James Morton points out the importance of the written word, and explains that sometimes a solicitor just has to say ‘no’


There was no doubt that my old senior partner Simpson had the most thriving practice in the suburb. There is no doubt also that essentially he was a kindly man who could not bring himself to say no to his clients. No, that is, to their having any sort of case.


This policy inevitably drew me to a very difficult tribunal – The No 1 Legal Aid Area Appeals Committee, I believe it was called. Applications for legal aid were filled out on an A4 blue form and this led to the first problem. Simpson’s handwriting was completely illegible. He could not accept this and so it never occurred to him to have the statement typed out and pasted on the form. As a result there was a high initial failure rate irrespective of real merit. This would drive him into a tantrum and appeals would be lodged forthwith.


Since I had rights of audience in front of the appeals tribunal, it was I who was despatched to argue the case in front of up to nine much older men who individually, let alone collectively, knew far more law than I ever would. A hard time was not an adequate way to describe the proceedings as they pinned me against the wall with questions of fact and law. The other problem was that I still could not read Simpson’s writing and he was far too busy taking instructions for old ladies’ wills to decipher it for me. The results of the appeals, always communicated in writing, did not improve. Simpson was now able to vent his wrath on the postman as well as me and my poor advocacy.

He took to doing the appeals himself and, I was maliciously pleased to note, fared little better. Eventually, he worked out that if he could get a favourable counsel’s opinion of the case this would improve his winning ratio and so he latched on to one of the kindest and most handsome men of that or any era at the bar, Patrick Back.


RJC: Chancery division feared

Back had been captured by the Japanese during the war and it is said that he was the second of the two prisoners who met on the Burma Road. The first said, ‘Isn’t this hell?’ To which Patrick replied, ‘Not as bad as our first year at Marlborough’. Simpson, also a former prisoner of war, had an affinity with him.

They shared another trait. Back could hardly bring himself to say ‘no’ either. Or at least he wrapped up the negatives in such a charming way that the client did not realise his dreams of paydirt had ended there and then.

Eventually, when he had explained things three or four times, Patrick would lean back in his chair and, pulling a white lawn handkerchief from his sleeve, would mop his forehead, rather in the manner of Hutch the old night club entertainer, and sigh, ‘Oh God, Simpson. You tell him’.

But Simpson’s record did improve and on one occasion a client was given a certificate to bring an action in the Chancery Division. In those days it was regarded as the most fearsome of the High Court Divisions. And that was at the time when, at the end of a summons for directions, one Queen’s Bench Master would sweep all the papers onto the floor leaving the solicitor’s clerk scrabbling for them under the desk while the next hearing took place.

Simpson decided that Back must be rewarded for all the hard and, I suspect, often unpaid work he put in for our clients. Despite the fact he knew nothing whatsoever about Chancery work – neither did Simpson and I certainly did not – Back would have the privilege of drafting the pleadings. I would then have the privilege of filing them. Over the months the pleadings had to be amended first in red and subsequently in green.

It was then Back started making serious noises about how much better it would be if someone who knew something about Chancery proceedings handled the matter. Later, he would tell me he had expressed serious reservations from the start, but Simpson would have none of it.

Meanwhile, I was making friends with the staff in the Chancery Division whose initial annoyance at seeing such inept pleadings had turned to wry amusement. My recollection is that brown ink had to be used for the third amendment and I was sent to buy a bottle of purple ink for the fourth. The client did not seem to mind – if indeed he ever understood what was going on. Didn’t you expect delays in the Chancery Division?

However, Back was becoming seriously worried. What was the next colour to be? He summoned Simpson and me for a conference and told us that the case was beyond him. We had to find Chancery counsel and find one quickly.

Simpson simply could not believe his ears. ‘You must, Mr Back, but you must’.

Back told him once more that he could not carry on, but Simpson still would not accept the decision. Eventually, Patrick leaned back in his chair, pulled out his lawn handkerchief from his sleeve, turned to me and said, ‘Oh God, Morton, you tell him’.


James Morton is a former criminal law specialist solicitor and now a freelance journalist