The Collected Stories of Rumpole

by John Mortimer

  ‘It wasn’t Uncle Tom’s fault,’ I told them. ‘I clearly heard him shouting, “Fore!” ’

  ‘He shouldn’t have been shouting “fore” or anything else.’ Ballard showed a very judicial irritation. ‘A clerk’s room is for collecting briefs, and discussing a chap’s availability with Henry. A clerk’s room isn’t for shouting “fore” and driving off into superintendents’ kneecaps!’

  ‘He wasn’t driving off,’ I insisted.

  ‘Oh. What was he doing then, Rumpole?’

  ‘He was getting out of a bunker.’

  ‘Sometimes you defeat me! I have no idea what you’re talking about; there are no bunkers in our clerk’s room!’ Ballard seemed to think that decided the matter.

  ‘It was an imaginary bunker.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘That’s because you have no imagination.’

  ‘Perhaps I haven’t. In any event I can’t see why Uncle Tom has to play golf in our clerk’s room. It’s quite unnecessary.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ I agreed.

  ‘I’m glad you admit it, Rumpole.’

  ‘Just as poetry is unnecessary,’ I pointed out. ‘You can’t eat it. It doesn’t make you money. I suppose people like you, Bollard, can get through life without Wordsworth’s sonnet “Upon Westminster Bridge”. What we are discussing is the quality of life. Uncle Tom adds an imaginative touch to what would otherwise be a fairly dreary, dusty little clerk’s room, littered with biscuits, briefs and barristers.’

  ‘Personally I don’t understand why Uncle Tom comes into Chambers every day; he never gets any work.’ Now Erskine-Brown showed his lack of imagination. If he lived with Uncle Tom’s sister he’d come into Chambers every day whether there was any work for him there or not. Not that there was anything wrong with Uncle Tom’s sister, she’d just worked her way through the entire medical directory without having had a day’s illness in her life. Uncle Tom also, strange as it may have seemed, enjoyed our company.

  Ballard now proceeded to judgement. ‘Uncle Tom and his golf balls are,’ he said, ‘in my considered opinion, a quite unnecessary health hazard in Chambers. I intend to ask him to make his room available to us.’

  ‘You’re going to ask him to leave?’ I wanted to get the situation perfectly clear.

  ‘Exactly that.’ Ballard made it perfectly clear, so I stood up.

  ‘If Uncle Tom goes, I go,’ I told him.

  ‘That would seem to make the departure of Uncle Tom even more desirable,’ Soapy Sam was saying with a faint smile as I left the room.

  So that was how I decided, after so many years enduring the splendours and miseries of an Old Bailey Hack, to leave our Chambers in Equity Court and perhaps quit the Bar for ever. The decision was one which I couldn’t wait to tell that lately reunited couple of lovebirds, She Who Must Be Obeyed and Boxey Horne. As I entered the mansion flat that evening I was singing ‘ “You take the High Road and I’ll take the Low Road, and I’ll be in Zimbabwe before you!” ’ I entered our sitting room and I spotted Hilda pouring Boxey a generous whisky. ‘I have news for you both,’ I told them. ‘My feet itch!’

  ‘What do you mean by that, Rumpole?’ My wife seemed puzzled.

  ‘I can smell the hot wind of Africa,’ I told them. ‘I hear the cry of the parrot in the jungle and the chatter of monkeys. I wish to see the elephant and the gazelle troop shyly up to the waterhole at night. You have inspired me, Boxey, my old darling. I’m leaving the Bar.’

  ‘Don’t talk nonsense!’ Hilda was somewhat rattled.

  ‘I have handed in my resignation.’

  ‘You’ve what?’

  ‘I have informed our learned Head of Chambers, Soapy Sam Ballard, Queen’s Counsel, that I no longer wish to be part of an organization which can’t tolerate golf in the clerk’s room.’

  ‘Uncle Tom!’ Hilda got my drift.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’ve never understood why he had to play golf in the clerk’s room.’

  ‘Because no one sends him any briefs,’ I enlightened her. ‘Do you think he wants to be seen doing nothing? Anyway. I’ve handed in my resignation. One more case – I intend to defeat Soapy Sam over a spot of illicit arms dealing – and then travels Rumpole East away!’

  ‘You’re not serious?’ Boxey also looked alarmed.

  ‘Farewell to dusty old law! No more nine to five in the office. Ask for me in the Nairobi Club in five years’ time and the fellows might have news of me. Up country.’

