“Fearful destiny to be a woman nowadays—with everything in short supply, except flattery from politicians and press.”
Half of Mervyn’s endless activity was expended in a hunt for food. Experience had endowed him with a formidable technique. Not only was he an expert at barter, but had discovered that a newly-opened restaurant had a brief but blissful period of prodigality before it relapsed into “pilchards and pickings.”
“Keep an eye open, Max, for a restaurant just opened by a Greek. They’re the lads! For a real gorge, there’s nothing like a Greek restaurant that’s just opened.”
Mervyn had also discovered a sandwich bar near Piccadilly Circus which had “sandwiches with food in them”, but only from ten to eleven a.m. He explained that it was a tiny place with five high stools at a miniature counter for fortunate customers, while the less favoured stood by the wall opposite—their backs almost touching those of the counter patrons.
“Same people there every morning. An old bald red-faced man cuts sandwiches endlessly while a jolly blonde woman serves coffee. Behind them, tins of villainous soup, with bilious labels, are ranged in reeling rows. Every one munches. At any moment, a V 2 may join the proceedings—and that fact gives a certain piquancy to the party. You look round. These may be the people with whom you will cross the Great Divide. You study them more closely. There’s a young girl in a snowy overall who comes from a nearby hairdressing establishment to fetch a huge jug of coffee for her fellow toilers. She has tranquil features and tragic eyes. She munches a ham roll. Then there are two women in dungarees. And a rather hard-featured girl with mauve eyes, who arrives each morning with a different soldier boy-friend. It is with these munchers that you may make your début in eternity. Somehow, that fact makes them seem strange—and lovable.”
Pause.
“However, I’m bound to tell you that the practical effect of the possible arrival of a V 2 is to make me have an extra sandwich—on the chance that I shan’t have to pay for it.”
Any one listening to Mervyn would have been convinced of his spontaneity, but the very fact that he seemed to reveal every thought and every emotion was suspicious. Some people exhibit much in order to hide more. Still, whatever his motives might be, his presence delivered me from lacerating memories of my “dream” and my visit to Mrs. Norton. I had only one fear: that he would depart as suddenly as he had arrived.
The weather remained arctic, consequently we seldom went out at night. This did not worry Mervyn. He said it gave him a chance to catch up with world affairs, so, having heaped a pile of cushions on his sofa-bed, he wrapped himself in a couple of rugs, then studied in turn several newspapers and two or three reviews which he had borrowed from the club.
“Ah well! In a few weeks, all the news in these papers will seem far away. And, two years after peace has been declared, the war will probably be regarded as a Golden Age.”
“I hope you’re wrong. But you’re not wrong about the news. In a few weeks it will be misty and far away. That’s inevitable, because such a Niagara of events descends on us every hour that yesterday seems like a fading dream. In other words, yesterday has period interest.”
Mervyn lit a cigarette.
The simple fact is, my dear Max, that the world has become totally incomprehensible to the average person. You can take that from me. I talk to every one. I’m a walking Gallup Poll. Yes, totally incomprehensible. So what is happening is that the average person is now only interested in those things which affect him—and in nothing else. That won’t suit the politicians. They don’t like home affairs. When the going is good, they like to strut on an international background—picking up bouquets. It’s odd, by the way, that so many politicians regard themselves as supermen when, actually, they are the victims of collective stupidity. Still, I should be just the same if I were one of them. I should adore to stand in a slowly-moving car, passing through thronged thoroughfares, deafened by the cheers of the deluded. Besides, look at the food politicians get at international conferences! It makes you hiccup to read the menus.”
He sighed deeply, then started to read a heavy-looking review. For ten minutes there was silence.
“I say, Max! This really is too bad!”
“What’s wrong now?”
“I pick up this ancient and venerable review, expecting to encounter cultural serenities. And what do I find? An article on Artificial Insemination!”
Pause.
Artificial Insemination! I gather that a number of test-tube toddlers have already been born in this delectable island. I refuse to relate certain details where the husband is not the donor, because I find them grossly indecent. All I will say is this: if test-tube toddlers increase and multiply, I am convinced that English social snobbery will survive.”
“That won’t be easy, will it?”
“Quite easy. About thirty years hence, I can imagine someone like my mother saying: ‘Oh, yes! I think I know who you mean. Wasn’t he one of the Berkshire test-tubes?’ ”
Mervyn threw the review on to the floor, clasped his hands behind his head, then gazed at the ceiling.
“I say, Max! Here’s a question for you. You said that so much happens every hour that to-day’s news soon seems misty and far away. Well, Carol was murdered about ten days ago. Do you think the murder seems misty and far away to the murderer?”
“It depends on whether he’s terrified for his own neck. If he is, everything will be conditioned by terror—including his time-sense.”
“And, if he isn’t terrified, he might be—glacial—about the whole thing?”
“It’s possible.”
“I just wondered.”
Pause.
“By the way,” he went on, “I want to take you to a sort of café-club where Carol sometimes went. I’ve been two or three times and met some people who knew her. Shall we go there for a drink before dinner to-morrow?”
“If you like. Where is it?”
“In a turning off Mitre Street. You know the sort of set-up. A few artists—others who want to be mistaken for artists—models and so on. It was at this club that I discovered that the student who committed suicide knew Carol slightly.”
The telephone rang and Mervyn became involved in an intricate argument. At last he replaced the receiver.
He parted the curtains, peered out, then announced:
“Looks like Siberia. Absolute snow blizzard.”
He returned to the sofa, took a slender volume from his dressing-gown pocket and began to read.
Had his references to Carol’s murderer been deliberate? And why did he want me to go to that club off Mitre Street? I hadn’t a guess, but one thing was certain: I should not be able to stand sudden references to Carol’s murderer. Although I had answered him without hesitation and with no hint of emotion, I knew that—next time—my nerve would not hold.
“What’s the time, Max?”
“Nearly nine o’clock.”
“D’you want to hear the news?”
“Not particularly.”
“Neither do I.”
Then, excitedly:
“I tell you what! I’ll read the news! And what I shall read will be much more relevant to luckless humanity than anything the B.B.C. will dish out.”
He sprang up, still holding the slender volume, then—having outlined an imaginary microphone with a movement of his hands—he waited for nine o’clock to strike.