"Mortimer, John - Rumpole and the Younger Generation" - читать интересную книгу автора (Mortimer John)

'The Timsons ... and their like, are no doubt grist to Rumpole's mill,' Wystan was starting on the summing up. 'But it's the balance that counts. Now, you'll be looking for a new Head of Chambers.' 'Are we still looking?' My friend George Frobisher had the decency to ask. And Wystan told him,' I'd like you all to think it over carefully. And put your views to me in writing. We should all try and remember. It's the good of the Chambers that matters. Not the feelings, however deep they may be, of any particular person.' He then called on Albert's assistance to raise him to his feet, lifted his glass with an effort of pure will and oifered us a toast to the good of Chambers. I joined in, and drank deep, it having been a good thirty seconds since I had had a glass to my lips. As the bubbles exploded against the tongue I noticed that the Featherstones were holding hands, and the brand new artificial silk was looking particularly delighted. Something, and perhaps not only his suspender belt, seemed to be giving him special pleasure.

Some weeks later, when I gave Hilda the news, she was deeply shocked.

'Guthrie Featherstone Head of Chambers!' We were at breakfast. In fact Nick was due back at school that day. He was neglecting his cornflakes and reading a book.

'By general acclaim.' ' I'm sorry.' Hilda looked at me, as if she'd just discovered that I'd contracted an incurable disease.

'He can have the headaches, working out Albert's extraordinary book-keeping system.' I thought for a moment, yes, I'd like to have been Head of Chambers, and then put the thought from me.

' If only you could have become a Q.C.' She was now pouring me an unsolicited cup of coffee.

'Q.C.? C.T. That's enough to keep me busy.' 'C.T.? Whatever's C.T.?' 'Counsel for the Timsons!' I tried to say it as proudly as I could. Then I reminded Nick that I'd promised to see him off at Liverpool Street, finished my cooling coffee, stood up and took a glance at the book that was absorbing him, expecting it to be, perhaps, that spine-chilling adventure relating to the Footprints of an Enormous Hound. To my amazement the shocker in question was entitled simply Studies in Sociology.

'It's interesting,' Nick sounded apologetic.

'You astonish me.' 'Old Bagnold was talking about what I should read if I get into Oxford.' ' Of course you're going to read law, Nick. We're going to keep it in the family.' Hilda the barrister's daughter was clearing away deafeningly.

' I thought perhaps P.P.E. and then go on to Sociology.' Nick sounded curiously confident. Before Hilda could get in another word I made my position clear.

'P.P.E., that's very good, Nick! That's very good indeed! For God's sake. Let's stop keeping things in the family!' Later, as we walked across the barren stretches of Liverpool Street Station, with my son in his school uniform and me in my old striped trousers and black jacket, I tried to explain what I meant.

'That's what's wrong, Nick. That's the devil of it! They're being born around us all the time. Little Mr Justice Everglades ... Little Timsons ... Little Guthrie Featherstones. All being set off... to follow in father's footsteps.' We were at the barrier, shaking hands awkwardly.' Let's have no more of that! No more following in father's footsteps. No more.' Nick smiled, although I have no idea if he understood what I was trying to say. I'm not totally sure that I understood it either. Then the train removed him from me. I waved for a little, but he didn't wave back. That sort of thing is embarrassing for a boy. I lit a small cigar and went by tube to the Bailey. I was doing a long firm fraud then; a particularly nasty business, out of which I got a certain amount of harmless fun.