Rumpole and the Primrose Path Page 21
There was a distinct edge to Hilda’s voice as she said that. I decided to drop the subject of the forged burglaries.
‘No, of course we don’t. I mean, why should we discuss my cases? Quite certainly not! By the way, what would you like to discuss?’
‘What about - the reason we’re here. Dining out. Is that because you’re trying to redeem yourself, Rumpole?’
‘Yes.’ I had to tell her the truth. ‘That’s what I’m trying to do.’
The Myrtle was packed out as usual that evening; only the networking skills of Luci Gribble had won us a table. Against the dark wood of the walls, over the snowy white tablecloths, the faces, vaguely familiar from Hilda’s tabloid and the telly, recognized each other, gave faint little cries of greeting, and then turned their attention back to their plates. Waiters in long white aprons sniffed corks, removed dripping champagne bottles from their buckets or set out plates. It was all far removed from lunch at the Worsfield nick, where this story began. I poured the unaccustomed vintage claret into our glasses and raised mine.
‘Happy wedding anniversary.’ I touched her glass with mine and took a gulp.
‘You remembered?’ She Who Must looked as though she didn’t believe a word of it.
Again I decided to surprise her with the truth. ‘Well, I have to say no, I didn’t remember. At least not until Luci reminded me.’
‘I told her you never remember.’
‘Well, that may be true, as a general rule. But on this occasion Luci told me, and then I remembered it quite clearly.’
‘You’d make a hopeless witness, Rumpole.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘No one would believe your evidence for a moment.’
‘I’m not in the business of giving evidence,’ I told her. ‘I’m in the business of asking questions.’
‘Ask me then.’
‘Do I really have to go on bicycling nowhere?’
‘You’re not going to, are you, whatever I say?’
‘No.’
‘All right then. I just wanted to keep you going for a little while longer. I can’t think why it is, but I don’t want to lose you, Rumpole.’
This was so astonishing.that it sent me imagining a world without She Who Must Be Obeyed. What would it be like? I seemed to see a great emptiness. A world without difficult cases, as bland, perhaps, as a world without crime or the possibility of redemption. I was about to say something along these lines when the waiter arrived and slid her main course dexterously in front of Hilda. She switched her attention from me to the waiter.
‘I hope it’s as I like it,’ she said. ‘By the way, I think I should tell you, the asparagus was not right.’
‘Not right?’ The waiter was Australian and took Hilda’s complaint with a cheerful smile.
‘To begin with it was hard as nails. I almost broke my teeth on it.’
‘That’s right! Al dente.’
‘Well, we can do without the al dente, thank you. And someone had put bits of cheese on it.’
‘Parmesan.’
‘Exactly! So you admit it. You don’t put cheese on asparagus. It wasn’t right, you know. I’d like you to know that, because we’re quite likely to be back at the same time next year.’
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