Newcastle Crown Court is a splendid building located right on the Quayside. The best thing about it is the glass lift which travels up and down the exterior, which we run into after going through security. As it ‘pings’ to the second floor, everyone exits and hurriedly marches to the Robing Room.
The Robing Room is a large changing room where barristers put their robes on ready for court. Wooden lockers surround the walls; wigs, gowns and collars are strewn haphazardly around the place.
Upon entering, the scattering of barristers turns to look at us as we walk to Skylar’s locker. There’s a main top table, occupied by several barristers, already robed. They look like the ‘cool gang’ every college and school has, and which I have never been a part of. A mixture of men and women, their voices lower as we unpack our things. They are shameless in their nosiness; peering over, laughing, blatantly staring.
‘Richard,’ I whisper, ‘why are they all staring at you?’
Skylar laughs. ‘They’re not staring at me, they’re staring at you,’ he says, wrenching his folders out of his suitcase.
‘Me? Why? What have I done?’
Skylar turns to me. ‘You’re “fresh meat”. They’re intrigued. They’ll all want to get to know you for different reasons, very quickly. Happens to all pupils, especially female ones. Just be aware of it.’
Like I didn’t feel exposed enough today. Why isn’t there a lecture on this at law school?
Skylar tells me he expects me to robe, too, which I do, hardly containing my excitement. I must look like a complete novice because, despite practising at home, I still take ten times longer than everyone else.
What do I do with my hair, though?
I’ve practised this so many times at home and thought it looked okay, but now, in the cold light of day, surrounded by other real barristers, I look naïve and silly. The wig is suddenly a very foreign object to me and I don’t know how to handle it, much as childless women hold newborns at arm’s length with a look on their faces that screams ‘WHAT DO I DO WITH IT NOW? TAKE IT AWAY, PLEASE’. It’s taken on a life of its own, much like an excited hamster or something, and I begin to hate the goddamn thing. However I put it on, it looks utterly ridiculous.
Skylar eventually becomes impatient, telling me to stop ‘fannying’ with it and get a move on as we have to go meet his client.
All morning is spent running between courts, the cells, clients and other barristers. Everyone is always in such a hurry and I start thinking seriously about going to the gym and investing in some sensible heels. But the barristers look so dramatic running past. It’s something about their cloaks billowing behind them, like watching a legal pop video with a wind machine… it’s all very theatrical. But before I know it, it’s lunchtime.
Thank God, a breather!
I nip to the loo, which I have been dying to do for the last three hours, without daring to ask if I could go. That’s another thing; going to the toilet when you’re fully robed is quite the chore. Suddenly have all the sympathy for brides on their wedding day. And is it necessary to take your wig off? Physically not, but it just feels weird to be weeing with a seventeenth-century horsehair wig on your head. Almost like I should be pulling a super-snooty historical face as I’m doing it, not checking my smartphone for WhatsApp messages.
Yes, welcome to my new, amazing life.
As I walk out of the loos, I find myself in the middle of a very awkward scene.
A very tall, slim, female barrister is standing in the middle of the otherwise empty Robing Room having a stand off with someone. Her flaming-red curly hair pokes out of her wig at contorted angles around her face, contrasting with her big emerald-green eyes. She is glaring very intently, but scarily, at a man with his back to me.
‘Come on now, I don’t think there’s any need to be so insolent…’ she sneers in a heavy Irish lilt.
‘Well, that’s the pot calling the kettle black, Clarinda,’ the male calmly shoots back.
At this point, the woman clocks me and turns back to the man.
‘We’ll talk about this later, Sid,’ she spits, before calmly walking out.
The male turns round and smiles in a way that suggests he is grateful for the interruption.
‘Laugh a minute around here!’ he smiles, raising his eyebrows. It’s Sid Ryder from my pupillage interview, looking supremely hot and all ‘sexy-older-man-y’ in his robes. ‘Amanda, isn’t it?’ he asks, narrowing his eyes.
‘Yes, it’s my first day today.’
‘Which song did you get?’ he queries in his soft Geordie accent.
‘Sorry?’
‘The welcome song from Richard? Don’t tell me… ‘All That Jazz’?’ he miraculously guesses.
‘Yes! What’s all that about?!’ I ask, relieved that I clearly didn’t just imagine it after all.
‘He does it to all his pupils on their first day. He varies the song, but ‘All That Jazz’ is his favourite. He likes to do the jazz hands,’ he laughs, doing a watered-down version of Skylar’s own effort.
‘It might seem like a stupid question…’ I begin.
‘Didn’t he tell you there’s no such thing as a…’
‘Stupid question…’ we both say in unison, laughing.
‘But what’s it about?’ I ask.
‘He likes to see how you cope with it, how you react. He’ll do weird little things like this all the time,’ Sid explains. ‘I should know, I was his first pupil, many years ago.’
‘Oh, I didn’t know that,’ I confess.
‘Don’t worry,’ he laughs, ‘you’ll get used to it.’
I have the same pupilmaster as Sid Ryder. Swoon-a-roon.
‘Oh, and just ignore that,’ he says, rolling his eyes in the direction of the door. ‘Curse of the very recent ex, I’m afraid,’ he explains, clearly a bit embarrassed by the whole thing.
‘Well, that’s none of my business,’ I say oh-so-casually. ‘I’d better derobe and shoot off. Richard’s waiting for me downstairs. I’ll see you around Chambers’.
‘Yes. You will,’ he says with a smile I want to melt into.
As he walks towards the Robing Room door, Sid gives me one last tip.
‘Amanda, expect the unexpected with Richard. He’ll drive you crazy but he’ll make you into one hell of a barrister’
Hmm…
Skylar is taking me to a restaurant called Rino’s for lunch. It’s a quaint little authentic Italian job around the back of the court.
A small, shabby-but-verging-on-trendy place, this venue has obviously been running for years. The mismatched wooden chairs surround tables with little candles on. Black-and-white photos of customers adorn the walls, all embracing the same dark-haired, cigar-chomping man (presumably Rino). Even though it’s early afternoon and sunny outside, the dark blinds shut the light out, creating an intimate and cosy vibe. But Skylar assures me this is the place where friendships are formed, connections and deals made.
There are already members from Chambers in there so the waiters pull up another table and we join them. Suddenly, I feel even more exposed. Not only do I have to sound intelligent, witty and all-round interesting; I also have to worry now about using the correct cutlery, not spilling anything, and correct pronunciation of ‘bruschetta’ when ordering.
For God’s sake.
More introductions follow as I sit smartly, grinning like a prized pig, forgetting everyone’s