I raised a glass of the champagne he had brought us and drank to their very good health.
E£ Change and decay in all around I see. Our present masters seem to have an irresistible urge, whenever they find something that works moderately well, to tinker with it, tear it apart and construct something worse, usually on the grounds that it may offer more 'consumer choice'. Now, many things may be said of the British legal system, but it seems odd to me that it should be run as a supermarket, round which you trundle a wire wheelbarrow and pick up a frozen packet of the burden of proof or a jumbo-sized prison sentence, with iop off for good behaviour. By and large, I have always thought there is little wrong with the system and all the criticism should be levelled at the somewhat strange human beings who get to run it, such as the mad Judge Bullingham, the sepulchral Judge Graves or Soapy Sam Ballard, Q.c., the less than brilliant advocate whom an incalculable fate has placed in charge of our Chambers. However, in the summer of which I speak, all sorts of plans were afoot, in Equity Court as well as in Parliament, to streamline the system, to give solicitors the doubtful privilege of appearing before Judge Graves, to abolish all distinctions between barristers and solicitors and to elevate solicitors to the Bench. So the Old Bailey hack, skilled in the art of KJadvocacy, which is his daily bread, would be in danger of extinction. Well, the best that can be said of such plans is that Aey do something to reconcile you to death.
In that same summer, strikes seemed to spread like the measles. One day the tubes didn't run, on another the postman didn't deliver (to my great relief, as I was denied the pleasure °f those sinister brown envelopes from Her Majesty). In due j course the infection spread to the legal profession and even 39 into the matrimonial home; but I mustn't anticipate the events which began with that more or less simple case of manslaughter, which I think of as the Luxie-Chara killing, and which turned out to be one of my more interesting and dramatic encounters with homicide.
The scene of the crime was a large garage, yard and adjacent office premises in South London. A huge notice over the open gateway read: ernie elver's luxie-charas. toilets.
DOUBLE-GLAZING. VIDEOS. HOSTESS-SERVED SNACKS.
SCHOOLS, FAN CLUBS AND SENIOR CITIZENS' OUTINGS specially catered for. At the window of an upstairs office Ernie Elver, the owner of the business, a large, soft-eyed man with a moustache, a silk suit and a heavy gold ring, was squinting down the sights of a video-camera, recording, for posterity and for ultimate use in the Old Bailey, what had become a common scene that summer in England.
A small crowd of about twenty pickets was guarding the gates.
It consisted mainly of middle-aged coach drivers, but there were a number of young men among them, and a particular youth in a red anorak was joining vociferously in the protest.
The object of the picket was to stop the coaches, driven by non-union men, from leaving the garage. The officer in command of the posse was a tall, gaunt fellow, named Ben, but known affectionately as 'Basher', Baker, a prominent shop steward of the National Union of Charabanc Drivers and Operators (N.U.C.D.O.). The incident began when a coach was driven out of the garage and towards the gateway to be met with cries from the pickets of 'Bash the blacklegs!', 'Kill the cowboy bastards!', 'Scrag the scabs!' and suchlike terms of endearment.
As the coach reached the gateway, Ben Baker stood in front of it with an arm upraised, saying, 'Halt, brother. I wish to reason politely with you as to why you should not cross this picket line in an officially recognized dispute.' This invitation to a debate had no effect whatsoever on the driver. The coach surged forward. Ben stood his ground until the Luxie-Vehicle was almost upon him, then he stepped aside with the unexpected agility of a bull-fighter and was seen to stoop suddenly, perhaps as though picking something up from the ground. Seconds later, the windscreen of the coach was shattered by a hard object, flung with considerable force. The driver was seen twisting the wheel and he then crashed into the gatepost, where the coach came to a full stop. When the door was pulled open, the driver was found to have been cut on the head and neck by flying glass. An artery had been severed and within minutes he was dead.
The police car arrived in a surprisingly short time. Although, when it stopped by the crashed coach, the band of pickets had diminished and the younger men had scarpered. As the dead coach driver was removed by the ambulance men, who had come on the scene. Basher Baker was standing near the body, singing 'The Red Flag': 'Then raise the scarlet standard high!
Within its shade we'll live or die.
