My Ward

He's among the lawyers now, W. says. Amongst them, intermingling with them … they're all much taller than him, he's noticed. They have deeper voices.

Hadn't I counselled him to retrain as a lawyer? It was another of my mad plans, he remembers. We were to retrain as lawyers and to set up a company to accomplish real work in the world. We'd be on the side of the poor and defenceless. We'd carry the poor and defenceless in our own arms …

But who is there to carry him now he needs support?, W. says. Who will bear his weak and fragile body? The lawyers are no use, W. says. What case does he have? How can they make sense of his plight?

I should retrain, W. says, if only to support him. I should leave my job and take on his case, it's only right. For isn't his current predicament my fault? Wasn't it entirely the result of my encouragement and misadvice? He's my charge, W. says, my ward. He's my responsibility.