Rumpole and the Married Lady.
by John Mortimer.

From "Rumpole of the Bailey".

Life at the Bar has its ups and downs, and there are times when there is an appalling decrease in crime, when all the decent villains seem to have gone on holiday to the Costa Brava, and lawfulness breaks out. At such times, Rumpole is unemployed, as I was one morning when I got up late and sat in the kitchen dawdling over breakfast in my dressing gown and slippers, much to the annoyance of She Who Must Be Obeyed who was getting the coffee cups shipshape so that they could be piped on board to do duty as teacups later in the day. I was winning my daily battle with the tormented mind who writes The Times crossword, when Hilda, not for the first time in our joint lives, compared me unfavourably with her late father.

'Daddy got to Chambers dead at nine every day of his life!' 'Your old dad, old C. H. Wystan, got to Chambers dead on nine and spent the morning on The Times crossword. I do it at home, that's the difference between us. You should be grateful.' ' Grateful?' Hilda frowned.

'For the companionship,' I suggested.

' I want you out of the house, Rumpole. Don't you understand that? So I can clear up the kitchen!' ' O woman! in our hours of ease Uncertain, coy and hard to please.' Hilda doesn't like poetry, I could tell by her heavy sigh.

'Just a little peace. So I can be alone. To get on with things.' 'And when I come home a little late in the evenings. When I stop for a moment in Pommeroy's Wine Bar, to give myself strength to face the Inner Circle. You never seem particularly grateful to have been left alone in the house. To get on with things!' 'You've been wasting time. That's what I resent.' 'wasted Time,  and now doth Time waste me.' I switched from Scott to Shakespeare. The reaction of my life-mate was no better.

'Chattering to that idiot George Frobisher! I really don't know why you bother to come home at all. Now Nick's gone it seems quite unnecessary.' 'Nick?' It was a year since Nick had gone to America and we hadn't had a letter since Christmas.

'You know what I mean! We used to be a family. We had to try at least, for Nick's sake. Oh, why don't you go to work?' 'Nick'll be back.' I moved from the table and put an arm on her shoulder. She shook it off.

'Do you believe that? When he's got married? When he's got his job at the University of Baltimore? Why on earth should he want to come back to Gloucester Road?' 'He'll want to come back sometime. To see us. He'll want to hear all our news. What I've been doing in Court,' I said, giving Hilda her opening.

'What you've been doing in Court? You haven't been doing anything in Court apparently!' At which moment the phone rang in our living-room and Hilda, who loves activity, dashed to answer it. I heard her telling the most appalling lies through the open door.

'No, it's Mrs Rumpole. I'll see if I can catch him. He's just rushing out of the door on his way to work.' I joined her in my dressing gown; it was my new clerk, the energetic Henry. He wanted me to come into Chambers for a conference, and I asked him if the world had come to its senses and crime was back in its proper place in society. No, he told me, as a matter of fact it wasn't crime at all.

'You haven't even shaved!' Hilda rebuked me. 'Daddy'd never have spoken to his clerk on the telephone before he'd had a shave!' I put down the telephone and gave Mrs Rumpole a look which I hoped was enigmatic.' It's a divorce,' I told her.

As I walked through the Temple, puffing a small cigar on the way to the factory, I considered the question of divorce. Well, you've got to take what you can nowadays, and I suppose divorce is in a fairly healthy state. Divorce figures are rising. What's harder to understand is the enormous popularity of marriage! I remembered the scene at breakfast that morning, and I really began to wonder how marriage ever became so popular. I mean, was it 'Home Life' with She Who Must Be Obeyed? Gloucester Road seemed to be my place of work, of hard, back-breaking toil. It was a relief to get down to the Temple, for relaxation. By that time I had reached my Chambers, No. i Equity Court, a place of peace and quiet. It felt like home.

When I got into the hallway I opened the door of the clerk's room, and was greeted by an extraordinary sight. A small boy, I judged him to be about ten years old, was seated on a chair beside Dianne our typist. He was holding a large, lit-up model of a jet aeroplane and zooming it through the air at a noise level which would have been quite unacceptable to the New York Port authority.

I shut the door and beat a hasty retreat to the privacy of my sanctum. But when I opened my own door I was astounded to see a youngish female seated in my chair, wearing horn-rimmed specs and apparently interviewing a respectable middle-aged lady and a man who gave every appearance of being an instructing solicitor. I shut that door also and turned to find the zealous Henry crossing the hall towards me, bearing the most welcome object in my small world, a brief.

' Henry,' I said in some panic.' There's a woman, seated in my chair!' 'Miss Phyllida Trant, sir. She's been with us for the last few months. Ex-pupil of Mr Erskine-Brown. You haven't met her?' I searched my memory. 'I've met the occasional whiff of French perfume on the stairs.' ' Miss Trant's anxious to widen her experience.' ' Hence the French perfume?' ' She wants to know if she could sit in on your divorce case.

I've got the brief here. "Thripp v. Thripp." You're the wife, Mr Rumpole.' 'Am I? Jolly good." I took the brief and life improved considerably at the sight of the figure written on it. 'Marked a hundred and fifty guineas! These Thripps are the sort to breed from! Oh, and I don't know if you're aware of this, Henry. There seems to be a child in the clerk's room, with an aeroplane !' ' He's here for the conference.' I didn't follow his drift. 'What's the child done? It doesn't want a divorce too ?' 'It's the child of the family in "Thripp v. Thripp", Henry explained patiently, 'and I rather gather the chief bone of contention. So long now, Mr Rumpole.' He moved away towards the clerk's room.' Sorry to have interrupted your day at home.' 'You can interrupt my day at home any time you like, for a brief marked a hundred and fifty guineas! Miss Phyllida Trant, did you say?' ' Yes sir. You don't mind her sitting in, do you ?' 'Couldn't you put her off, Henry? Tell her a divorce case is sacrosanct. It'd be like a priest inviting a few lady friends to join in the confessional.' ' I told her you'd have no objection. Miss Trant's very keen to practise.' 'Then couldn't she practise at home?' 'We're about the only Chambers without a woman, Mr Rum-pole. It's not good for our image.' He seemed determined, so I gave him a final thought on my way into the conference. 'Our old clerk Albert never wanted a woman in Chambers. He said there wasn't the lavatory accommodation.' So there I was at the desk having a conference in a divorce case with Miss Phyllida Trant 'sitting in', Mr Perfect the solicitor looking grave, and the client, Mrs Thripp, leaning forward and regarding me with gentle trusting eyes. As I say, she seemed an extremely nice and respectable woman, and I wasn't to know that she was to cause me more trouble than all the murderers I have ever defended.

