

‘No.’

‘What sort of man was he?’

‘He is a man very much like you.’

There were sniggers in the gallery, and the lawyer flushed. ‘You must keep your temper,’ the judge said to Rogers.

‘I suggest that you kept it secret because you feared that if it were known you would lose your job?’

‘That’s only partly true. I hadn’t started to find out what was wrong with the boy then. I knew the headmaster would only make things worse.’

‘You admit it is partly true. I suggest that you deliberately set out to corrupt the boy?’

‘No.’

‘You saw the boy a few minutes ago? Would you say there has been an improvement in his conduct since you first met him?’

‘There was an improvement but he’s got worse again. There has been a great falling-off.’

‘I suggest that you are responsible for that falling-off.’

‘I contend that it has happened since he left the school. Why blame me for the boy? He was in a bad way before I ever saw him.

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If anyone’s to blame for him, it’s not only me but all of us, our whole society. His parents and the society that made them as they are, all the priests and teachers that have picked on the boy.’

‘You do accept some of the blame then?’

‘In so far as I share the values of this society, or don’t try to change them.’

‘What values are these?’ the prosecutor said.

‘What I mean is, society has no pity for a boy like that. It leaves him at the mercy of his parents and, when he’s grown up, it’ll only take note of him when he goes wrong; then it’ll punish him.’

‘When the boy came into the court before, you looked away?’

‘Yes.’

‘You could not look him in the eye?’

‘I couldn’t bear to see you torturing him. That boy’s got more confidence in me than in you. Even if I have let him down. If I’d looked at him you might have said I was exerting a sinister influence on him.’

‘You must refrain from these personal remarks,’ the judge said. He ordered Herlihy to be recalled, and Mike admitted to Rogers that he had ridiculed the suggestion that Peter should see a psychiatrist, also that he did drink a lot, and that his wife often nagged at the boy.

The judge said that in view of the statement made by Rogers relating to Peter, he had decided to recall the boy. Rogers began to question him.

‘Peter,’ he said. ‘You remember that this man said he would punish me? Why did you want to see me punished?’

Peter whispered, ‘Because.’

‘Tell the people, Peter; don’t worry about me. What would you want them to do to me?’

‘Give you the strap. Hit you with a ruler on the behind.’ He grinned tensely and inadvertently.

‘Why?’

‘Because you’re not fair. You didn’t stop Miss Dane from hitting me. You could have stuck up for me.’

‘Has anyone hit you like you wanted me hit?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who?’

‘Miss Dane.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I told her something.’

‘Did you stay away from school because she hit you?’

‘Yes.’

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‘Do you remember that secret you told me? Was that what you told her then?’

‘Yes.’

‘Will you tell the people what it was?’

A glint came into his eyes at being able to tell something like this in public. ‘Miss Dane and Donnie Palmer’s father came into my hidey-hole in the scrub,’ he said.

‘Did you see them?’

‘Yes.’

‘You remember that night I saw you by the road to the dredge? What did I say to you?’

‘You told me to come back to school.’

‘I said I would tell your father if you didn’t. What did you say?’

‘I said I’d tell on you too,’

‘What would you say?’

‘I’d tell them about Miss Dane and Donnie’s father and say it was you.’

‘Was it really me?’

‘No.’

‘Why did you say it?’

‘’Cause, ’Cause I wanted to get even with you.’

‘The other things you told your father, were they true?’

‘No.’

‘You made them up?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘I was frightened. I didn’t want him to know I’d been away from school.’

Then he must have made some progress with Peter, he was so articulate.

‘But he did know.’

‘I didn’t want Mum to know. She’d have hit me.’

‘But your father would have told her anyway.’

‘I wanted them to take my side.’

‘You wanted them to be good to you?’

Peter didn’t answer.

‘Will you tell these people now whether those things you said about me were true?’

‘I told them later I on’y made them up. Dad gave me a hiding.’

The judge turned to the prosecutor. ‘Did you know this?’

‘The father did say something about the boy later saying such a thing. We concluded that he was afraid of the accused.’

‘Are you frightened of Mr Rogers?’ the judge asked Peter.

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Peter spoke more loudly, with slight scorn. ‘No,’ he said. ‘He couldn’t hurt a flea. He used to be good to me. Then he made me wild ’cause he didn’t stop Miss Dane growling at me.’

‘Why didn’t you say the boy had withdrawn the charge?’ the judge asked Mike Herlihy.

‘Well, your honour, kids are unreliable. You can understand my position. I didn’t know whether it was true or not. I wanted it aired in court.’

‘You should have told us before. You might have ruined this young man’s career.’

The judge asked the prosecutor whether he wished to question Peter and he said no. The judge said he intended to direct the jury to bring in a verdict of not guilty: the prosecutor said he had nothing to say.

Turning to Peter again, the judge asked, ‘Are you happy at home?’

Peter didn’t answer. Rogers wondered how any child could be expected to answer such a question, when he had no other experience to compare it with, only the convent.

‘Does your mother hit you?’

Peter whispered, ‘Yes.’

‘Does she hit you a lot?’

‘I run away,’ he whispered.

‘Does your father drink a lot?’

‘He gets drunk,’ Peter whispered with a secret gleam in his eyes.

The judge called the doctor in again.

‘In your opinion does this boy get enough to eat?’

‘Yes, your honour.’

‘You know his home? Do you think he is sufficiently cared for?’

‘No, your honour. The mother is neurotic and doesn’t show much affection for the boy. The father is often drunk.’

‘I’ll ask the Press not to publish anything about the boy’s home life,’ the judge said. ‘Now, son, who do you like best, your mother or your father?’

‘Dad,’ Peter said.

‘Do you like your mother?’

‘No.’

‘Then I’m going to make a recommendation,’ the judge said to Herlihy. ‘I want you to send your boy to a boarding-school or orphanage or other institution where he will be properly cared for. I’m not satisfied that your home is the best for him. Will you do that?’

Grudgingly Herlihy answered, ‘I’d already made arrangements for him to go back to the convent.’

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‘But that’s the same convent he was at before!’ Rogers protested.

‘If you speak out of turn you will be fined for contempt of court,’ the judge said, and to Herlihy, ‘Can you afford to send him there?’

‘When I get my job back again,’ Herlihy said.

‘If you find it difficult, it won’t hurt you to cut down on your drinking expenses,’ the judge said.

‘Now, young man,’ he said to Rogers. ‘You’ve been playing with fire. You’ve been encumbering this boy’s mind with knowledge he’s not ready for. You must realize now that if you hadn’t told him these things you wouldn’t be here now. It is very probable that the Education Board will review your appointment. I’m not making any recommendation that the board should, but I want you to undertake now that you won’t dabble in psychology of this sort again, and that you’ll confine yourself to the school curriculum.’

‘Very well, your honour,’ Rogers said humbly. ‘I undertake that.’

The jury retired for five minutes and brought in a verdict of not guilty.