Tho' cowards flinch and traitors sneer, We'll keep the red flag flying here.' He was immediately arrested and later charged with the manslaughter of the coach driver. In due course, and thanks to our old legal system still being in operation. Basher was able to obtain the services of the most wily axid experienced member of the Criminal Bar.
Dramatic events were also taking place in our Chambers in Equity Court. Work was a touch thin on the ground at that time and I used to drop into Chambers to dLo the crossword and as a temporary refuge from domestic bliss. I arrived a little late one morning to be told by Henry, our clerk, that a Chambers meeting was taking place and that they were waiting for me.
Accordingly, I went up to Soapy Sam Ballard's room to find that some sort of boardroom table had been installed. Our Head of Chambers was seated at the top of it with Claude crskine-Brown, now apparently restored to favour, at his elbow. Among those present were Uncle Tom, our oldest inhabitant; Mizz Liz Probert, the well-known young radical barristerette; "cr friend Dave Inchcape; the greyish practitioner Hoskins 41 and one or two others. 'Not another Chambers meeting?' I asked with some displeasure as I joined the group.
'In the new age of efficiency at the Bar,' Ballard told me, 'it might be more appropriate to call it a "board meeting".' 'Quite right.' I took a seat next to Uncle Tom. 'I must say, I feel bored to tears already.' 'I'm afraid yours is a voice making jokes in the wilderness.' Claude, back at the top, was at his most pompous. 'We at Equity Court decided, while you were away doing your stint of minor crime in the North of England...' 'It was gross indecency. In Leeds.' It was also my last serious case and it seemed a long time ago.
'We have decided to put our full weight behind the Government's plans to drag the English Bar into the twentieth century.' Erskine-Brown spoke as though he were making a statement in the House, and was almost overcome by the gravity of the occasion.
'There was a man called Whympering in Chambers in Fountain Court,' Uncle Tom reminded us. 'He told them he was going to drag the Bar into the twentieth century. So he bought a new automatic coffee machine instead of the old kettle they used in the briefs cupboard...' 'Please, Uncle Tom!' Ballard's mind was clearly on higher things than electric kettles. 'We have decided that, to give the consumer a real service, we are going to run Equity Court on strictly business lines. You may look on me as Chairman of the Board. Claude Erskine-Brown is Managing Director. He will be speaking to our new ideas on possible partnership with solicitors.' 'And how will your new ideas be answering him back?' I inquired. 'Rudely, I hope!' 'The Office Italiano.' Uncle Tom was still remembering things past. 'That was what the machine was called. It was meant to brew up the sort of inky black stuff you used to get at foreign railway stations.' I ' 'We're going to start by working proper business hours.' Erskine-Brown began to outline a bleak future. 'Nine to six and no more than an hour for luncheon! And there'll be a simple life form for you to fill in each week. So we can monitor each member's productivity.' 'How do we monitor your productivity, Claude?' I asked, ourely for information. 'By the number of years in chokey you manage to achieve for your unfortunate clients?' 'The up-to-date Office Italiano machine exploded, destroying a number of original documents, including three wills!' Uncle Tom was determined we should hear the end of his story. 'There was a most terrible stink about it. Poor old Whympering was sued for negligence.' 'We're aiming for a more streamlined, slimmed-down operation here at Equity Court.' Claude ignored the interruption and then tried, unsuccessfu
lly, to be witty. 'Do you think you could manage a slimmed-down operation, Rumpole?' 'Very amusing, Claude. But do try to remember, tell the jokes at Chambers meetings.' 'I hope, in the future, we can get through our business in an atmosphere of quiet efficiency,' Soapy Sam Ballard rebuked us, 'without too many jokes.' 'No jokes at all, if you have anything to do with it. Bollard.' I wasn't to be put down, but then neither was Uncle Tom. 'He had to leave the Bar,' he told us, 'and take up chicken farming in Norfolk.' 'Who had to leave the Bar?' Hoskins, as usual, was a few lengths behind.