'As soon as you came into the room I felt safe somehow, Mr Rumpole. I knew Norman and I would be safe with you.' 'Norman?' ' The child of the family.' Miss Trant supplied the information.

'Thank you. Miss Trant. The little aviator in the clerk's room. Quite. But if I'm to help you, you'll have to do your best to help me too.' 'Anything! What is it you want exactly?' Mrs Thripp seemed entirely co-operative.

'Well, dear lady, a couple of black eyes would come in extremely handy,' I said hopefully. Mrs Thripp looked at Miss Trant, puzzled.

'Mr Rumpole means, has your husband ever used physical violence?' Miss Trant explained.

'Well, no... Not actual violence.' 'Pity.' I commiserated with her. 'Mr Thripp doesn't show a very helpful attitude. You see, if we're going to prove "cruelty"...' ' We don't have to, do we?' I noticed then that Miss Trant was sitting in front of a pile of legal text books. 'Intolerable conduct. Since the Divorce Law Reform Act 1969.' I thought then that it's not the frivolity that makes women intolerable, it's the ghastly enthusiasm, the mustard keeness to get into the lacrosse team, the relentless drive to learn the Divorce Law Reform Act by heart: that and the French perfume. I could have managed that conference quite nicely without Miss Trant. I said to her, however, as politely as possible, 'The Divorce Law Reform Act, which year did you say ?' '1969-' ' Yes,' I smiled at Mrs Thripp.' Well, you know how it is. Go down the Old Bailey five minutes and you've found they've passed another Divorce Reform Act. Thank you, Miss Trant, for reminding me. Now then what's this intolerable conduct, exactly?' 'He doesn't speak,' Mrs Thripp told me.

'Well, a little silence can come as something of a relief. In the wear and tear of married life.' ' I don't think you understand,' Mrs Thripp smiled patiently. 'He hasn't spoken a word to me for three years.' 'Three years? Good God! How does he communicate?' The instructing solicitor laid a number of little bits of paper on my desk.

' By means of notes.' I then discovered that the man Thripp, who I was not in the least surprised to learn was a chartered accountant, used his matrimonial home as a sort of Post Office. When he wished to communicate with his wife he typed out brusque and businesslike notes, documents which threw a blinding light, in my opinion, on the man's character.

'To my so-called wife,' one note read, 'if you and your so-called son want to swim in hot water you can go to the Public Baths. From your so-called husband.' This was fixed, it seemed, to a padlocked geyser. Another billet doux was found in the biscuit tin in the larder, 'To my so-called wife. I have removed what you left of the assorted tea biscuits to the office for safe keeping. Are you determined to eat me into bankruptcy? Your so-called husband.' 'To my so-called wife. I'm going out to my Masonic Ladies Night tomorrow (Wednesday). It's a pity I haven't got a lady to take with me. Don't bother to wait up for me. Your so-called husband, F. Thripp.' I made two observations about this correspondence, one was that it revealed a depth of human misery which no reasonable woman would tolerate, and the other was that all the accountant Thripp's notes were written on an Italian portable, about ten years old.

'My husband's got an old Olivetti. He can't really type. Mrs Thripp told me.

Many years ago I scored a notable victory in the' Great Brighton Benefit Club Forgery' case, and it was during those proceedings I acquired my vast knowledge of typewriters. Having solved the question of the type, however, got me no nearer the heart of the mystery.

'Let me understand,' I said to Mrs Thripp. 'Are you interested in someone else?' ' Someone else?' Mrs Thripp looked pained.

'You're clearly an intelligent, obviously still a reasonably attractive woman.' 'Thank you, Mr Rumpole,' Mrs Thripp smiled modestly.

'Are there not other fish in your particular sea ?' ' One man's quite enough for me, thank you.' ' I see. Apparently you're still living with your husband.' 'Living with him? Of course I'm living with him., The flat's in our joint names.' Mrs Thripp said this as though it explained everything. I was still bewildered.

'Wouldn't you, and the young hopeful outside, be better off somewhere else? Anywhere else?' 'There's your mother in Ruislip.' Mr Perfect supplied the information.

"Thank you Mr Perfect.' I turned back to Mrs Thripp. 'As your solicitor points out. Anyone's mother in Ruislip must surely be better than life with a chartered accountant who locks up the geyser! And removes the tea biscuits to his office.' 'I move out?' Apparently the thought had never occurred to her.

' Unless you're a glutton for punishment.' ' Move out? And let him get away with it?' I rose to my feet, and tried to put the point more clearly. 'Your flat in Muswell Hill, scene of historic events though it may well be, is not the field of Waterloo, Mrs Thripp, if you withdraw to happier pastures there would be no defeat, no national disaster.' 'Mrs Thripp is anxious about the furniture,' Mr Perfect offered an explanation.

"The furniture?' ' She's afraid her husband would dispose of the lounge suite if she left the flat.' 'How much human suffering can be extracted by a lounge suite?' I asked the rhetorical question. 'I can't believe it's the furniture.' There was a brief silence and then Mrs Thripp asked quietly, ' Won't you take me on, Mr Rumpole ?' I thought of the rent and the enormous amounts of money She Who Must Be Obeyed spends on luxuries like Vim. I also remembered the fact that crime seemed remarkably thin on the ground and said I, 'Of course, dear lady. Of course I'll take you on! That's what I'm here for. Like an old taxi cab waiting in the rank. Been waiting quite a little time, if you want to know the truth. You snap your fingers and I'll drive you almost anywhere you want to go. Only it'd be a help if we knew exactly what destination you had in mind.' ' I've told Mr Perfect what I want.' 'You want a divorce. Those are my instructions,' Mr Perfect told me, but his client put it a little differently.

