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Rumpole and the Learned Friends.
by John Mortimer.

From "Rumpole of the Bailey".

'Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain.' 'Doctor Hanson told you, Rumpole. You're not dying. You've got flu.' I was lying on my back, in a pair of flannel pyjamas, my brow with anguish moist and fever dew, and Hilda, most efficiently playing the part of Matey, or Ward Sister, was pouring out the linctus into a spoon and keeping my mind from wandering. Whatever Doctor Hanson, who in my humble opinion would be quite unable to recognize a case of death when he saw it, might say, I felt a curious and trance-like sense of detachment, not at all unpleasant, and seriously wondered if Rumpole were not about to drop off the twig.

'Fade far away, dissolve and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever and the fret.' As I recited to her Hilda took advantage of the open mouth to slide in the spoonful of linctus. I didn't relish the taste of artificially sweetened hair oil. All the same little Johnny Keats, Lord Byron's piss-a-bed poet, had put the matter rather well. Then more than ever, seemed it rich to get away from it all. No more judges. No more bowing and saying 'If your Lordship pleases.' No more hopelessly challenging the verbals. No more listening to endless turgid speeches from my learned friends for the prosecution. 'To cease upon the midnight. With no pain.' From my position between two worlds I heard the telephone beside the bed ringing distantly. Hilda picked it up and told whoever it was that they couldn't speak to Mr Rumpole.

'Who? Who can't speak to me?' 'Well, he's busy at the moment." Hilda lied to the telephone. In fact I had done absolutely nothing for the last three days.

'Busy? I'm not busy.' 'Busy dying.' Hilda laughed, I thought a trifle flippantly. 'That's what he says anyway. No, Henry. Well, not this week, certainly..."

'It's my clerk. My clerk Henry!' I returned to earth and grabbed the telephone from She.

'I'm sorry to hear you're dying, sir.' Henry, as alwaysj sounded perfectly serious, and not tremendously interested.

'Dying, Henry? Well, that's a bit of an exaggeration.' 'There was a con for you, sir. At Brixton Prison. 2.30. The "Dartford Post Office Robbery". Mr Bernard's got the safe blower ...' A safe blowing in Dartford! I felt my head clear and swung my legs out of bed and feet to the floor. There's nothing like the prospect of the Old Bailey for curing all other diseases.

'I'll tell Mr Bernard you can't be there.' 'Tell him nothing of the sort, Henry. I'll be there. No trouble at all. I'll just fling on a few togs.' As I made for the wardrobe Hilda looked at me as if my recent flirtation with the Unknown had been some sort of a charade.

' I thought you were dying,' she said.

Dying, as I explained to her, would have to be postponed. Safe blowing came first.

When I was dressed, wrapped in a muffler and buttoned into an overcoat by Matey, I set out for Chambers. And there I made two unpleasant discoveries, the first being that there were those who would not have regretted Rumpole's continued absence from Chambers by reason of death. At that time we were suffering from a good deal of overcrowding and Erskine-Brown's small room, which opened into the entrance hall had to accommodate not only Erskine-Brown himself, but his ex-pupil Miss Phyllida Trant, and his two new pupils who sometimes dived into my room to borrow books and then shot out again like frightened rabbits. Also my old friend George Frobisher took refuge there whenever his old friend Hoskins, with whom George shared a room, was having an intimate conference with a divorcee.

As I passed Erskine-Brown's open door I could see his room was bursting at the seams, and, as I hung up my hat and coat in the hallway, I heard the voice of the Erskine-Brown say he supposed they'd have to hang on in that Black Hole of Calcutta a little longer. 'But! he added, 'At least he can't be with us forever.' 'Who can't be with us forever?' It was Miss Trant's voice.

'Rumpole, of course. I mean, he's bound to retire sometime. He's a good age and Henry's been telling me he's not all that well.' I chose that moment to stick my nose into the Black Hole.

'Morning, Erskine-Brown. Nose to the grindstone. Miss Trant?' Miss Trant looked up from the brief she was reading and gave me a smile. She really has decidedly pretty teeth; ever since I deceived her so heartlessly I have become almost fond of Miss Trant.

' Oh, hello, Rumpole. I thought you were off sick.' Erskine-Brown was trying to move George's particulars of nuisance off his statement of claim.

'Recovered now.' I sneezed loudly. 'Rumpole Resurrected. Sorry to disappoint you.' 'That's a nasty cold you've got. Oughtn't you to be in bed?' Miss Trant was solicitous. I looked at her brief, neatly underlined in red and green, points for and against.

'Women are such industrious creatures! Who's your client?' 'Oh, just a thief. He'll have to plead guilty. He's said such ridiculous things to the police.' 'You twist his arm, Philly. Judges don't like you wasting the Court's time with hopeless cases.' Erskine-Brown was one of nature's pleaders. I decided that the stage of her career had come when Miss Trant might benefit from some proper advice.

'Never plead guilty!' I told her. 'That should be written up in letters a foot high. In every room in Chambers.' 'A foot high! We haven't got the room for it.' Erskine-Brown was still sulking, and George looked up from the corner of the desk he was occupying as though he'd just noticed me.

'Hello, Rumpole. Haven't seen you about lately.' 'I've been dying.' 'I say, don't do that. I should miss your help with the crossword.' Thinking uneasily that the sole justification of my existence seemed to be helping George Frobisher with the crossword, I went into the clerk's room and Henry presented me with the brief in the 'Dartford Post Office Robbery'.

'You've got plenty of time, Air Rumpole. They don't want the two of you down there till three o'clock now.' 'The two of us?' I was puzzled.

'The defendant Wheeler's got a certificate for two counsel.' 'Excellent! Giving me a junior, are they? Someone to take a note?' 'Well, not exactly, Mr Rumpole.' Henry had the grace to look embarrassed. 'You're being led. They're briefing a silk. You can take it easy for once.' I was being led! I was a junior barrister, in the 67th year of my life.

'Easy! I don't want to take it easy!' I'm afraid I exploded at Henry. 'Haven't they heard? I'm out of rompers! I'm off the bloody leading rein. I managed the "Penge Bungalow Murder" alone and without a leader.' I came out of the clerk's room clutching my junior brief and was met with a whiff of after-shave as the tall, elegant figure of Guthrie Featherstone, Q.C., appeared through the front door in his gent's natty velvet-collared overcoat and bowler hat, slumming down in Chambers after a triumph in the House.

'Hullo, Rumpole.' He greeted me affably. 'I'm afraid you're going to see a lot of my back this week.' 'Your back? What do you mean, your back")' 'I'm leading you. In the "Dartford Post Office Robbery ".'He smiled in a damnably friendly fashion and went into the clerk's room.