  ‘He’s joking,’ Hilda told her childhood sweetheart. ‘Definitely joking.’ But then she sounded uncertain. ‘Aren’t you, Rumpole?’

  ‘I wish I could come back with you,’ Boxey told me. ‘But …’

  ‘Oh, you can’t do that, Boxey. Of course not. Somebody’s got to stay here and look after Hilda.’ I was gratified to see that they looked at each other with a wild surmise. They wanted to talk further, but I refused to discuss the matter until my Swan Song, the Queen against Stanley Culp, was safely over and, I hoped, won.

  Some days later I invited Phillida for a drink in Pommeroy’s. When we were safely seated with glasses in our hands, she asked me if I were really thinking of leaving Chambers. I told her that my future depended on Ballard, and Hilda’s long-lost cousin, who rejoiced in the name of Boxey Horne. She Who Must Be Obeyed, I explained, said she might have married Boxey.

  ‘And I might not have married Claude.’ Our Portia stared thoughtfully into her vodka and tonic. As Shelley would probably have said, in the circumstances, ‘We look before and after;/We pine for what is not.’ ‘I might,’ she added, ‘have had a husband full of energy, and jokes, with a taste for adventure. Someone unconventional. A rebel who hadn’t been to Bogstead and Winchester.’

  ‘Portia. You’re flattering me.’ I smiled modestly.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘But mightn’t I have been a little old for you?’

  ‘Why did you ask me for this drink?’ Portia looked at me and asked sharply. It was time for me to put my master plan into practice. I began, I hope, as tactfully as possible with: ‘There’s a bit of an east wind blowing between you and Claude on the subject of young Tristan’s education …’

  ‘I don’t see why the family has to be split up.’ She was quite clear on the subject.

  ‘Exactly. A boy needs his father.’

  ‘And his mother, don’t forget.’

  ‘Worst thing that can happen,’ I argued profoundly, ‘for families is to be separated, torn apart by society’s unnatural laws and customs.’

  ‘You understand that?’ She looked at me with more than usual sympathy.

  ‘Handing a small boy over for other people to bring up has to be avoided at all costs.’

  ‘You ought to tell Claude that.’

  ‘Oh, I certainly shall,’ I promised her as I raised my glass. ‘Family togetherness. Here’s to it, Portia, and I hope you support it, whenever you sit in judgement.’

  Mizz Liz Probert had her own, somewhat uncomfortable, standards of honesty, which were usually calculated to cause trouble to others. It will be recalled that when Claude had incautiously invited her to a night à deux at the Opera, she immediately told Phillida of the invitation, thus causing prolonged domestic disharmony.* It was therefore predictable that she should tell Claude that she had seen Phillida on a bench in the Embankment Gardens, drinking champagne and holding hands with a famous film star. My learned friend, Mr Erskine-Brown, gave me an account of this conversation at a later date. It seems that Mizz Probert had her own explanation for this event, one hard to understand by anyone not intimately connected with the North Islington Women’s Movement. ‘You drove her to it, Claude,’ Liz said. ‘If a woman does that sort of thing, it’s always the man’s fault, isn’t it?’

  ‘And if a man does that sort of thing?’

  ‘Well, it’s always his fault. Don’t you understand? Phillida’s just rebelling against your enormous power and sexual domination.’

 
‘Oh?’ Claude tried to reason with Mizz Probert. ‘Phillida is a Queen’s Counsel. She wears a silk gown. She’s about to sit as a Recorder. In judgement at the Old Bailey. I’m still a junior barrister. With a rough old gown made of some inferior material. How can I possibly dominate her?’

  ‘Because you’re a man, Claude,’ Liz told him. ‘You were born for domination!’

  ‘Oh, really? Do you honestly think so?’ At the time, Claude was not entirely displeased by this view. Later, in the privacy of his home, Phillida told me, he apologized to his wife for his terrible habit of domination. ‘I suppose I can’t help it; it’s a bit of a curse really. Men just don’t know their own strength.’

  ‘Claude’ – Phillida tried to keep a straight face – ‘I have to decide on the shirts you want to buy. When we went out to dinner with the Arthurian Daybells you asked me to remind you whether you like smoked mackerel!’

  ‘Do I?’ her husband asked seriously.

  ‘Not very much.’

  ‘Ah. That’s right.’