' I want my husband taken to Court. Those are my instructions, Mr Rumpole.' I have spoken in these reminiscences of my old friend George Frobisher. George is a bachelor who has lived in an hotel in Kensington since his sister died. He is a gentle soul, unfitted by temperament for a knock-about career at the Bar, but he is a pleasant companion for a drink at Pommeroy's after the heat and labour of the day. That evening I bought the first round, two large clarets, flushed with the remunerative collapse of the Thripp marriage.

'Things are looking up, George,' I raised my glass to my old friend and he, in turn, toasted me.

'A little.' 'There's light at the end of the tunnel. Today I got a hundred and fifty pound brief. For a divorce.' 'That's funny. So did I.' George sounded puzzled.

' Sure to last at least six days. Six refreshers at fifty pounds a day. Think of that, George! Well, there's that much to be said. For the institution of marriage?' 'I never felt the need of marriage somehow,' George told me.

' With one chained friend, perhaps a jealous deadly foe. The longest and the dreariest journey go' I gave George a snatch of Shelley and a refill.

' I've had a bit of an insight into marriage. Since reading that divorce brief.' George was in a thoughtful mood.

' If we were married we couldn't sit pleasantly together,' I told him. 'You'd be worrying what time I got home. And when I did get home you wouldn't be pleased to see me!' ' I really can't see why a person puts up with marriage,' George went on.' When a woman starts conversing with her husband by means of little notes!' I looked at him curiously.' Got one of those, have you?' There seemed to be an epidemic of matrimonial note-leaving.

'And she cut the ends off his trousers.' George seemed deeply shocked.

'Sounds a sordid sort of case. Cheers!' We refreshed ourselves with Pommeroy's claret and George went on to tell me about his divorce.

'He was going to an evening at his Lodge. You know what this Jezebel did? Only snipped off the ends of his evening trousers. With nail scissors.' 'Intolerable conduct that, you know. Under the 1969 Act.' I kept George abreast of the law.

' Moss Bros was closed. The wretched fellow had to turn up at the Caf6 Royal with bags that looked as if they'd been gnawed by rats. Well! That's marriage for you. Thank God I live by myself, in the Royal Borough Hotel.' ' Snug as a bug in there, are you George?' 'We have television in the Residents Lounge now. Coloured television. Look here, you must dine with me there one night, Rumpole. Bring Hilda if you'd care to.' ' We'd like to George. Coloured television? Well, I say. That'll be a treat.' ' Quiet life, of course. But the point of it is. A man can keep his trousers more or less safe from destruction in the Royal Borough Hotel.' I must admit that George Frobisher and I loitered a little in Pommeroy's that night and, when I got home, Hilda had apparently gone up to bed; she often had an early night with a glass of milk and a library book. I went into the kitchen and switched on the light. All was quiet on the Western front, but I saw it on the table,  a note from my lady wife.

'If you condescend to come home, your dinner's in the oven.' I took the hint and was removing a red-hot plate of congealed stew from the bowels of our ancient cooker when the telephone rang in the living-room. I went to answer it and heard a woman's voice.

' I just had to ring you. I feel so alone in the world, so terribly lonely.' 'Look it's not terribly convenient. Just now.' It was my client in the case of Thripp v. Thripp.

'Don't say that! It's my life. How can you say it's not convenient?' 'All right. A quick word.' I supposed the ancient stew could wait a little longer.

'He's going to say the most terrible things about me. I've got to see you.' 'Shall we say tomorrow, four o'clock. But not here!' I told her firmly.

' I don't know how I can wait.' 'You've waited for three years haven't you? Look forward to seeing you then. Goodnight now, beloved lady." I said that, I suppose, to cheer up Mrs Thripp and to soften the blow as I put down the receiver. Just before I did so I heard a little click, and remembered that Hilda had insisted on an extension in our bedroom.

The next day our clerk's room was buzzing. Henry was on the telephone dispatching barristers to far-flung Magistrates Courts. That smooth young barrister, Erskine-Brown was opening his post and collecting papers, and Uncle Tom, old T. C. Rowley, was starting his day of leisure in Chambers by standing by the mantelpiece and greeting the workers. The ops room was even graced by the presence of our Head of Chambers, GuthrieFeath-erstone, Q.c. M.P., who was taking time off from such vital affair's of state as the Poultry Marketing Act to supervise Dianne who was beating out one of his learned opinions on our old standard Imperial.

Henry told me that my divorce conference was waiting in my room, and Erskine-Brown gave his most condescending smile. 'Divorcing now, Rumpole?' he asked me. I told him I was and asked him if he was still foreclosing on mortgages. 'I'm all for a bit of divorce in Chambers,' Featherstone smiled tolerantly. ' Widens our repertoire. You were getting into a bit of a rut with all that crime. Horace.' ' Crime! It seems a better world. A cleaner world. Down at the Old Bailey,' I told him.

'Don't you find criminal clients a little ~ depressing?' 'Criminal clients? They behave so well.' 'Really Rumpole?' Erskine-Brown sounded quite shocked.

'What do they do?' I asked him. 'Knock people on the head, rob banks, cause, at the worst, a temporary inconvenience. They don't converse by means of notes. They don't lock up the geyser. They don't indulge in three years silence to celebrate the passage of love.' 'Love? Have you become an expert on that, Rumpole?' Erskine-Brown seemed amused. 'Rumpole in Love. Should sell a bomb at the Solicitors Law Stationers.' 'And I'll tell you another great advantage of criminal customers," I went on. 'They're locked up, mostly, pending trial! They can't ring you up at all hours of the day and night. Now you get involved in a divorce and your life's taken over!' "We used to have all the facts of divorce cases printed out in detail in The Times,' Uncle Tom remembered.

