"Mortimer, John Clifford - Rumpole 01 - Rumpole of the Bailey" - читать интересную книгу автора (Mortimer John)

'Did you pick up this beautiful bit of crackling in a bloody Baptist Chapel?' He poured Miss Trelawny a Coca-Cola.

'Take no notice of him, my dear. You can be teetotal with Rumpole. But let's launch our friendship on a sea of sparkling shampoo!' ' I'd probably sink,' Kathy Trelawny smiled at him.

'Not with me you wouldn't. Let me introduce myself. Pilot Officer "Three-Fingers"Dogherty. "Three-Fingers" refers to the measures of my whisky. My hands are in perfect order.' To demonstrate this he put a hand on hers across the bar.

' I haven't met many pilot officers."

Kathy, I feel I know her well enough to call her Kathy for the rest of this narrative} withdrew her hand. She was still smiling.

'Well, you've met me, my dear!' Sam rambled on undiscour-aged.' One of the glamour boys. One of the Brylcreem brigade. One of the very, very few.' He stood himself another Teachers. 'And if I had a crate available, I'd bloody well smuggle you up in the sky for a couple of victory rolls. You see him ... You see "Groundstaff Rumpole?" Well, we'd leave him far below us! Grounded!' ' I don't think we should do that,' Kathy protested. The only time she stopped smiling was when Sam made a joke.

'Why ever not?' Sam frowned.

'I think I'm going to need him.' As she said this I felt ridiculously honoured.

'Rumpole? Why ever should you need Rumpole? What did you say your name was ?' 'I didn't.' Now my time had come. I had great pleasure in performing the introduction.

'This is Miss Kathy Trelawny. Of "Nirvana", 34 Balaclava Road.' And I added, in a whisper to Sam, 'the well-known unmade bed'.

Sam looked like a man who has just lifted what he imagined was a glass of vintage champagne and discovered it contained nothing but Seven Up. He looked at Kathy with pronounced distaste and said,' No bloody wonder you don't drink.' ' It's just something I don't like doing.' She smiled back at him.

'Naturally. Naturally you won't have a pink gin like a normal girl. Excuse me.' He moved away from us, shouting, 'Drink up please. Haven't any of you lot got homes ?' The piano stopped, people started to drift out into the night.

'Was that meant to be a joke ... All that "pilot officer" business?' Kathy asked me.

'No joke at all. Sam was a great man on bombers. He could find any target you'd care to mention, in the pitch dark, on three fingers of whisky ... He was good, Sam. Extremely good.' 'You mean good at killing people?' When she put it like that, I supposed that was what I did mean. Kathy turned to look at Bobby, who was sitting on the piano stool, lighting a cigarette. She asked me and I told her that was Sam's wife and I used to think she was gorgeous.

' Gorgeous for the war time, anyway. Things were a bit utility then.' 'And now?' I looked at her.' Children seem to grow up more beautiful. It must be the orange juice.' 'Or the peace?' Sam gave us a crescendo version of 'Time Please' and I walked my client to the bus shelter. It was a still, rather warm September night. The sea murmured perpetually, and the moonlight lit up the headland and whitened the strip of beach. There were only very few words for it, and I recited them to Kathy as we moved away from the cars starting up round the Crooked Billet.

' It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, The holy time is quiet as a Nun Breathless with adoration, ' 'We read poetry. At the house,' Kathy told me. 'It's a good way to end the day. Someone reads a poem. Anything.' And then she shivered on that warm night, and said, 'They won't lock me up will they?"

' I told you. We'll knock out the evidence! Put your trust in Rumpole!' I tried to sound as cheerful as possible, but she stood still, trembling slightly, her hand on my arm.

'My brother Pete's locked up in Turkey ... twelve years. He was always such a scared kid. He couldn't sleep with the door shut. Neither of us could.' ' What on earth did your brother do in Turkey?' 'Drugs,' she said, and I wondered what sort of an idiot her brother must be. Then she asked me,' Will it be over soon?' 'It'll be over.' There were lights coming up the hill, to take her away from me.

'That's my bus ... why don't you come and see me in "Nirvana"?' Then the most strange thing happened, she leant forward and kissed me, quite carefully on the cheek. Then she was gone, and I was saying to myself, "Nirvana"? Why ever not?' I walked back to the Crooked Billet in a state of ridiculous happiness. Flower power that year was exceedingly potent.

I was up early the next morning, sinking a boiled egg in the residents' lounge as the sun sparkled on the sea and Bobby fussed around me, pouring tea. Sam was still asleep, God was in his heaven and with old Rice Crispies on the bench I could find nothing particularly wrong with the world. After breakfast I put a drop of eau-de-cologne on the handkerchief, ran a comb through the remaining hair and set off for the Coldsands seat of justice.

When I got down to the Shire Hall, and into the wig and gown, I had my first view of the inhabitants of 'Nirvana', the lotus eaters of 34 Balaclava Road. They were out in force, clean jeans, Mexican-looking shawls, the statutory baby. One tall coloured boy whom I later discovered to be called 'Oswald' was carrying a small flute. I just hoped they weren't going to mistake the whole business for a bit of harmless fun round the South African Embassy.

'Morning. You must be Rumpole. Welcome to the Western Circuit.' I was being addressed by a tall fellow with a rustic tan beneath his wig, a gentleman farmer and gentleman barrister. I looked down to discover if he had jodphur boots on under the pinstripes.

' Tooke. Vernon Tooke's my name. I'm prosecuting you.' 'Awfully decent of you.' I smiled at him.

Tooke glanced disapprovingly at my supporters club.

' I say, Rumpole. Where did you get that shower from? Rent-a-hippie. What a life, eh ... Gang-bangs on the National Assistance?' Did I detect in Farmer Tooke's voice, a note of envy ?