  ‘You seem to suffer from terminal exhaustion directly your head hits the pillow. Can you please tell me exactly how you are exercising this terrible power over me? Could you give me one single instance of your ruthless domination?’

  ‘I suppose it’s just the male role. I’ll try not to play it, Philly. I honestly will.’

  ‘Oh, Claude!’ Portia could no longer contain her laughter. ‘Do you think I ought to stay here and look after you?’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to stay here now, won’t you, anyway?’ Claude told his wife.

  ‘Because you tell me to?’ She was still laughing.

  ‘No. Because you’re a Recorder.’

  Portia had become a part-time judge and Portia was devoted to the idea of keeping children within the family circle. There was only one element of my equation left to supply, and to do so I entered our clerk’s room with the intention of having a confidential chat with Henry. As good luck would have it, I found him patiently addressing Dianne, who sat with a book on her typewriter. ‘ “I knew that suddenly, when we were dancing,” ’ Henry told her, ‘ “an enchantment swept over me. An enchantment that I’ve never known before and shall never know again. My heart’s bumping. I’m trembling like a fool.” ’

  ‘ “Thumping”,’ Dianne insisted.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘ “My heart’s thumping.” Otherwise very good.’

  ‘The late Sir Noël Coward, Henry?’ I guessed.

  ‘Oh, yes, Mr Rumpole. The Bexley Thespians. We’re putting on Tonight at 8.30, sir. We likes his stuff. I do happen to have the starring role.’

  ‘With your usual co-star?’ Fate was giving me unusual help with R. v. Stanley Culp.

  ‘I shall be playing opposite Miss Osgood from the Old Bailey List Office. As per always.’

  ‘Miss Osgood, who fixes the hearings and the Judges. A talented actress, of course?’

  ‘Sarah Osgood has a certain magic on stage, Mr Rumpole.’

  ‘And considerable powers in the List Office also, Henry. Remind me to send her a large bouquet on the first night. And for our Portia’s début on the Old Bailey Bench, I thought it would be nice if Miss Osgood gave her something worthy of her talents.’

  ‘No doubt you had something in mind, sir?’ Our clerk wasn’t born yesterday.

  ‘R. v. Culp.’ I told him what I had in mind. ‘A drama of gun dealing in Notting Hill Gate. Likely to run and run. It might be Portia’s way to stardom. Mention it to your fellow Thespian during a break in rehearsals, why don’t you?’ My hint dropped, I moved out of the room past our ever-putting oldest inhabitant. ‘Still golfing, Uncle Tom?’

  ‘Ballard wants to see me,’ he said, almost proudly.

  ‘Oh, yes. When?’

  ‘Any time at my convenience before the end of the month. Do you think he’s fixed me up with a junior brief?’

  ‘Would you like that?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I haven’t kept my hand in at the law.’

  ‘Never mind, Uncle Tom. Your putting’s coming on splendidly!’ And I left him to it.

  And so it came about that fate spun its wheel and, with a little help from my good self and Miss Osgood at the List Office, the Queen against Culp was selected as the case to be tried by Mrs Recorder Erskine-Brown when she made her first appearance on the Old Bailey Bench. She sat there, severely attractive, a large pair of horn-rimmed glasses balanced on that delicate nose which has sent the fantasies whirling in the heads of many barristers, distinguished and otherwise. I thought how I had advised and trained her up, from white-wig to judge’s wig, to lean to the defence, particularly when the defendant has a twelve-year-old son who is the apple of his eye. I also thought that there was no judge in England better suited to try the case against Stanley Culp.

  As I rose to cross-examine the Special Branch Superintendent, Portia selected a freshly sharpened pencil and prepared to make a note. This was in great contrast to such as Judge Bullingham who merely yawns, examines his nails or explores his ear with a little finger during cross-examination by the defence, that is, if he’s not actively heckling.

  ‘Superintendent Rodney,’ I began. ‘Have you, as a Special Branch officer, ever heard of the Loyalist League of Welfare and Succour for Victims of Terrorist Attack?’

  ‘Not till your client told us they sent him those packing cases.’

  ‘Or of a Mr Banks, who apparently runs that philanthropic organization?’

  ‘Not till your client told us his story.’

  ‘A story you believed?’

  ‘If I had we wouldn’t be here, would we, Mr Rumpole?’ Rodney smiled as though he’d won a point, but the Judge interrupted for the first time.