' Oh, hello, Uncle Tom.' ' It used to make amusing reading! Better than all this rubbish they print now, about the Common Market. Far more entertaining.' Erskine-Brown left to go about his business, not before I had told him that divorce, for all its drawbacks, was a great deal less sordid than foreclosing on mortgages and then Henry presented me with another brief, a mere twenty-five guineas this time, to be heard by old Archie McFee, the Dock Street magistrate.

'You're an old girl called Mrs Wainscott, sir,' Henry told me. 'Charged with keeping a disorderly house.' 'An old Pro? Is this what I've sunk to now, Henry? Plodding the pavements! Flogging my aged charms round the Dock Street Magistrates Court!' I checked the figure on the front of the brief. 'Twenty-five smackers! Not bad, I suppose. For a short time in Dock Street. Makes you wonder what I could earn round the West End.' I left Henry then; he seemed not to be amused.

The other side, that is to say Mr F. Thripp and his legal advisers, had supplied his wife, married in some far-off and rash moment in a haze of champagne and orange blossom, with the evidence to be used against her. I was somewhat dismayed when I discovered that this evidence included an equal number of notes, typed on the same old Olivetti as that used by the husband, but travelling in the opposite direction. I picked out at random,' To my so-called husband. If you want your shirts washed, take them down to the office and let her do them. She does everything else for you doesn't she? Your so-called wife.' 'Oh dear, Mrs Thripp. I wish you hadn't written this.' I put down the note which I had been viewing through a magnifying glass to check the type. 'By the way, whom did you suspect of doing his washing for him?' I looked at the client, so did Miss Trant who was 'sitting in' in pursuit of knowledge of Rumpole's methods, so did Mr Perfect. Master Norman Thripp, who had joined us, sat in a corner pointing a toy sub-machine gun at me in a way I did my best to ignore.

'Who?' 'We had him watched Mr Rumpole,' Mr Perfect told me.

'He has an elderly secretary. Apparently she's a grandmother. There doesn't seem to be anyone else.' 'There doesn't seem to be anyone else for either of you.' I picked up the husband's answer. 'He alleges you assaulted his trousers.' 'No. No I didn't do that, Mr Rumpole.' 'His evening trousers were damaged apparently.' 'Probably at the cleaners. You remember, he refused to take me to his Ladies Night,  he went on his own, so his trousers can't have been all that bad can they?' 'Did you mind him going?' I was finding the Thripp marriage more and more mysterious.

'Mind? Of course I minded.' 'Why?' 'Because I wanted to go with him, of course.' 'You wanted to go with the man who hasn't spoken to you for three years, who communicates by wretched little notes, who locked up your bath water?' At this point Mrs Thripp brought out a small lace handkerchief and started to sob.

' I don't know. I don't know why I wanted to go with him.' The sobs increased in volume. I looked at Mrs Thripp with deep approval.

'All right, Mrs Thripp. I'm simply asking the questions your husband's barrister will ask unless we're extremely lucky.' 'You think my case is hopeless?' Mrs Thripp was mopping up noisily.

'Mr Rumpole's afraid you may not make a good witness.' It was Miss Phyllida Trant, giving her learned opinion uninvited.

'Miss Trant!' I'm afraid I was somewhat sharp with her. 'You may know all about Divorce Law Reform Acts. But I know all about witnesses. Mrs Thripp will be excellent in the box.' I patted the still slightly heaving Thripp shoulder. 'Well done, Mrs Thripp! You broke down at exactly the right stage of the cross-examination.' I picked up the first of the wretched chartered accountant's notes; I was by now looking forward to blasting him out of the witness box, and saw, 'I am going to my Masonic Ladies Night. It's a pity I haven't got a lady to take with me.' "There's not a man sitting as a judge in the Family Division,' I promised her, 'who won't find that note from your husband absolutely intolerable.' When the Thripps, mire etfils, had been shepherded out by their solicitor, Perfect, Miss Trant loitered and said she wanted my advice. I expressed some surprise that she didn't know it all; but I lit a small cigar and, in the best tradition of the Bar, prepared to have my brains picked. It seemed that Miss Trant had been entrusted with a brief for the prosecution, before that great tribunal, old Archibald McFee at the Dock Street Magistrates Court.

'It's a disorderly house. I mean it's an open and shut case. I can't think why Mrs Wainscott's defending.' 'The old trout's probably got a weird taste for keeping out of Holloway.' I blew out smoke, savouring a bit of fun in the offing. Fate had decreed that I should be prosecuted by Miss Phyllida Trant. I kept cunningly quiet about my interest in the case of the Police v. Wainscott and Erskine-Brown's former pupil proceeded to deliver herself into my hands.

'What I wanted to ask you was how much law should I ...' 'Yes?' 'Take? I mean, how many books will this magistrate want, on the prosecution case?' Miss Trant had asked for it. I stood and gave her my learned opinion.

'My dear, Miss Trant. Old Archie McFee is a legal beaver. Double First in Jurisprudence. Reads Russel on Crime in bed and the Appeal Cases on holiday. You want to pot the old bawdy-house keeper ? Quote every case you can think of. Archie'U love you for it. How many books do you need? My advice to you is, fill the taxi!' So we all gathered at Dock Street Magistrates Court. There was old Mother Wainscott, sitting beneath a pile of henna-ed hair in the dock, and there was old Archie McFee, looking desperately bored and gazing yearningly at the clock as Miss Trant with a huge pile of dusty law books in front of her and her glasses on the end of her nose, lectured him endlessly on the law relating to disorderly houses.

'Section 8 of the 1751 Statute, sir. "Any person who acts or behaves him, or herself as Master or Mistress or as the person having the care, government, or managements of any bawdy house or other disorderly house shall be deemed to be the keeper thereof." Now, if I might refer you to Singleton and Ellison, 1895, i, Q.B. page 607 ...' 'Do you have to refer me to it, Miss Trant?' the learned magistrate sighed heavily.

'Oh yes, sir. I'm sure you'll find it most helpful.' I sat smiling quietly, like a happy spider as Miss Trant walked into the web. She had looked shocked when she discovered that I was defending. Now she would discover that I had deceived her. Archie McFee couldn't stand law: his sole interests were rose growing, amateur dramatics and catching the 3.45 back to Esher. I was amazed she couldn't see the fury rising to the level of his stiff collar as he watched the clock and longed for Victoria.

