"Mortimer, John Clifford - Rumpole 01d - Rumpole and the Married Lady" - читать интересную книгу автора (Mortimer John)

'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.