shop on Chancery Lane in London to buy them, which was like stepping back into the 1800s. You basically walk in, they refer to you as ‘Madam’, and you stand awkwardly in front of a huge mirror, waiting for them to bring you a robe to try on. Men dressed in full, long-tail jackets with tape measures around their necks appear, as if from nowhere. It’s like something from Harry Potter – like ‘Yes, thank you for my gown, now where do I purchase my wand and owl?’ Once I’d handed over an extortionate amount of money (don’t even ask), I proudly left the shop and bought a little wheeled suitcase to put them in.
As I approach Chambers, I’m prickling with excitement. It seems only two minutes ago I was here in the blistering sun for my interview. In contrast, there is now a snappy freshness in the air, the kind of tangible feeling you only get as the summer slowly descends into autumn. It reminds me of university, when it signified the new Michaelmas term. Except, now, I wasn’t starting a new term, but a new career. A new, exciting life.
Entering Chambers first thing on a Monday morning is quite different to the last time I was here. It’s now buzzing, and there are suits and suitcases flying in and out the door.
‘Miss Bentley, lovely to see you again!’ says Jill. ‘I’ll let Mr Skylar know you’re here. Take a seat.’
Richard Skylar is my pupilmaster and I’m a bit scared about meeting him. As part of pupillage, you’re assigned to a pupilmaster or pupilmistress. I know, it sounds like some kind of sexual-deviant term. Throughout the first six months, you follow them around wherever they go (but not into the toilet, although this has been heard of), watch them in court and do all the paperwork they don’t want to do. After six months, you’re unleashed upon the public and that’s when the panic sets in. They’re more than just a professional mentor; they guide you through all sorts of personal and emotional issues throughout your career.
Obviously, I’ve done my research. Skylar is a well-established and respected criminal barrister of thirty years standing and president of many organisations I don’t know what the acronyms stand for. He sounds exactly like the kind of barrister I need to learn from. His photo on the website suggests he is a very professional man, if not a little intimidating.
Barristers zoom in through the door, glancing at me in reception. It must be obvious I’m the new pupil because I look terrified and my body language is screaming ‘HELP ME. I AM SCARED’ as I sit bolt upright on the sofa.
After a few minutes, I hear something coming from the corridor which sounds like singing. Oh Christ, it’s probably an early morning conference with a crazy client. Jill doesn’t even flinch; she’s probably used to it. The singing gets louder and I shrink into my chair, hoping the lunatic won’t notice me. As I do, a wild-eyed man leaps into the room, displaying what can only be described as jazz hands, finishing what is his rendition of ‘All That Jazz’ from the musical Chicago.
‘Aaannd aaaalllll thhhhhaaattttt jaaaaaazzzzz… THAT JAZZ! PAHHH!!’ He’s wearing a waistcoat over a garish salmon-pink shirt, with a bright-green tie. He’s an imposing, tall man, looks about fifty-odd, with wild, ‘mad professor-esque’ grey hair, and he is wearing huge, black-rimmed glasses. He doesn’t look like a criminal. In fact, he looks vaguely familiar.
I sit watching, quite horrified, as the man freezes in full jazz hands mode, staring at me.
This is Richard Skylar. My pupilmaster. The man from whom I am expected to learn the fine art of advocacy.
‘Erm…’ I mutter.
What does he expect me to do?
He instantly snaps out of jazz hands mode and stands up straight. ‘Well, come on, Barbie! No time for sitting around, we’re starting a trial in a few hours!’ he barks.
This is utterly bizarre.
I follow Skylar into his attic office and there is no chatting on the way. He sits behind his desk and points to a chair on the other side of it, presumably for me to sit down. Having lugged my suitcase up all the stairs, I am now panting quite a bit, which is quite the disgrace for a twenty-three-year-old woman. The desk is huge and made of dark mahogany wood, covered in bundles of paper, none of which appears to be in any kind of order. Some of the bundles have coffee-cup rings on, highlighted by the bright stream of sun pouring in through the small window.
He folds his arms and looks very stern, seemingly choosing to ignore the musical feast bestowed upon me only minutes before.
‘Right,’ he asserts. ‘My name is Skylar, Richard Skylar. Not Rich, Richard. I’ve given you a day’s grace for today, but from now on you will come into Chambers at 7.30 a.m. and will not leave until I say you can go. I will be giving you weekly advocacy exercises to perform for me.’
I nod intently, hoping Skylar can’t hear my heart racing ten to the dozen or my gulping at the information he has just dispensed.
‘You are my fourth pupil and will be my last, so you’d better be good,’ he goes on.
Oh fuck. The pressure.
‘I’ll try my best, Mr Skylar.’
‘I want you to know that you can always come to me for advice. I am always contactable, day or night. But NEVER call me when Doctor Who is on because I simply will not answer. I am allowed an hour off per week from my pupilmaster duties. Understand?’
‘Yes, Mr Skylar,’ I pant.
‘Richard,’ he states. ‘And the last thing… when it comes to pupillage, know this – there is no such thing as a stupid question. Got it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good!’ he booms.
Skylar then gives me a very quick tour of Chambers, introducing me to about twenty people. I grin stupidly while he tells me all of their names (which I instantly forget). He then tells me that, as a pupil, it is tradition for me to complete a ritual at the start of the day. I wonder what this can be, until it becomes clear when we enter the kitchen.
‘Right, mine is big, black and very hot,’ Skylar states.
‘Sorry?’ I reply, wondering if I’ve heard right.
‘Coffee. Every morning. It’s tradition for the pupil to make all the barristers a hot drink,’ he reveals.
Surely he can’t mean everyone?
‘And yes, I do mean everyone,’ he says, as if reading my mind. ‘Although given that we have taken two pupils this year, your duty will be shared.’
I still haven’t met the new pupil. Richard says he is starting today, too, and so I should try and meet him. His pupilmaster is Gene Dolus, aka Mr Rude from my pupillage interview.
Lucky him.
Time ticks on and we leave Chambers at about 9.15 a.m. and walk to the Crown Court.
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