"Mortimer, John - Rumpole A La Carte" - читать интересную книгу автора (Mortimer John)

162The quack By Appointment to the House of Rumpole used to be a certain Dr MacClintock, a Scot of the most puritanical variety, who put me on the scales and sentenced me to a spell on nothing more sustaining than a kind of chemical gruel called Thin-0-Vite. He did this with the avowed intent of causing a certain quantity of Rumpole to vanish into thin air and leave not a wrack behind. I never felt that this was a scheme likely to contribute to anyone's good health, and readers of these chronicles will recall that MacClintock kicked the bucket not long after prescribing it.* The poor old darling was your pessimistic brand of quack who foresees death following hard upon your next slap-up tea of crumpets and Dundee cake.

So you don't want a quack who is too gloomy and turns your mind to being carried downstairs in your box by sweating undertaker's men complaining of the weight. On the other hand, the quack who tells you there's absolutely nothing wrong with you and that you've got the liver of a five year old and you'll probably go on forever is also disconcerting. Does he protest too much? Is he just trying to keep up your spirits?

And has he secretly informed She Who Must Be Obeyed that you have, at the best, two more weeks to live? On the whole, and to sum up, all you can say is that a man's relationship with his quack is a matter of mutual confidence and judicious balance.

When Dr MacClintock was translated to the great geriatric ward in the skies, the responsibility for the health and wellbeing of the Rumpoles eventually passed to Dr Ghulam Rahmat. Dr Rahmat had been highly spoken of by MacClintock, who had made him a partner in that small quackery which served the area around Froxbury Mansions. He was a short, thick-set man, perhaps in his late forties, with greying "air and large, melting brown eyes behind heavy spectacles.

He was the most optimistic, indeed encouraging, quack I have ever known.

See 'Rumpole and the Quality of Life' in Rumpole and the Age of miracles, Penguin Books, 1988.

I 3 'How are you, Rumpole?' 'I am dying, Egypt, dying.' She Who Must Be Obeyed, whose title, as you will know, derives from the legendary and all-powerful Queen Cleopatra, answered me with a brisk 'Then we'd better call the Doctor.' 'Call nobody,' I warned her, wincing at the deafening sound of my own voice. 'I am returning to my bed. There's nothing on today except a Chambers meeting to consider the case of a Mrs Whittaker who wants to come in as a pupil to ErskineBrown.

That's something worth missing. If Henry telephones tell him that Rumpole's life is ebbing quietly away.' 'Stuff and nonsense, Rumpole. You drank too much, that's all.' Was that all? My head felt as though I had just received a short back-and-sides from the mad axe-man of Luton and a number of small black fish seemed to be swimming before my eyes. No doubt it was all because the Lord Chancellor, in a moment of absent-mindedness, had decided to make Hoskins a circuit judge. Hoskins, the colourless and undistinguished member of our Chambers, mainly concerned with the heavy cost of educating his four daughters, had never found it easy to come by or do his briefs. Now, presumably on the basis that if you can't argue cases you'd be better off deciding them, Hoskins had been elevated to the Circus Bench. The net result was a party in Chambers, at which the large and hungry-looking Misses Hoskins appeared and giggled over their sherry. This soiree was followed by a longer and more serious session in Pommeroy's, which had ended once again, I regret to say, with Henry and me recalling the great hits of Dame Vera Lynn. So now I turned my face to the wall, closed my eyes and knew what it was like to stand loitering on the edge of eternity.

'And how is the great barrister-at-law feeling now?' I was awoken from a troubled doze by a voice which sounded like that of an actor playing the part of an Indian doctor. His dialogue also had the sound of words invented to create a a character. This was my first meeting with him, but in all our subsequent encounters I felt that there was something unreal, almost theatrical, about Ghulam Rahmat, and the way he 164pronounced the absurd title he always insisted on giving me, 'barrister-at-law'.

'I am,' I confessed to the smiling character at my belside, 'feeling like death.' 'Temporary, sir. A purely temporary indisposition. No need to fly the flag over the Old Bailey at half-mast yet awhile.

Tomorrow there will be rejoicing there. The crowds ir1 the street will be cheering. Word will go round. The great barrister-at-law is returned to us, stronger than ever. I hat's told your good lady while you were sleeping, sir. From the look of him, your husband strikes me as strong as a horse.' Now I had a lifetime's experience of the evil after-effts of over-indulgence in Pommeroy's plonk, but they had, up till now, not included the presence of an Asian quack doing Peter Sellers impressions at the Rumpole bedside. I appealed to Hilda, who had joined the party.

'Did you tell Doctor...' 'Rahmat, sir. Ghulam. Medical doctor. Bachelor of Arts of the University of Bombay. A professional like you, sir. But not with a title so imposing and universally feared as barrisier-atlaw.' 'Did you tell Dr Rahmat that I felt near to death?' I asked Hilda.

'We are all near to death.' The thought seemed to cause the Doctor a good deal of amusement. He began to laughi but suppressed the sound as though it were somehow impolite, like a belch. 'But, no doubt, Mr Rumpole will survive us all.

Sit up, please. Will you do me the honour to let me listen to your chest? What a lung you have there, sir! It's a pleasure to listen to your hearty breathing. No doubt about it. Youftill go on forever.' 'Really?' I must say the man had cheered me up considerably.

