I turned to the middle page, and read: “Disorders in Delhi. One of the greatest exhibitions of Civil disobedience so far staged in India took place here today demanding the immediate release of Nehru from prison. For nearly all the hours of daylight the city has been at a standstill” Then an item in an adjoining column caught my eye: “In answer to a question from the Opposition front bench Mr Butler, the Prime Minister, assured the House that the Government was giving serious consideration” In a dizzy way I glanced at the top of the page: the date there agreed with that on the front, 27 January 1954, but just below it there was a picture with the caption: “A scene from last night’s production of The Lady Loves, at the Laughton Theatre, in which Miss Amanda Coward plays the lead in the last of her father’s many musical plays. The Lady Loves was completed only a few days before Noel Coward’s death last August, and a moving tribute to his memory was paid at the end of the performance by Mr Ivor Novello who directed the production.”
I read that again, with care. Then I looked up and about, for reassurance, at my fellow drinkers, at the furniture, at the barman, at the bottles: it was all convincingly real.
I dropped the paper, and finished the rest of my brandy. I could have done with another, but it would have been awkward if, with my wallet gone, the barman should change his mind about his modest price. I glanced at my watch and there was a thing, too! It was a very nice watch, gold, with a crocodile strap, and hands that stood at twelve-thirty, but I had never seen it before. I took it off and looked at the back. There was a pretty bit of engraving there; it said: “C. for ever O. 10.X.50.” And it jolted me quite a little, for 1950 was the year I was married though not in October, and not to anyone called O. My wife’s name was Della. Mechanically I restrapped the watch on my wrist, and left.
The interlude and the brandy had done me some good. When I stepped out of Regent Street again I was feeling less dazed (though, if it is not too fine a distinction, more bewildered) and my head had almost ceased to ache, so that I was able to pay more attention to the world about me.
At first sight Piccadilly Circus gave an impression of being much as usual, and yet a suggestion that there was something a bit wrong with it. After a few moments I perceived that it was the people and the cars. Surprising numbers of the men and women, too, wore clothing that looked shabby, and the flower-girls below Eros seemed like bundles of rags. The look of the women who were not shabby took me completely aback. Almost without exception their hats were twelve-inch platterlike things balanced on the top of their heads. The skirts were long, almost to their ankles, and, worn under fur coats, gave an impression that they were dressed for the evening, at midday. Their shoes were pointed, over-ornamented, pinheeled and quite hideous. I suppose all highfashion would look ludicrous if one were to come upon it unprepared, but then one never does at least one never had until now… I might have felt like Rip van Winkle newly awakened, but for the date line on that newspaper The cars were odd, too. They seemed curiously high built, small, and lacking in the flashy effects one had grown accustomed to, and when I paid more attention I did not see one make I could readily identify. except a couple of unmistakable Rolls.
While I stood staring curiously a platehatted lady in a well-worn furcoat posted herself beside me and addressed me as “deane” in a somewhat grim way. I decided to move on, and headed for Piccadilly. On the way, I looked across at St James’s Church. The last time I had seen it it was clothed in scaffolding, with a hoarding in 115 the garden to help to raise funds for the rebuilding that would have been about a fortnight before but now all that had gone, and it looked as if it had never been bombed at all. I crossed the road to inspect it more closely, and was still more impressed with the wonderful job they had made of the restoration.
Presently I found myself in front of Hatchard’s window, and paused to examine their contents. Some of the books had authors whose names I knew; I saw works by Priestley, C. S. Lewis, Bertrand Russell, T. S. Eliot, and others, but scarcely a title that I recognised. And then, down in the front, my eye was caught by a book in a predominantly pink jacket: Life’s Young Day, a novel by Cohn Trafford.
I went on goggling at it, probably with my mouth open. I once had ambitions in that direction, you know. If it had not been for the war I’d probably have taken an Arts degree, and tried my hand at it, but as things happened I made a friend in the regiment who turned me to science, and could put me in the way of a job with E. P. I. later. Therefore it took me a minute or two to recover from the coincidence of seeing my name on the cover, and, when I did, my curiosity was still strong enough to take me into the shop.
There I discovered a pile of half a dozen copies lying on a table. I picked up the top one, and opened it. The name was plain enough on the title page and opposite was a list of seven other titles under “author of.” I did not recognise the publisher’s name, but overleaf there was the announcement: “First published January 1954.”
I turned it over in my hand, and then all but dropped it. On the back was a picture of the author; undoubtedly me and with the moustache… The floor seemed to tilt slightly beneath my feet.
Then, somewhere over my shoulder, there was a voice; one that I seemed to recognise. It said: “Well met, Narcissus! Doing a bit of sales promotion, eh? How’s it going?”
“Martin!” I exclaimed. I had never been so glad to see anyone in all my life. “Martin. Why we’ve not met since when was it?”
“Oh, for at least three days, old boy,” he said, looking a little surprised.
Three days! I’d seen a lot of Martin Falls at Cambridge, but only run across him twice since we came down, and the last of those was two years ago. But he went on: “What about a spot of lunch, if you’re not booked?” he suggested.
And that wasn’t quite right either. I’d not heard anyone speak of a spot of lunch for years. However, I did my best to feel as if things were becoming more normal.
“Fine,” I said, “but you’ll have to pay. I’ve had my wallet pinched.”
He clicked his tongue.
“Hope there wasn’t much in it. Anyway, what about the club? They’ll cash you a cheque there.”
I put the book I was still holding back on the pile, and we left.
“Funny thing,” Martin said. “Just ran into Tommy, Tommy Westhouse. Sort of blowing sulphur, hopping mad with his American agent. You remember that godawful thing of Tommy’s The Thornd Rosekind of Ben Hur meets Cleopatra, with the Marquis de Sade intervening? Well, it seems this agent” He rambled on with a shoppy, anecdotal recital full of names that meant nothing to me, but lasted through several streets and brought us almost to Pall Mall. At the end of it he said: “You didn’t tell me how Life’s Young Day’s doing. Somebody said it was oversubscribed. Saw the Lit Sup wagged a bit of a finger at you. Not had time to read it myself yet. Too much on hand.”