Rumpole and the Primrose Path by John Mortimer

the Underground. ‘Is that the truth?’
    ‘That is absolute nonsense!’
    She was looking only a little less composed, but her hand grabbed the rail of the witness box as though she had a sudden fear of falling. I paused as I remembered what I had seen when I offered her my seat. A young boy who was giving her something. Not sweets. Not a message. I remembered the colour. Was it - I felt sure now that it was - the faded brown of folding money. Before the Bull could roar again, I spoke to the witness.
    ‘Let’s examine it, shall we? And see whether it’s nonsense or not. You took these children out to museums and occasional cinemas. Perhaps gave them tea. Who paid?’
    ‘I’ve told you. I paid.’
    ‘So they had no occasion to give you money.’
    ‘None at all.’
    ‘You’re saying they didn’t have money with them?’
    ‘None at all.’
    ‘So if anyone was to say they’d seen a boy hand you what looked like a wad of tenners, that would be untrue?’
    ‘That would be quite untrue. Yes.’
    ‘That would be quite untrue.’ The Bull was making a careful note of the answer and I had a bad moment, thinking I would have to go into the witness box and tell the Jury what I had seen: a small, gap-toothed, grinning boy handing her bank notes, which she grasped quickly in a gloved hand.
    It never came to that. Halfway through that morning, Archie Prosser, for the prosecution, asked for an adjournment. A couple of children had been caught in an attempted handbag-pinching on the Circle Line. They had told the whole story of Mrs Endersley’s tireless work for inner-city youth and a surprise visit to her flat in Primrose Hill revealed a large quantity of handbags, wallets, watches, and money. The trial of the confident woman, who kept her white lock because she was so sure she’d never have to be identified, is fixed for next month. I doubt very much whether she’ll want me to defend her.
     
    What I find hard to forget is the sight of the boy asleep in a doorway with a dog. Was he, perhaps, one of Marcia Endersley’s failed pickpockets, sent back by her to the anonymity of the streets so that he couldn’t be questioned? I think of the grand dinner in the Ancient Order of Button-makers and the girl sleeping every night on the church steps, and wonder if the children of Ignorance and Want must always be with us. Or, worse still, always be used.
    Briefed by Soapy Sam Ballard, I told Luci of his deep love for her and his resolve to abstain, for the sake of the image of Chambers, from thoughts of a deeper intimacy or anything connected with custard. She took the news bravely and could be caught staring at the Chair, during Chambers meetings, with love and understanding.
    And, one morning, Hilda and I returned to a subject which seemed to have dominated recent events.
    ‘I really don’t know whether it’s worth making New Year’s resolutions,’ I told her at breakfast. ‘You know why Trevor Timson was on the Underground when he got arrested?’
    ‘No. Why?’
    ‘He’d made a New Year’s resolution to visit his Probation Officer, a duty he occasionally skipped. On the other hand -’
    ‘What’s the other hand?’
    ‘If you hadn’t kept me to a New Year’s resolution to offer my seat to ladies on trains, I’d never have seen those stolen tenners popped into Mrs Endersley’s welcoming gloves.’
    ‘And what about my New Year’s resolution?’ Hilda looked doubtful. ‘Now I come to think about it, I’m not sure it was necessary. Dodo Mackintosh sometimes talks an awful lot of nonsense.’
    ‘I quite agree.’
    ‘I’m not really bossy, am I?’
    ‘Perish the thought.’
    ‘Good. I’m glad you said that. And by the way, you’ve got to stop eating all that fried food at breakfast. You’re putting on far too much weight.’
    So we were in another year when my fry-up, once again, would be taken at the Tastee Bite in Fleet Street. All new resolutions would fade into the past and normal life, for better or