  ‘Mr Rumpole. What does it matter what this officer believes? It’s what the jury believes that matters, isn’t it?’

  ‘Your Ladyship is, of course, perfectly right. A Daniel come to judgement,’ I whispered to Mizz Probert. ‘Yea, a Daniel!’ I then asked, ‘Did my client, Mr Culp, give you a description of Banks, the man who had asked him to store the packing cases for him?’

  ‘Superintendent,’ her Ladyship said quite properly, ‘you may refresh your memory from your notes, if you wish to.’

  ‘Thank you, my Lady.’ He turned a page or two in his notebook. ‘Yes. Culp said, “Mr Banks called on me and asked me to store some … medical supplies. He was a man of average height, he had gold-rimmed glasses with …” ’

  ‘Slightly tinted lenses?’ I suggested.

  ‘Tinted lenses. Yes.’

  ‘Well. You know perfectly well who that is, don’t you?’ I asked, looking at the jury.

  ‘Excuse me, Mr Rumpole’ – the Superintendent rather overacted complete bewilderment – ‘I have absolutely no idea.’

  ‘Really?’ And I asked, ‘Have the Special Branch made any effort whatsoever to find this elusive Banks? Have you sought him here, Superintendent? Have you sought him there?’

  ‘My Lady’ – Soapy Sam arose with awful solemnity – ‘it is my duty to object to this line of questioning.’

  ‘Your duty, Mr Bollard?’ I thought his duty was to sit still and let me get on with it.

  ‘My patriotic duty!’ The fellow seemed about to salute and run up a small Union Jack. ‘My Lady. This is a case in which the security of the realm is involved. The activities of the Special Branch necessarily take place in secret. The inquiries they have made cannot be questioned by Mr Rumpole.’

  ‘What do you say, Mr Rumpole?’ Portia was ever anxious to know both sides of the question.

  ‘What do I say?’ I came to the defence of the legal system against the Secret Police. ‘I say quite simply that contrary to what Mr Ballard seems to believe, this trial is not taking place behind the Iron Curtain. We are in England, my Lady, breathing English air. The Special Branch is not the KGB. They are merely a widely travelled department of our dear Old Bill.’ This got me a little refreshing laughter from the jury-box. ‘I should be much obliged for an answer t
o my question.’

  ‘Is the whereabouts of this man Banks vital to your defence?’ Portia asked judicially.

  ‘My Lady, they are.’

  ‘And you wish me to make a ruling on this matter?’

  ‘The first, I’m sure, of many wise judgements your Ladyship will make in many cases.’

  ‘Then in my judgement …’ I whispered to Liz to keep her fingers crossed, but happily justice triumphed and her Ladyship ruled, ‘… Mr Rumpole may ask his question.’ A wise and upright Judge, a Daniel come to judgement, but Superintendent Rodney stonewalled our efforts by saying, ‘We have not been able to trace Mr Banks or the Loyalist League of Welfare.’

  ‘Much good did that do you!’ Ballard muttered to me, and I muttered back, ‘Wait for it. I’m not finished yet, Comrade Bollardski!’ I said to the witness, ‘Superintendent. You arrived at breakfast time on the 4th of May outside the shop in Notting Hill Gate to arrest my client. Who was in the car with you?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Blake and Detective Sergeant Trump, my Lady.’

  ‘And who had told you that a transaction in arms was likely to take place in Mr Culp’s shop that morning?’

  ‘My Lady …’ the Superintendent appealed to the Judge, who ruled with a smile I found quite charming, ‘I don’t think the officer can be compelled to give the name of his informer, Mr Rumpole.’ I accepted her decision gratefully and asked, ‘Was your informer, let’s call him Mr X, in the car with you and the other officers when you arrived at the shop?’

  ‘My Lady.’ Ballard rose again to maintain secrecy. ‘The Court no doubt understands that any information about a police informer on terrorist activities would place the man’s life in immediate danger.’

  ‘Very well.’ Portia saw the point. ‘I don’t think you can take the matter further, can you, Mr Rumpole?’

  I could and did with my next question. ‘Let me just ask this, with your Ladyship’s permission. Did a man wearing gold-rimmed spectacles and tinted lenses get out of the police car in front of the shop that morning and walk away before the arrest took place?’

  ‘I’m not prepared to answer that, my Lady,’ the Superintendent stonewalled again.

  ‘And was that man “Mr Banks”?’ I pressed on.