'This fellow Whympering who introduced the new coffee machine. They went back to the old kettle on the gas ring. Far more satisfactory.' 'I think I went into the law because I wanted to be a barrister.' This was from young Inchcape, who earned my immediate approval. 'I don't want an office job, quite honestly.' 'Times change, Inchcape,' Ballard told him. 'We've got to change with them. Now, to get back to Claude's paper.' Hoskins, however, was troubled. 'I'm not sure we want licitors joining us,' he said. 'Do we need the competition? I speak as a man who has four daughters to bring up and jolly well needs every brief he can get hold of.' 43 'I suppose, Hoskins, it's just possible that sonn-es solicitors have got daughters too.' It was one of Ballard's better lines but Mizz Liz Probert, who had been frowning thoughtfully, piped up, 'If we're making these changes...' 'Oh, we are, Probert,' Ballard told her firmly. "The Lord Chancellor expects it of us. Very definitely.' 'Carry on, Elizabeth. We'd like to hear your contribution.
Don't be shy.' Claude smiled at her in the sickly an d yearning manner he reserves for young ladies.
'Then why don't we become a really radical Charntbers?' Liz suggested, and this triggered off more memories From Uncle Tom. 'This fellow Whympering was a bit of a radlical. Wore coloured socks, from what I can remember.' 'I mean, why don't we concentrate on civil liberties?' Liz's intervention was clearly going down like a lead boalloon at the board meeting. 'Stop the Government using the Courts for another spot of union-bashing. My Dad knows a uniion leader who's been arrested. That's just the sort of case...'' 'Defending trades unions?' Ballard looked painedl. 'I don't think that's quite the sort of image we want to g:iwe Equity Court.' 'I'm afraid I agree.' Claude was soaping up to Sa-nn Ballard.
'Arguing cases for the Amalgamated Sausage-Skin Operatives, or whatever they are. Not quite the name of the garme at this particular moment in history.' 'Oh, really, Claude! You're a barrister, aren't yyou? You belong to the oldest trade union of the lot,' Liz gave it to him straight, 'cram full of restrictive practices.' 'Well, really, Elizabeth! Isn't that just a little bit Bhard on a fellow?' Erskine-Brown smiled at the young radical, wvith all his charm, but I applauded her aim. 'Got you there, old, cdarling!' I told him. 'Mizz Liz Probert has scored a direct hit. BBelow the waterline!' That evening, when I made my duty call at Pommerooy's Wine Bar for a glass of Chateau Fleet Street, my alcohol levvel having sunk to a dangerous low, I came upon our clerk sitting alone at the bar and looking extremely doleful. 'Why so pale and wan, I 44 fond Henry?' I asked politely, and I must say his answer surprised me. 'To be quite honest with you, Mr Rumpole, I am seriously considering industrial action.' At which point I advised him to consider another drink instead and instructed Tack Pommeroy to put a mammoth-sized Dubonnet and bitter lemon. Henry's favourite refreshment, on my slate. At this, my clerk paid me an unusual tribute, 'You're a generous man, Mr Rumpole.' 'Think nothing of it. Henry.' 'If only there were other gentlemen in Chambers as generous as you, Mr R.' 'Meaning, Henry?' 'Meaning Mr Erskine-Brown.' 'To name but a few?' 'Ah, there, Mr Rumpole. You've put your finger on it. As is your way, sir. As is your invariable way.' I was quite overcome by my clerk's tribute and I tended to agree with his general conclusions, 'Old Claude was behind the door when they handed out generosity.' 'It's not that, sir. It's his business plan. To slim down Chambers, Mr Rumpole.' At which, my unhappy clerk lowered his nose towards the large Dubonnet.
'Never trust anyone who wants to slim down anything, Henry.' I raised my glass in a general salutation. 'God rot all slimmers!' 'He's suggesting taking me off my percentage, sir. And putting me on wages! He says a clerk should be a constant figure on their new balance sheets. Should I withdraw my labour?' 'Industrial action by barristers' clerks?' I was doubtful. 'It sounds a bit like a strike by poets or pavement artists. Hardly going to bring the country to its knees.' 'Too true, Mr Rumpole. Too very true. So I'd be grateful of Your opinion.' 'My opinion. Henry, is this. You and I are the last of the freelancers.' I came out with a speech I had been polishing for some tlrn, 'We're the knight errants of the law, old darling.
