The Country Solicitor

“We’ll use this as a platform. Hmm, looks sturdy enough, don’t you think?” the man draped a cloth over the wooden crate and turned to Saimon.

As opposed to a platform, the latter thought it looked like a makeshift, wholly inadequate winners’ podium but even that was a stretch. At the very least, it didn’t look as though more than a single person could stand upon it without it giving way, but Saimon kept these complaints to himself.

“I know you’re going to say it doesn’t look very stable, but our mayor isn’t a very big man so I think it’ll be fine,” the man said, after glancing at the unconvinced look on Saimon's face.

As though to prove his point the man leaped up onto the platform, in reality a simple wooden crate with a colourful cloth drawn over it, and let his gangly legs cascade over the side. Naturally, the soles of his feet touched the ground.

“I was just thinking that this would do the trick,” Saimon lied.

“Oh, is that so?” the man smiled. “Well, then I’m much obliged.”

He was the aristocratic sort, evident from the way he enunciated his words although one could hardly discern his high birth from the way he was currently dressed; attired in overalls that were slightly too big for his wiry frame and a newsboy cap that was suspiciously clean, he looked more like a parody of a working-class man than an actual member of the masses.

“Harys Lane, by the way,” he greeted. “You and young Agatha must be sweet on each other. Why else would two youngsters look so flushed when they see us old timers coming up the hill? Either way, it’s damned good of you to help us out like this…”

He spoke quickly and, when he was done, wiped some sweat from his brow. He was grinning now, daring Saimon to answer the accusation. Clearly, he had had his fill of work and was now turning to that pastime seemingly favoured by the elites: gossip.

It wasn’t as though Saimon was in love with manual labour either; slowly, he allowed himself to fall in line with the older man’s pace.

“We were just talking.”

“Hoo…” Harys’ eyes blinked in interest. “What about? All sorts of things, I gather?”

“Nothing like you’re implying, I assure you,” Saimon maintained, and then added, “by the way, my name is Saimon.”

“What, Mr. Saimon, you don’t have a family name?” the other man goaded him.

“It’s Inoue.”

“Well, Mr. Inoue, you don’t have to be coy with me,” Harys told him, “because I know all about your predicament, see?”

“You do?” Saimon looked surprised.

“Of course I do. Just look at you, fine sir,” he gestured at Saimon’s garbs, but the latter was confused as to what it was he should have been looking at. “You’re no country geezer, sir. A townie, I’d say, but burnt out from the stresses of life in the township. You’ve come to East Meadow to relax for a bit, hey?”

Saimon sighed, almost as though he were relieved. It was an adequate deduction, he thought, but then again it wasn’t as though his story was particularly uncommon. He had read in an academic journal once that life in the townships were not sufficient to meet the psychological needs of humans, so burnout was a regular occurrence. 

Of course, the author of that paper concluded by advocating for the deindustrialisation of the country and he was widely criticised for it. Still, he couldn’t say Harys Lane wasn’t at least half right.

“Something like that sir,” Saimon admitted. “The air is fresher here in East Meadow, the pace of life a little bit slower. I find myself a bit more present.”

“You’re a man after my own heart,” Harys replied jocularly, slapping Saimon on the shoulder good naturedly. “I’m the same as you, see. I’ve got a steady little legal practice up in Angler’s Port, and I commute from here.”

“The bus journey there and back must be hell,” was Saimon's idle reply.

Harys laughed. “The bus you presumably took down here from the big city runs on the whim of the driver. Oh no, I have my own automobile.”

Saimon whistled, impressed. “You must be a very good lawyer, sir. I couldn’t even imagine having a personal automobile,” he said.

The older man waved the compliment away, almost as though he were embarrassed. “A solicitor's work is dry, I’m afraid,” he remarked sombrely. “Sometimes, I wish I had chosen the less lucrative path of advocacy; certainly, that would have offered me a more exciting life, if less money.”

His fellow outsider felt as though he had come to understand this middle-aged solicitor a little bit more. He was the kind of man who liked to hear about others and their exploits, but rarely had the opportunity to talk about himself and, in actual fact, could not do so without taking off his so-called societal mask.

The façade that one wore in polite company. Perhaps only somebody was introspective as Saimon could draw a conclusion like that. But, in other words, he was an oversharer.

“I’m sure your clients don’t feel that way,” he made an uncharacteristic attempt at encouragement.

“Oh, I suppose I’m a shining light for any person who wants his or her will drawn up in a timely fashion,” the reply was sarcastic, but not bitter. “No, you’re very kind to say so, Mr. Inoue, but the sad fact is that practicing law, at least in my meagre capacity, has actually dulled my legal mind! The treatises I used to write when I was but a mere student of the law!” he declared.

And then, when he was satisfied, he jumped from the platform and turned to face Saimon, who had the tact not to interrupt. “And you, Mr. Inoue, what is your profession?” he asked.

Saimon looked uneasy, not for the first time that day. “I’m a literary scholar,” he told him. “Affiliated with Brightstone College.”

“Ah! Is that the truth of it!?” Harys Lane slapped his hand against his forehead in disbelief. “And this whole time I was talking to a veritable genius! Isn't that the University of Camford? I had aspirations to attend, once.”

The solicitor took a second to bask in the nostalgia of late night swotting and consecutive exams – always more romantic after the fact – and Saimon knew better than snap the older man out of his reminiscence. Eventually, he returned to reality.

“You know, I think a Camford man would make a good match for young Agatha,” he said. “How about it, then?”

The younger man flushed. “I told you we aren’t like that…”

“Come now, didn’t I tell you not to be coy with me?” Harys grinned. “In any case, that girl’s got too much life in her to be stuck here. Take her to Camford, why don’t you? A year or two in a preparatory school and you might find her matriculating at Brightstone College too.”

Saimon didn’t hear him. “I’m sure a girl as beautiful as that has plenty of suitors.”

“Aye, Mr. Jones, the widowed candlestick maker and the butcher’s boy, Mutt,” he sighed at the prospect of the village belle having to choose between  what one could only term slim pickings. “I don’t mean to speak ill of them, of course – she would make a fine candlestick maker, or a housewife, or whatever it is that she ends up doing. But it’d be such a waste, you know?”

“You seem awfully concerned about her wellbeing, Mr Lane,” Saimon queried – certainly, there seemed to be more behind his insistence than a general concern for the girl’s future. “She’s not your niece or anything like that?”

“Oh, surely not,” he shook his head. “I’m just a man who wants to see promising youngsters live up to their potential. If I thought you were getting too comfortable here in East Meadow, I’d be driving you back to Camford myself…”

Saimon chuckled at that. “In that case, why don’t you marry her?” he asked.

Harys raised his left arm, bringing his hand up to Saimon’s eye-level. “It’s a bit late for that now,” he said, wiggling his ring finger. “But if I didn’t already have a missus, and I was about 20 years younger…”

“What are you two talking about?”

Agatha thrust her lithe form between the two of them; like a cat, she appeared suddenly, without any warning, and neither the young scholar or the middle-aged solicitor realized she was approaching until she was already in front of them.

Both were startled, naturally, and this surprise could be seen on their faces. As one might expect, the older man regained his composure first. He straightened his posture and spoke:

“Well, about life and love and all sorts of things.”

Agatha looked unconvinced but didn’t press the issue further and changed the topic. “Mattias says they’re finishing up over there, and that we’re free to go,” she addressed the both of them but her gaze was concentrated solely on Saimon.

She slipped a note into his hand, turned around and sauntered away, her skirts flapping in the spring breeze.