mns  2006-03-11 11:58   

In 1422 Lincoln’s Inn was mentioned in the Black Books although it appears it is in fact older than that. It is the oldest Inn of Court in England and, uniquely, managed to survive the Blitz and stands both as an extraordinary living relic of times past and as a haven in the heart of London.
It is here that John Donne wrote For Whom the Bell Tolls, and here that Charles Dickens based Bleak House.
And here, aspiring barristers who are members of the Inn, must dine twelve times in their first year. So, on a regular basis, JC heads to the Inn where he eats (and drinks and debates), and every time there is a guest night I get brought along.
Dining at the Inn is reminiscent of dining on Commons in Trinity College Dublin, with that air of formality that old institutions retain, but this is older – much older – seeped in something medieval.
The Great Hall is one of the most beautiful halls I have ever been in, with light coming through stained glass windows above the panelled walls. Dozens of long bench-like tables, each holding sixteen people, stretch down the hall, with eight comfortable chairs on either side of each. At the top of the Hall the Benchers (the senior members of the Inn) sit, and they are bowed to as they enter. All the barristers (and aspiring barristers) are gowned. Behind the left shoulder on the gown is a triangular pouch. This dates back to the 1200’s and the origins of the offence of champerty – a barrister was not allowed to have a financial interest in the outcome of a case (for obvious reasons). Back then, if a client wanted to pay directly, he could do so surreptitiously by slipping money into this pouch. Instead of a tie, two white strips of material falling from a barrister’s collar represent the tablets God gave Moses with the Ten Commandments – five on each.

Last time I was there, on JC’s right side was a Muslim woman who was the walking epitome of rudeness. She was clothed so that it was difficult to ascertain whether or not she actually was of the female gender. When she was offered wine she slammed her glass upside down as though she had been insulted beyond reason, and then refused to speak to JC, who is the epitome of politeness. ‘What College are you with?’ he asked. ‘I’d rather not say,’ was her response and that was the end of the conversation.
On my left was a truly beautiful girl from Bangladesh and, as she and I chatted, I became more and more nervous as her husband, who was dourly watching from across the table kept asking what I was saying. Clothed in a pale blue and pink silk sari, her long dark hair tied back neatly, her dark eyes danced in her stunning face, this young girl told me her story.
She had arrived in London last June – just as I did, but in rather different circumstances. Hers was an arranged marriage and she had met her husband in Bangladesh the previous February, and had married him immediately.
Her English was learned from American films and from television and she seemed very happy to talk to me about her situation. While I sit at my desk in Islington writing articles and novels, she works as a carer in her own community, from seven in the morning until eight in the evening, seven days a week. She has scattered hours free during the day, during which time she cleans their home and prepares their meals. I could not work out who it is she is actually working for, and she did not seem to think there was anything unusual in working seven days a week. I asked her if she was happy, and she said yes. Her face lit up as she looked lovingly at her husband and assured me he is a kind man. She was so beautiful and innocent and all I can do is hope that her happiness lasts.
I, of all people, am in no position to comment on arranged marriages. All I can say is that I like the freedom of choice which comes with western culture and I want that freedom to stay. The very fact that arranged marriages last longer is, I suspect, to do with lack of aspiration and the acceptance of a lower level of happiness. I remember that about three weeks after I arrived in London a young woman threw herself, her son and her baby under the Tube – because of the arranged marriage in which she was trapped, and that, I fear, says it all.
Now I have to say, in the midst of these diverse cultures on either side of us, there were the delightful Jane and David who were sitting opposite us and whom I am quite sure we will meet again. My life in London is relatively secluded and I really enjoyed this couple who even managed to make a story about being stuck on the motorway for seven hours with a young child into a witty anecdote. So between the strange tale unfolding on my left and the incredibly funny and enjoyable Jane and David, I had a brilliant evening.
After the port, as we stood to leave, my little Bangladeshi friend put her arms around me and kissed me. I would have like to have given her my phone number, but the truth is I was afraid to. I was already concerned that she might have told me too much and I wanted to protect her.
I hope I did right, although the more I think about it the more I feel I should have given her my number.