Old Filth - Jane Gardam [0]
116 East 16th Street
New York, NY 10003
info@europaeditions.com
www.europaeditions.com
This book is a work of fiction. Any reference to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2004 by Jane Gardam
First publication 2006 by Europa Editions
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form
ISBN 978-1-933372-13-6 (TPO)
ISBN 978-1-60945-017-5 (ePub)
Cover art by Emanuele Ragnisco
www.mekkanografici.com
Jane Gardam
OLD FILTH
Lawyers, I suppose, were
children once
(Inscription upon the statue of a child
in the Inner Temple Garden in London)
To Raj Orphans
and their parents
PART ONE
SCENE: INNER TEMPLE
The Benchers’ luncheon-room of the Inner Temple. Light pours through the long windows upon polished table, silver, glass. A number of Judges and Benchers finishing lunch. One chair has recently been vacated and the Benchers are looking at it.
The Queen’s Remembrancer: I suppose we all know who that was?
Junior judge: I’ve no idea.
Senior judge: It seemed to be a famous face.
The Common Sergeant: It was Old Filth.
JJ:What! But he must have died years ago. Contem-porary of F. E. Smith.
CS:No. It was Old Filth. Great advocate, judge and—bit of a wit. Said to have invented FILTH—Failed In London Try Hong Kong. He tried Hong Kong. Modest, nice chap.
SJ: Hard worker. Well—the Pollution Law. Feathers on Pollution.
CS: Filth on Filth.
SJ: An old joke. He must be a hundred.
CS: Nowhere near. He’s not been retired all that long. Looks a great age, though.
QR: Transparent. You could see the light through him.
CS: Magnificent looks, though. And still sharp.
QR: He’s up here doing things to his Will. He’s got Betty with him. She’s still alive too. They’ve had a soft life. Far Eastern Bar. And made a packet. Looked after themselves.
CS: Never put a foot wrong, Old Filth. Very popular.
QR: Except with Veneering.
SJ: Yes, that was odd. Out of character.
QR: For such a benevolent old bugger. D’you think there are mysteries?
SJ: Old Filth mysterious?
QR: It’s a wonder he’s not just a bore.
CS: Yes. But he’s not. Child of the Raj, public school, Oxford, the Bar—but he’s not a bore. Women went mad for him.
QR: Coffee? You going through?
CS: Yes. Ten minutes. My Clerk’s packing in the next case. He’ll be ranting at me. Tapping his watch.
QR: Yes. This isn’t Hong Kong. Coffee? But it was good to see the old coelacanth.
CS: Yes. Yes, indeed it was. Tell our grandchildren.
THE DONHEADS
He was spectacularly clean. You might say ostentatiously clean. His ancient fingernails were rimmed with purest white. The few still-gold hairs below his knuckles looked always freshly shampooed, as did his curly still-bronze hair. His shoes shone like conkers. His clothes were always freshly pressed. He had the elegance of the 1920s, for his garments, whatever they looked like off, always became him. Always a Victorian silk handkerchief in the breast pocket. Always yellow cotton or silk socks from Harrods; and some still perfect from his old days in the East. His skin was clear and, in a poor light, young.
His colleagues at the Bar called him Filth, but not out of irony. It was because he was considered to be the source of the old joke, Failed In London Try Hong Kong. It was said that he had fled the London Bar, very young, very poor, on a sudden whim just after the War, and had done magnificently well in Hong Kong from the start. Being a modest man, they said, he had called himself a parvenu, a fraud, a carefree spirit.
Filth in fact was no great maker of jokes, was not at all modest about his work and seldom, except in great extremity, went in for whims. He was loved, however, admired, laughed at kindly and still much discussed many years after retirement.
Now, nearing eighty, he lived alone in Dorset. His wife Betty was dead but he often prattled on to her around the house. Astonishingly in one so old, his curly hair was not yet grey. His eyes and mind alert, he was a delightful