e rode the world with our swords rusty and our armour 45 squeaking. We did battle with the fire-breathing dragons on the Bench and rescued a few none too innocent damsels in distress. We don't fit anyone's business plan or keep office hours or meet productivity targets. We can't offer the consumer any choice but freedom or chokey. It may well be, Henry, that our day is over.' 'Over, Mr Rumpole?' ' "From too much love of living."' I gave him a choice bit of Swinburne at his most melodious: 'From hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may be That no man lives forever, That dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea...' 'There now, does that cheer you up. Henry?' 'Not very much, sir. If I have to be extremely honest.' He had, however, perked up considerably about three hours, and numerous large reds and Dubonnets, later, when we filtered out into Fleet Street. I was still in a moderately melancholy mood, however, and lamenting life passing, as I gave my clerk, and the rest of the bus queue, my version of Walter Savage Landor, which went, so far as I can remember, as follows: 'I strove with everybody that was worth my strife, I loved the Bailey and the Uxbridge Court, I warmed both hands before the fire of life; It sinks, and you and I are off, old sport.' As the bus crawled towards Gloucester Road, I was conscious that it was somewhat later than usual. Accordingly, as soon as I let myself into the mansion flat, I called out, as cheerfully as 11 possible, 'Hilda! Hilda!' I repeated the cry as I searched ji, through the sitting-room, the bedroom and finally entered the kitchen. This room was in an orderly condition and showed no signs of anyone being about to prepare anything like dinner.
Ac I surveyed this discouraging scene, I heard the front door rnen and my wife joined me. Something in her manner sugeested that the welcome was unlikely to be warm. She asked me what I was doing and I said I was looking for the note.
'Which note?' 'The one that says "Your stew's in the oven".' 'There isn't one.' 'Why not?' 'Because there isn't any stew in the oven.' 'Chops, then. Actually, I'd prefer chops.' 'There aren't any chops in the oven either.' At this point I opened the oven door and found that it was, as she had predicted, empty. All the same I was determined not to make trouble. 'Well, if you'd like to run something up, I don't really mind what it is,' I told her. Her answer, I have to confess, astonished me. 'Rumpole, I'm not going to run anything up. I waited for you until eight o'clock. Then I went out for a bridge lesson with Marigold Featherstone.' 'I'm sorry. There was a problem in Chambers,' I explained.
'I had to commiserate with Henry.' 'Oh, I expect you did.' I'm afraid I detected a note of cynicism in Hilda's voice. 'And I suppose that meant carousing with him too.' 'I had to carouse a bit,' I explained, 'in order to commiserate.' 'Daddy would have drawn the line at carousing with his clerk.' 'Your Daddy wasn't much of one for carousing with anyone, was he?' 'Let's hope you drew the line at singing. This time.'* 'No, of course we didn't sing. Things have got past singing.
Although I did recite a bit of poetry. Look, Hilda. You don't feel like turning your hand to a little cookery?' No, Rumpole. I'm finished with cooking for you, when you don't come home until all hours. I'm sorry, this is the end of the line.
'You're not leaving home?' I did my best to exclude any note of eager anticipation from my voice.
'No, Rumpole. I am not leaving home. I am taking industrial action. Withdrawing my labour!' 'Hilda! Not you too?' I looked at her in astonishment. I had not yet seen She Who Mu
st Be Obeyed in the role of a shop steward.
'It's not what you know, but who you know that matters', as my learned friend Claude Erskine-Brown is fond of saying, although the fact that he was so well acquainted with Miss Tricia Benbow, the fair instructing solicitor, got him into quite a bit of trouble lately. I knew Mizz Liz Probert pretty well, and she knew her father. Red Ron Probert, the much-feared and derided Labour Councillor, even better. Red Ron had lots of lines out to members of the trades union movement, including that well-known libertarian Ben Basher Baker of N.U.C.D.O., and this chain of friendship landed me and Liz Probert briefs for the Defence in the Luxie-Chara case. Accordingly, we made a tryst with the client and met in the interview room at Brixton, where Liz, Mr Bernard, our solicitor, and I sat around the Basher hoping to hear something to our, and his, advantage.
Our client was the sort of man who always seems to be suffering from a deep sense of injustice. His beaky nose and tuft of unbrushed, receding hair, combined with a paunch and long, thin legs, gave him the appearance of a discontented heron.
'Brother Rumpole, Sister Probert, the brother from the solicitors' office.' He started off, as though he were addressing the strike committee, 'Comrades and brothers.' 'You make it sound like a case in the Family Division,' I told him.
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