'It is interesting to observe that in R v. Jones it was held that all women under 21 years of age are 'girls' although females may be' women' at the age of eighteen.' Miss Trant was unstoppable.

'I suppose it interests you, Miss Trant.' 'Oh yes, indeed, sir. Turning now, if you please, sir, to the Sexual Offences Act, 1896 ...' A very long time later, when it came to my turn, and the prosecution had sunk under the dead weight of the law, I made a speech guaranteed to get old Archie off to the station in three minutes flat.

' Sir. My learned friend has referred you to many books. I would only remind you of one: a well-known book hi which it is written "Thou shall not bear false witness."* I glared at the young officer in charge of the case. 'And I would apply that remark to the alleged observations of the police officer.' 'Yes. I'm not satisfied this charge is made out. Summons dismissed.' As Archie went, he fired his parting shot. 'With costs, Miss Trant.' Mrs Thripp rang me at home again that evening and told me that her solicitor, Perfect, had fixed up a hearing in ten days' time. She wondered how she could live until then and told me I was her only friend in the world. I was comforting her as best I could and stemming the threatened flow of tears over the wire by saying, 'You'll be free in a couple of weeks. Think of that old darling,' when I noticed that Hilda had come into the room and was viewing me with a look of disapproval. I put down the phone: I suppose to a hostile observer the movement may have looked guilty. However, She Who Must Be Obeyed affected to ignore it and said casually, 'I'm having tea with Dodo tomorrow.' 'Dodo?' 'Dodo Perkins and I were tremendously close at Wycombe Abbey,' said Hilda coldly.

'Oh, Dodo! Yes, of course. The live one.' 'She's living in Devon nowadays. She's running her own tea shop.' 'Well. Nice part, Devon. You won't have seen her for some years.' 'We correspond. I sent her a postcard and said, let's meet when you're next up in London.' She gave me a look I can only describe as meaningful. 'I want to ask her advice about something. We may do some shopping,  and have tea at Harrods.' 'Well, go easy on the chocolate gateaux.' •What?' 'I know how much these teas at Harrods cost. I don't want to see all my profit on the disorderly house vanishing down Dodo's little red lane.' Hilda ignored this and merely gave me some quite gratuitous information. 'Dodo never liked you. You know that, Rumpole?' She went, leaving me only vaguely disconcerted. When I went to the gin bottle, however, to prepare an evening Booths and tonic, I was astonished to notice a pencil mark on the label, apparently intended to record the drinking habits of Rumpole. I sloshed out the spirit, well past the plimsoll line. Our existence in Froxbury Court, I thought, was beginning to bear an uncomfortable resemblance to the way life was lived in Maison Thripp.

My life in those days seemed inseparable from women and their troubles. When I got to chambers the next morning I found Miss Phyllida Trant in my room, her glasses off, her eyes red and her voice exceedingly doleful. She announced that, after careful thought, she had decided, in view of her disastrous appearance at the Dock Street Magistrates Court, to give up the Bar and take up some less demanding profession.

'And after you'd been so helpful!' Miss Trant's undeserved gratitude gave me an unusual twinge of guilt.

'Please! Don't mention it.' I wanted to get her off the subject of my unhelpful advice.

'I know I'll never make it! I mean, I know the law. I was top student of my year and ...' I interrupted her and said, 'Being a lawyer's got almost nothing to do with knowing the law.' 'An open and shut case! I had all the police observations! And I went and lost it.' 'That wasn't because you didn't know all about the law. It was because you didn't know enough about Archie McFee.' 'You just made rings round me!' 'Never underestimate the craftiness of Rumpole.' Now I was giving her genuinely helpful advice.

'It seems ungrateful. After you'd been so kind to me.' 'I wish you wouldn't go on saying that, Miss Trant.' 'But I'll have to give it up!' 'You can't! Once you're a lawyer you're addicted. It's like smoking, or any other habit-forming drug. You get hooked on cross-examination, you get a taste for great gulps of fresh air from the cells. You'll find out.' 'No! No, I won't ever.' I lit a small cigar and sat down at the desk opposite her. She looked surprisingly young and confused and I found myself wanning to Miss Trant. For some reason I wanted her to continue her struggle against magistrates and judges and cunning opponents: even her appearance at Dock Street had shown some misguided courage.

'You know, we all have our disappointments. I do.' ' You?' She looked incredulous.

'One year I did the "Penge Bungalow Murder". Without a leader. And the "Great Brighton Benefit Club Forgery" case, which is where I got my vast knowledge of typewriters. And what am I doing now? Playing around with disorderly houses. I have even sunk to a divorce!' I looked at her, and saw a solution. 'You know what your mistake is, in Court, I mean?' Miss Trant shook her head, she still had no idea of where she'd gone wrong.

'I would suggest a little more of the feminine qualities. Ask anyone in the Temple. How does Rumpole carry on in Court? Answer. Rumpole woos, Rumpole insinuates, Rumpole winds his loving fingers round the jury box, or lies on his back purring, "If your Lordship pleases," like old mother Wainscott from Dock Street.' I was rewarded with a small smile as she said, 'That's ridiculous!' 'Lawyers and tarts,' I told her, and I meant it, 'are the two oldest professions in the world. And we always aim to please.' If I had managed to cheer up Miss Trant, and even return her small nose to the legal grindstone, I had no luck with She Who Must Be Obeyed. Relations, as they say, deteriorated and I got up one morning to find her suitcase packed and standing in the hall. Hilda was in the living-room, hatted, coated and ready for travel.

'You can come home as late as you like now, Rumpole. And you can spend all the time you like with her.' 'Her?' Whoever could she be talking about?

