One by one, the writers whose work I admire pass away. This morning brought news of the death of Sir John Mortimer, the creator of the British barrister Horace Rumpole.
Even though I'm a law school graduate and a member of the bar, I've never been a fan of legal-themed dramas like L.A. Law or The Practice. In fact, these shows should carry a disclaimer: "WARNING: If you enroll in law school as a result of watching this, you have a 50-50 chance of stacking produce at your local Kroger."
But Rumpole? He was another story altogether. To begin with, he was larger than life. Played by Leo McKern, he thundered rather than spoke, and unleashed torrential quotes from Shakespeare and the British poets at the drop of a hat. Diet and exercise would have been anathema to him--were he the least bit religious. He saw no evil in having a few drinks, and insisted that red wine kept him "astonishingly regular." And how a born cynic like me not appreciate someone who called youth "a time for growing used to disappointment"?
There's more on the other side of the bar...
What made Rumpole even more endearing was that he delighted in rattling the establishment's cage. At chambers, he waged a running battle against a motley cast of characters, which included the self-righteous Soapy Sam Ballard; the opera-loving social climber Claude Erskine-Brown; and the foppish Guthrie Featherstone, who married to the "Portia of our chambers," Phillida Trant--the least objectionable one of the bunch.
Rumpole certainly didn't take himself too seriously which, sadly, is an all-too-common ailment in the legal profession.
He fought for the underdog. Rumpole believed that "criminal law is all about life, love, and the pursuit of happiness. Civil law's only about money, an uninteresting subject." His aversion to money drove his wife, Hilda, to distraction. "You should have gone into commercial law, Rumpole," she told him. "Turned your talents to big companies suing each other. I could have made something of you if you'd been a commercial barrister."
Modest circumstances aside, Rumpole was a Second Life version of Mortimer himself, a self-described "Champagne socialist" who, in his legal career, won several key cases that led to the demise of Britain's antiquated obscenity laws. Mortimer abhorred political correctness of all forms. Unfortunately, though, despite his life-long devotion to the Labour Party, Mortimer never came to terms with feminism. Which might explain Rumpole's nickname for the strong-willed Hilda: "She Who Must Be Obeyed."
If you've never made Rumpole's acquaintance, may I suggest you start with the 2004 novel, Rumpole and the Penge Bungalow Murders. For years, Mortimer teased fans, who call themselves "Rumpoleans," about the Penge Bungalow Murders, a case in which Rumpole won an acquittal, "alone and without a leader," in a case of parricide. The trial occurred during the early 1950s, which Rumpole tartly describes as "an age of obedience when the government, the royal family, and judges were treated with what was sometimes ill-deserved respect."
Revealing the outcome of the Penge case isn't a plot spoiler because the novel functions as a prequel to Mortimer's body of work, novels and short stories, about Rumpole's career at the Old Bailey.
What stories they were. From his obituary in today's Independent:
The Rumpole stories dealt with all sorts of issues, like euthanasia, fox-hunting, devil worship and children in care, but not at all in a pompous or preaching kind of way. His stories were as funny as his earlier performances in court as a barrister, where once a judge gently rebuked him by telling him the courts were not supposed to be places of entertainment.
Entertainment, indeed. I've enjoyed many hours in company of the garrulous old barrister, sometimes aboard planes; once when I was called for jury; but most often, with a drink in my hand which, I assume, is how Mortimer intended his stories to be consumed.
So this evening, to mark the passing of Rumpole of the Bailey's creator, I plan a make-believe journey to Pommeroy's Wine Bar, where I'll raise a glass of Chateau Thames Embankment in his honor.