"Mortimer, John - Rumpole and the Old Familiar Faces" - читать интересную книгу автора (Mortimer John)

"Perhaps, generosity."

"I see. So you want your bung?"

"Oh, not me, Dicko. I've been paid, inadequately, by Legal Aid. But there's an impoverished church tower in urgent need of resuscitation."

"That Eric Longstaff, our rector - he's nor a patriot!"

"And are you?"

"I do a good deal of work locally for the British Legion."

"And I'm sure, next Poppy Day, they'll appreciate what you've done for the church tower."

He looked at me for a long minute in silence, and I thought that if this scene had been raking place in a back room in Soho there might, quite soon, have been the flash of a knife. Instead, his hand went to an inside pocket and produced nothing more lethal than a chequebook.

"While you're in a giving mood," I said, "the rectory's in desperate need of central heating."

"This is bloody blackmail!" Dicko Perducci, now known as Donald Compton, said.

"Well," I told him, "you should know."

Christmas was over. The year turned, stirred itself and opened its eyes on a bleak January. Crimes were committed, arrests were made, and the courtrooms were filled, once again, with the sounds of argument. I went down to the Old Bailey on a trifling matter of fixing the date of a trial before Mrs. Justice Erskne-Brown. As I was leaving, the usher came and told me that the judge wanted to see me in her private room on a matter of urgency.

Such summonses always fill me with apprehension and a vague feeling of guilt. What had I done? Got the date of the trial hopelessly muddled? Addressed the Court with my trou-sers carelessly unzipped? I was relieved when the learned Phillida greeted me warmly and even offered me a glass of sherry, poured from her own personal decanter. "It was so knd of you to offer, Rumpole," she said unexpectedly.

"Offer what?" I was puzzled.

"You told us how much you adored the traditional British pantomime.

"So I did." For a happy moment I imagined Her Ladyship as Principal Boy, her shapely legs encased in black tights, her neat little wig slightly askew, slapping her thigh and calling out, in bell-like tones, `Cheer up, Rumpole, Portia's not far away.

"The twins are looking forward toit enormously."

"Looking forward to what?"

"Aladdinat the Tufinell Park Empire. I've got tickets for the nineteenth of January, You do remember promising to take them, don't you?"

"Well, of course." What else might I have said after the fifth glass of Erskine-Brown St. Emillion? "I'd love to be of the party. And will old Claude be buying us a dinner afterwards?"

"I really don't think you should go round calling people "old," Rumpole." Phillida now looked miffed, and I downed the sherry before she tookit into her head to deprive me ofit. "Claude's got us tickets for Pavarotti - L'Elisird'Amore. You might buy the children a burger after the show. Oh, and it's not far from us on the Tube. It really was sweet of you to invite them." At which she smiled at me and refilled my glass in a way which madeit clear she was not prepared to hear further argument.

It all turned out better than I could have hoped. Tristan and Isolde, unlike their Wagnerian namesakes, were cheerful, rea-sonably polite, and only seemed anxious to disassociate them-selves, as far as possible, from the old fart who was escorting them. At every available opportunity they would touch me for cash and then scamper off to buy ice cream, chocolates, sandwiches, or Sprite, I was left in reasonable peace to enjoy the performance.

And enjoyit I did. Aladdin was a personable young woman with an upturned nose, a voice which could have been used to wake up patients coming round from their anaesthesia, and memorable thighs. Uncle Abanazer was played, Isolde told me, by an actor who portrayed a social worker with domestic prob-lems in a long-running television series. Wishy and Washy did sing to electric guitars (deafeningly amplified) but Widow

Twankey, played by a certain Jim Diamond, was all a Dame should be-a nimble little cockney, fitted up with a sizeable false bosom, a flaming red wig, sweeping eyelashes, and scarlet lips. Never have I heard the immortal line, "Where's that naughty boy Aladdin got to?" better delivered. I joined in loudly (Tristan and Isolde sat silent and embarrassed) when the Widow and Aladdin conducted us in the singing of "Please Don't Pinch My Tomatoes." It was, in fact and in fairness, all a traditional panto-mime should be, and yet I had a vague feeling that something was wrong, that an element was missing. But, as the cast came down a white staircase in glittering costumes to enthusiastic ap-plause,it seemed the sort of pantomime I'd grown up with and which Tristan and Isolde should be content to inherit.

After so much excitement I felt in need of a stiff brandy and soda, but the eatery the children had selected for their evening's entertainment had apparently gone teetotal and alco-hol was not on the menu. Once they were confronted by their mammoth burgers and fries I made my excuses, said I'd be back in a moment, and slipped into a nearby pub which was, I no-ticed, opposite the stage door of the Empire.