'I've heard her! Time and time again. On the telephone.' 'Don't be ridiculous.' I tried a light laugh. 'That's a client.' 'Rumpole! I've lived with you for a good many years.' 'Man and boy.' 'And I've never known you to be telephoned by a client. At home!' 'I usually have quiet, undemanding clients. Murderers don't fuss. Robbers can usually guess the outcome, so that they're calm and resigned. Divorcing ladies are different. They're inclined to telephone constantly.' 'So I've noticed!' 'Also they're always on bail. They're not kept locked up in Brixton, pending the hearing.' 'More's the pity! I'm going to stay with Dodo. I'm going to stay with Dodo and help her out with her business.' 'The tea shop?' I tried hard to remember this Dodo, who was coming to play a major part in our lives.

'It's far better I leave you, Rumpole! To enjoy your harem!' 'Listen, Hilda.' I did my best to remain calm. 'I have a client whose unhappy marriage may well provide you and Dodo with another tea in Hatreds. That can't be why you're leaving.' There was one of those silences that had become so frequent between us, and then she said, 'No. No, it isn't.' 'Then why?' 'You've changed, Rumpole. You don't go to work in the mornings. And as for the gin bottle!' 'You marked it! That was unforgiveable.' 'Then don't forgive me.' 'An Englishman's gin bottle is his castle.' At which point the phone rang. Hilda picked it up, apparently thinking it was a taxi she had ordered; but it was, of course, Mrs Thripp, the well-known married lady, who seemed to depend entirely on Rumpole. Hilda handed me the phone as though her worst suspicions were now thoroughly justified.

Hilda went while I was still pacifying the client. In the days that followed, I stayed later at Pommeroy's, got my own breakfast, had a poached egg in the evenings, and turned up alone and unaccompanied to have dinner with George Frobisher at the Royal Borough Hotel in Kensington. We sat in a drafty dining-room, surrounded by lonely persons whose tables were littered with their personal possessions, their own bottles of sauce, their half bottles of wine, their pills, their saccharin, and their medicines. It was the sort of place that encourages talking in whispers, so George and I muttered over the coffee, getting such warmth as we could from our thimblefuls of port.

'I'm sorry it's not Thursday,' George told me sadly. 'They give us the chicken on Thursday. Tonight it was the veal so it must be Monday. Soup of the day is exactly the same all through the week. Enjoy your pommes de terre d I'atiglaise, did you?' 'Boiled spuds? Excellent! Hilda'U be sorry she missed this.' 'Hilda cares for veal, does she? We always get veal on Mondays. So we know where we are.' George suddenly remembered something. 'Monday! Good God! I've got this divorce case tomorrow. The other side stole a march on us. They expedited the hearing!' 'George.' 'Yes, Rumpole?' 'What's your divorce about, exactly?' 'I told you. I'm a husband tomorrow.' 'It's just that; well. I've got one too, you know,' I confessed. 'I'm a wife.' 'Horrible case! I think I told you. We allege this monstrous female savaged my trousers. Furthermore, she hasn't spoken to me for three years.' 'She hasn't spoken toyout* 'She started it!' 'That's a damned lie, George!' I felt a sense of outrage on behalf of Mrs Thripp and raised my voice. A nearby diner looked up from his soup of the day.

'Oh really? And is it a damned lie about the bath water?' 'What about the bath water?' 'You ran off all the hot water deliberately. You put a note on the geyser, "Out of Bounds".' 'I haven't had a bath there for the last month. I have to go all the way to Ruislip, to my mother's.' 'Rumpole! You're against me?' 'Of course I'm against you. I'm the wife! You want to turn me out of the house,  and my child!' ' Your child! You've alienated Norman's affections.' 'What?' 'You've turned him against me!' It's no doubt a strange habit of barristers to identify themselves so closely with their clients. But by now we had both raised our voices, and the other diners were listening but looking studiously away, as though they were overhearing a domestic quarrel.

'That is the most pernicious rubbish I ever heard and if you dare to put that forward in Court I shall cut you in small pieces, George, and give you to the usher. I've behaved like a saint.' 'Oh yes, you. Joan of Arc!' George was becoming quite spirited.

'And I suppose you're Job himself.' 'I'd have to be. To put up with you.' 'You are nothing but a great big bully, George. Oh, you're all very fine and brave when you've got someone weaker than yourself.' 'You! Weaker than me! I told you... You're a Jezebel!' 'Bluebeard!' 'Lady Macbeth!' 'Let's just see how you stand up in Court, George. Let's just see how you stand up to cross-examination."

'Don't rely on cross-examination. It's the evidence that matters. By the way, I'm making my evening trousers an exhibit!' At this startling news the other diners had given up all pretence of not listening and were gazing at each other with a wild surmise. I wasn't taking these allegations against my wronged client lying down.

'Anyone, George, can lacerate their own evening trousers with a pair of nail scissors. It's been done before! Thank you for the dinner!' 'Rumpole!' 'Perhaps in the long watches of the night, George. Perhaps as you are watching Match of the Day on your colour T.V. it may occur to you to do the decent thing and let this case go undefended. Hasn't an unhappy woman suffered enough?' I left the dining-room then, with all the diners staring at me. When I got home, and poured myself an unlimited gin, I began to wonder exactly what they had thought of my relationship with my old friend George Frobisher.

When I had rashly advised Mrs Thripp that there wasn't a man sitting as a judge who wouldn't be appalled at hearing of her treatment at the hands of Thripp, I had made a serious miscalculation. I had forgotten that Mrs Justice Appelby sat in the Family Division of the High Court of Justice, and her Ladyship was known as the only genuine male chauvinist pig in the building. They used to say that when she went out on circuit, to try murders, she used to put on a thin line of lipstick before summing up to the jury. That was the nearest Mrs Justice Appelby ever got to the art of seduction.

If the judge was an unpleasant surprise, Mr F. Thripp was a disappointment. He was hardly ideal casting for the part of Bluebeard; in fact he looked decidedly meek and mild, a small man in rimless glasses and a nervous smile; we could have hoped for something about twice the size.

The clerk called the case and we were off. I rose to open a tale whose lightest word would harrow up the soul and freeze the young blood. I weighed in on a high note.

