Rumpole of the Bailey (1987) by John Mortimer

Author:John Mortimer
Format: epub
Published: 1987-07-30T16:00:00+00:00

5

RUMPOLE AND THE LEARNED FRIENDS

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 always, 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.

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