One morning as we opened the post, Simpson asked rather casually if I wanted a partnership. I think I just said, ‘Yes please’. My father was ecstatic. This was the Everest in my career, even if it was merely in a small suburban practice.

Morton landscape

James Morton

It didn’t occur to him, or to me for that matter, what liabilities I might be facing. Now, instead of a salary, I had drawings but they were for the same amount. My name went on the notepaper.

It was always a master/servant relationship. Simpson may have called me James but I never called him Bill.  

Things continued as they were, except that when Simpson was away, together with the cashier I could sign cheques for a limited amount. But there was never a formal agreement; no question of what share of the profits (if any) I should have. No question, as was usual in those days, of how much capital I should introduce. I might well be able to stand up in court and argue things but I was far too shy to mention the subject again. Looking back, I suspect Simpson had rather wished he had not opened his mouth in the first place.

I think I can mark that morning as the high point in our relationship. From then on there was a slow but steady slide downhill.

One of the first things which soured our relations was the loss of Dominique, the receptionist who could coax Simpson out of a bad humour in a flash. I think I was the one who actually employed her and at the time I said that it was a capital offence to go out with any of my clients.

One afternoon a client’s wife rang up and said she wanted to come and see me. I thought that with luck her husband had been arrested, but no. She threw a photograph on the desk saying, ‘What do you think this is?’ It was signed ‘All my love, Dominique’.

As soon as the woman had gone I saw Dominique, who saved me from any embarrassment. ‘I’ve got a job as a croupier in the Bahamas,’ she said immediately. She sent me postcards for a year or so.

 

James Morton is a writer and former criminal defence solicitor

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