'This is one of the strangest cases this Court may ever have heard. The case of a Bluebeard who kept his wife a virtual prisoner in their flat in Muswell Hill. Who denied her the simple comforts of biscuits and bath water. Who never gave her the comfort of his conversation and communicated with her by means of brusque and insulting little notes.' 'Mr Rumpole.' Mrs Justice Appelby's blood was no doubt frozen already. She looked unimpressed. 'May I remind you of something? The jury box is empty. This is a trial by judge alone. I don't require to be swayed by your oratory which no doubt is enormously effective in criminal cases. Just give me the relevant dates, will you?' I gave her the dates and then I called my client. She had dressed in black with a hat, an excellent costume for funerals or divorces. After a gentle introduction, I put her husband's notes to her.

'You and your so-called son can be off to your mother's in Ruislip. Let her pay for the light you leave blazing in the toilet.' 'That was pinned up on my kitchen cupboard.' 'And what was the effect on you, Mrs Thripp, of that heartbreaking notice to quit?' ' She stayed for more, apparently.' It was Mrs Justice Appelby answering my question. She turned to the witness box with that cold disapproval women reserve especially for each other. 'Well, you didn't go, did you? Why not?' ' I didn't know what he would do if I left him.' Mrs Thripp was looking at her husband. I was puzzled to see that the look wasn't entirely hostile. But the judge was after her, like a terrier.

'Mrs ... Thripp. You put up with this intolerable conduct from your husband for three years. Why exactly?' 'I suppose I was sorry for him.' 'Sorry for him. Why?' ' I thought he'd never manage on his own.' When we came out for lunch I saw Norman waiting outside the Court. He had a brand new armoured car with flashing lights, a mounted machine gun and detachable soldiers in battle dress. Someone was doing well from this case; apart from Rumpole and George Frobisher.

In the afternoon I cross-examined the respondent, Thripp. Miss Trant, sitting beside me in her virginal wig, waited with baited breath for my first question.

'Mr Thripp. Is there anything hi your conduct to your wife of which you are thoroughly ashamed?' In the pause while Thripp examined this poser I whispered to Miss Tram, my eager apprentice, 'Good question that. If he says "yes" he's made a damaging admission. If he says "no", he's a self-satisfied idiot.' At which point Thripp said "No", proving himself a self-satisfied idiot.

'Really, Mr Thripp. You have behaved absolutely perfectly?' Her Ladyship had the point. I made that fifteen love to Rumpole, in the second set.

"I'm going out to my Masonic Ladies' Night. It's a pity I haven't got a lady to take with me." I was quoting from the Thripp correspondence. 'Is that the way a perfect husband writes to his wife?' 'Perhaps not, but ...I was... annoyed with her, you see. I had asked her to the Ladies' Night.' 'Asked her?' 'I left a note for her, naturally. She didn't reply.' 'Tell me, Mr Thripp, did you actually want your wife to accompany you to your Masonic Ladies Night?' 'Oh yes, indeed.' 'This inhuman monster who drains away your bath water and refuses to wash your shirts ... you were looking forward to spending a pleasant evening with her?' ' I had no one else to go with.' 'And would rather go with her than no one?' 'Of course I would. She's my wife, isn't she?' 'Mr Thripp, I suggest all your charges against her are quite untrue.' 'They're not untrue.' 'But you wanted her with you! You wanted to flaunt her on your arm, at the Cafe Royal. Why? Come, Mr Thripp. Will you answer that question? It can hardly have been because you love her.' There was a long pause, and I began to have an uneasy suspicion that I had asked one question too many. Then I knew I had because Mr Thripp said in the sort of matter-of-fact tone he might have used to announce the annual audit, 'Yes I do. I love her.' I looked across at Mrs Thripp. She was sighing with a sort of satisfaction, as if she had achieved her object at last.

' Mr Rumpole,' Mrs Justice Appelby's voice, like a cold shower, woke me from my reverie. 'Is it really too late for commonsense to prevail?' 'Commonsense, my Lady?' 'Could there not be one final attempt at a reconciliation?' I felt a sinking in the pit of the stomach. Could it be that even divorce was slipping away from us, and George and I would both have to go back to the crossword puzzle.

'I have no power to order this.' The judge did her best to look pleasant, it was not a wild success. 'But it does seem to me that Mr and Mrs Thripp might meet perhaps in counsel's Chambers? Simply to explore the possibilities of a reconciliation. There is one very important consideration, of course, and I refer to young Norman Thripp. The child of the family. I shall adjourn now until tomorrow morning.' At which her Ladyship rose smartly and we were all upstanding in Court. Obedient to Mrs Justice Appelby's orders, the Thripps met in my room that afternoon. George Frobisher and I, our differences now sunk in the face of the new menace from the judge, shared my small cigars and our anxieties.

'They've been there a long time,' George was looking nervously at my closed door. 'I'm afraid it doesn't look too healthy.' Just then the clerk's room door opened for Henry to come out about some business. I had a brief glimpse of Norman Thripp, the child of the family, seated at Dianne's desk. He was banging the keys of our old standard Imperial, no doubt playing at 'secretaries'.

'In my opinion,' George was still grumbling, 'they shouldn't allow women on the bench. That Mrs Justice Appelby! What does she think she's doing, depriving us of our refreshers?' Before I could agree wholeheartedly, the door of my room opened to let out a beaming Thripp.

'Well, gentlemen,' he said. 'I think we'll be withdrawing the case tomorrow. We still have one or two things to talk over.' 'Talk over! Well, that'll be a change/ said Mrs Thripp following him out. Then they collected Norman, who was still happily playing with Dianne's typewriter, and took him home, leaving George and I in a state of gloomy suspense.

The next morning I got to the Law Courts early, climbed into the fancy dress and found Mrs Thripp and young Norman waiting for me outside Mrs Justice Appelby's forum in the Family Division.

'Well, Mrs Thripp. I suppose we come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.' 'What do you mean Mr Rumpole?' 'You're dropping the case?' Mrs Thripp, to my surprise, was shaking her head and opening her handbag. She brought out a piece of paper and handed it to me, her voice tremulous with indignation.' No, Mr Rumpole,' she said. 'I'm going on with the case. I got this this morning. Leaning up against the cornflakes packet at breakfast.' I took the note from her.