'So there's nothing seriously wrong?' Nothing at all. I diagnose a severe attack of the collywobbles brought on by food-poisoning, perhaps?'. ood-poisoning?' She Who Must repeated with an unbeliev"ig sigh.

r ich I prescribe two Alka-Seltzers in a glass ofater, 165 strong black coffee, a quiet day in bed and even more than the usual kindness and consideration from your lady wife And tomorrow we shall say the barrister-at-law is himself again!' When she had seen the medical man off the premises and returned to the sick-room, I restrained myself from telling Hilda that for her to treat me with more than her usual kindness and consideration wouldn't greatly tax her ingenuity.

Instead, I gave her a weak smile and quaffed the Alka-Seltzer.

'What a very charming and sensible quack,' I said as I effervesced quietly.

But events were soon to occur which placed considerable doubt on the charm and good sense of Dr Ghulam Rahmat.

The following facts emerged during the subsequent proceedings.

At 10.30 a.m. on the day in question, the waiting-room in the local surgery was full of assorted bronchials, flus, eczemas, rheumatics, carbuncles and suspected and feared antisocial diseases. The receptionist, a Miss Dankwerts, was seated behind her desk, in charge of the proceedings. The names of the doctors were written upon an electric device on the wall behind her, and beside each name a red light flashed if they were engaged or a green if they were available. At the moment with which we are concerned Dr Rahmat's light was red as he was seeing a Miss Marietta Liptrott, who had been waiting to be treated for a sore throat. She had previously been a patient of Dr Cogger, but as he was busy she had asked specifically for the Indian doctor. Miss Liptrott had been closeted with her chosen quack for about ten minutes when a scream was heard from behind Dr Rahmat's door. With her clothes somewhat disarrayed, she flew past the assorted complaints and the startled receptionist and, crying, 'The beast! The beast!', rushed out of the building and into the wastelands around the Gloucester Road. The doctors were accustomed to press their (1 buttons as soon as a patient left, but Dr Rahmat's light remained red for some time after Miss Liptrott ran out. When it changed to green and his next patient, a Mrs Rodway, was! admitted she found the Doctor nervous, apparently unable to 166entrate on her urticaria and looking, so the witness was to Sify, as though 'he'd had the fright of his life'.

Towards the end oftne afternoon surgery on that day, that s to say shortly after six o'clock, I happened to call in to get a prescription for She Who Must Be Obeyed (whose blood pressure is inclined to rise, especially if I have overstayed my allotted time in Ponimy'''), The surgery was almost empty, but a youngish man in a blue suit was opening his briefcase the receptionist's desk and I saw it contained a number of printed folders, pill bottles and a portable telephone. I took him to be the rep fora nrm ░f manufacturing chemists and he was rattling on about the wonders of a miracle cure for something or other whenDr Cogger's light went green and he shot out of his door and recognized me.

'Hullo there Mr Rumpole.' Tim Cogger had treated me on a couple of occasions for temporary voice loss, the occupational hazard of Old Bailey hacks and opera singers. He was considerably younger than old MacClintock, but he seemed to have inherited the leadership of the practice. Cogger was the hearty type of quack who once played rugby football for Barts and seemed to believe in the short, sharp shock treatment for most illnesses. H0 was continually complaining that his patients were 'typical National Health pill-scroungers' and, on my rare visits to hiltti he seemed to regard a head cold as the mark of a wimp. 'You're looking well!' he told me, as though daring me to complain ░f anything.

'I was looking forD1" Rahmat,' I said. 'He promised my wife a prescription.' 'Oh, I'm afraid Rahmat's gone home.' Dr Cogger seemed to know all about something extremely serious. 'He may not be back at work for a day or two. If it's for Mrs Rumpole, perhaps I could help?' Dr Cogger then got the receptionist to look up Hilda's records and scribbled a new prescription in the most ░bliging manner. I the11 knew nothing of the dramatic event of Ae morning, but by the evening it was certainly service with a ile down at the local quackery.

In due course Miss Marietta Liptrott sent in a complaint to 167 the General Medical Council, alleging approaches made to her by Dr Rahmat far beyond the call of medical duty. With the ponderous tread which characterizes all judicial proceedings, that august body began to move towards the trial of my encouraging quack for serious professional misconduct. Meanwhile life in Equity Court continued as usual without any earth-shaking changes. Uncle Tom perfected his putts in the clerk's room, where Henry and Dianne did their best to control their emotions and only allowed themselves a few covert glances of mutual adoration as they unwrapped their sandwiches at lunchtime. Mizz Liz Probert tried to start a movement to turn Chambers into a cooperative dedicated to the entirely fallacious principle that all barristers are created equal, but whenever she brought up the subject, Claude ErskineBrown stuffed bits of his Walkman into his ears and she was left listening to the distant twittering of Die Walkure. Phillida Erskine-Brown, our Portia, continued to star in a number of causes celebres and enjoyed a success which Claude took with manful resignation. Sam Ballard made out a list of do's and don'ts for members of Chambers, which he pinned up on the notice-board in the clerk's room. This included such precepts as: DO NOT ALLOW SUCH ARTICLES AS SOLICITORS' LETTERS OR WITNESS STATEMENTS TO BE DROPPED INTO THE UPSTAIRS lavatory. Well, sometimes there seems to be no other place for them. do not be seen drinking with A LAY CLIENT IN A FLEET STREET WINE BAR. THIS SORT OF THING BRINGS CHAMBERS INTO DISREPUTE. Well, it had been the fortieth anniversary of Fred Timson's first Court appearance under my auspices. Finally, to show that Ballard was deeply concerned about the environment, do remember the forests. save paper. To which I had added, on my return from Pommeroy's after the glass or two with Fred, AND DON'T WASTE IT ON BLOODY SILLY NOTICES IN THE clerk's room. After which the list vanished mysteriously, no doubt to be re-cycled and re-emerge as a Green Party newsletter.