'The old barrister you dug up's going to lose this case. I'll have you and your so-called son out of here in a week. Your so-called husband." I read the typewritten document, and then studied it with more care.

'He's mad! That's what he is. I can't live with a maniac, Mr Rumpole!' As far as my client was concerned, the reconciliation was clearly off.

'Mrs Thripp.' 'We've got to beat him! I've got to think of Norman,  caged up with a man like that!' 'Yes. Norman.' I pulled out my watch. 'We've got a quarter of an hour. I feel the need of a coffee. Do you think Norman would like a doughnut?' 'I'm sure we'd be glad to.' 'Not "we", Mrs Thripp. In this instance I think I'd like to see young Norman on his own.' So I took Norman down to the cafe in the crypt of the Law Courts, and, as he tucked into a doughnut and fizzy orangeade, I brought the conversation round to the business in hand.

'Rum business marriage ... You've never been married, have you Norman?' I lit a small cigar and gazed at the young hopeful through the smoke.

'Of course not.' Norman found the idea amusing.

'No seriously. Married people have odd ways of showing their love and affection.' 'Have they?' 'Some whisper endearments. Some send each other abusive notes. Some even have to get as far as the Divorce Court to prove they can't do without each other. A rum business 1 Care for another doughnut?"

'No. No, I'm all right, thanks.' He was eating industriously with sugar on the end of his nose as I moved in to the attack.

'All right? You were all right, weren't you, Norman? When they really looked like separating?' ' I don't know what you mean.' 'When they were both trying to win you over to their side. When you got a present a week from Mum and a rival present from Dad? Tanks, planes, guns, it's been a sort of arms race between them, hasn't it, Norman?' 'I don't know what you're talking about, Mr Rumpole,' Norman repeated, with rather less conviction.

'This mad impulse of your parents to get together again doesn't show much consideration for you, or for me either, come to that.' ' I don't mind if they get together. It's their business, isn't it?' 'Yes, Norman. Their business.' 'I'm not stopping them."

He took another doughnut, he was going to need it.

'Really?' 'Course I'm not!' The second doughnut came and I gave Norman a fragment of my autobiography. 'I don't do much divorce, you know. Crime mainly. I was in the "Great Brighton Benefit Club Forgery".' 'What's forgery?' The child was round-eyed with innocence. You had to admire the act.

'Oh, you're good Norman! You'll come out wonderfully in your interviews with the police! The genuine voice of innocence. What's forgery?' I whipped out the latest item in the Thripp correspondence. 'This is! Inspect it carefully, Norman! All the other notes were typewritten.' 'So's this.' Norman kept his head.

'The others were done on the old Olivetti your parents keep in Muswell Hill. This morning's note was typed on a standard Imperial with a small gap in the capital " S ".' I got out my folding pocket glass and offered it to him.

'Here. Borrow my glass.' Norman dared to do so and examined the evidence.

'Typed on the Imperial on which Dianne in my Chambers hammers out my so-called learned opinions. The typewriter you were playing with so innocently yesterday in the clerk's room. I put it to you, Norman,  you typed that last note! In a desperate effort to keep this highly profitable divorce case going.' Norman looked up from my magnifying glass and said, 'I didn't see any gap in the capital " S ".' 'Didn't you, Norman? The judge will.' 'What judge?' For the first time he sounded rattled.

'The judge who tries you for forgery, a word you understand perfectly. I'll take the evidence now.' I retrieved the last incriminating note. 'Four years they gave the chief villain in the Brighton case.' 'They wouldn't"?' Norman looked at me. I felt almost sorry for him, as if he were my client.

'As your lawyer, Norman, I can only see one way out for you. A full confession to your Mum and Dad.' He bit hard into the second doughnut, seriously considering the possibility.

'And one more word of advice, Norman. Settle for being a chartered accountant. You've got absolutely no talent for crime.' My old friend George was extremely angry with me when Norman confessed and the Thripps were re-united. We lost all our refreshers, he told me, just because I had to behave like a damned detective. I explained to him that I couldn't resist using the skills I had learnt in the great Brighton fraud case, and he told me to stick to crime in the future.

'You Rumpole,' said George severely, 'have absolutely buggered up the work in the Family Division.' Further surprises were in store. When I got back to the mansions in search of the poached egg and the lonely bed, I found Hilda's case in the hall and She, apparently just arrived and still in her overcoat, installed wearily in her chair by the simulated coals of our electric fire.

'Rumpole!' 'What's the matter? Fallen out with Dodo? Had a bit of a scene over a drop scone?' 'You're home early. Daddy was never back home at three o'clock in the afternoon. He always stayed in Chambers till six o'clock. Regular as clockwork. Every day of his life."

'My divorce collapsed under me.' I lit a small cigar. Hilda rose and started to make the room shipshape, a long neglected task.

'You're going to seed, Rumpole. You hang about at home in the mornings.' 'And you know why my divorce collapsed?' I thought I should tell her.

'If I'm not here to keep an eye on you, you'll go to seed completely.' I blew out smoke, and warmed my knees at the electric fire.

'The clients were reconciled. Because, however awful it is, however silent and unendurable, however much they may hate each other's guts and quarrel over the use of the geyser, they don't want to be alone! Isn't that strange, Hilda. They'd rather have war together than a lonely peace.' 'If I'd stayed away any longer you'd have gone to seed completely." She was throwing away The Times for a couple of weeks.

' O Woman ! in our hours of ease.' I got to my feet and gave her the snatch of Walter Scott again. ' Uncertain, coy and hard to please!' 'You'd have stayed home from Chambers all day. Doing the crossword and delving into the gin bottle.' 'And variable as the shade By the light of quivering aspens made.' I moved to the door.

'If you're going to the loo, Rumpole, try to remember to switch the light off.' ' When pain and anguish ring the brow, A ministering angel thou.' I was hah0 way down the passage when I heard She calling after me.

'It's for your own good, Rumpole. I'm telling you for your own good!'