He finished the brandy, then rose and rang the bell. When the waiter appeared, Mervyn ordered more brandy, was told he could not have it, so he demanded gin—and the afternoon paper.
“I became a civilian again, Max. I went to live with Hughie Downs in Clarges Street—and then came the London blitz. Every night I was blown to a different district. Air-raid wardens became so used to seeing me hurtling through the air that they made no comment. Eventually, I was rather ill, so I went to the country for a long time. Then I returned to London. I arrived with the first flying bomb.”
The waiter appeared with the drinks and the newspaper. A long silence followed his departure and, so far as I was concerned, it would have continued indefinitely, because I felt too ill to say a word. Nevertheless, I did vaguely realise that Mervyn had altered, for although he had always described his adventures with the detachment of a spectator, he now did this consciously—as if he recognised that it was essential to keep at a distance experiences which had disrupted him more than he dared to admit.
“D’you know,” he exclaimed, “that my mother writes every other day saying how ashamed she is that I am not racing after Germans, sword in hand? My young brother in the Buffs has just got the D.S.O. and that made her more virulent than ever.”
He produced a heavily-crested envelope, took out a letter and read:
My dear Mervyn,
How you can continue to loll about I really CANNOT IMAGINE.
“She’s printed the last two words. There’s pages of it. Loll about? Why, my dear Max, my whole wretched existence is one desperate search for food. All day I rush from shop to shop, and restaurant to restaurant. All night I dream of pilchards. At the minute, I’m living with Cyril Cator. You know Cyril.”
I said I did not know Cyril.
“Surely! Married General Bentley’s daughter. You must know Cator—interior decorator before the war, then became a Lieut.-Colonel and was put in charge of blitzed laundries. Don’t know what he does now and he isn’t very clear about it. He has a slum-flat near Bloomsbury. We have a char, who turns up at regular but hugely-separated intervals, like a comet, so we never get any breakfast.”
He lit a cigarette, then went on:
“It got desperate about breakfast. Then Cyril noticed that lorry drivers always look pretty plump, so I shadowed one to a sinister haunt where they eat. Cyril and I went there for weeks. The lorry drivers did not seem to mind. So we all munch breakfast together, looking like a pre-view of the New Order.”
He sipped his gin, looked round vacantly, then announced:
“I shall clear out, Max, when the war’s over. I shall go to South America. Why not? I haven’t any ties.”
“No ties?”
“Not nowadays. My eldest daughter is in the Wrens and wants to stay in them after the war—so that’s the end of her. One daughter is married, and Drina is about sixteen—so she’ll become one of Mr. Bevin’s Young Ladies. Family life’s finished. Of course, there’s my wife.”
“What does she think about your going to South America?”
“Ella’s no time to think. She’s in Reading or somewhere. She runs a canteen—fire-watches every night—organises Savings Weeks—and I don’t know what. Well, I had something rather important to tell her, so I went to see her a few days ago.”
He finished his gin, looked round the library as if he were mildly surprised to find himself still in it, then went on:
“I went to see Ella about a girl called Jess. She’s about twenty-five and a secretary or something. We were munching macaroni in a restaurant and I spoke to her. Soon, we became lovers. You know how it is. Well, when that had been going on for about three months, I thought I’d better tell my wife. So off I go to see Ella.”
He sighed deeply, then continued:
“I’d forgotten that Ella never has a second’s leisure. When I arrived, she was serving tea in the canteen—tea and buns—to an endless queue. I said: ‘Look here, Ella, you’ve been broadminded in the past, but——’ Then someone asked for a doughnut instead of a bun. Chaos. When we got back to the house I said: ‘Look here, Ella, I’ve met a girl called Jess but——’ Then an air-raid warden rushed in and asked if Burdock Square was in their district. Pandemonium! Maps produced! Arguments! When he went, I said: ‘Look here, Ella, it’s rather serious this time but——’ Then the telephone bell rang and an incomprehensible conversation took place about the pay of fire-watchers. When that was over, I said: ‘Look here, you’re the mother of my children——’ Then the Alert went. So I gave up. I put on my hat, and walked to the station through fountains of falling flak.”
A long pause.
“It’s rather a bore, but I’ll have to leave Cyril because his wife is coming back. She disappeared the day war was declared—worked as a diver or something—and Cyril heard nothing from her for years. Now she’s coming back. Naturally, he’s not alone. He started a Second Front long ago, so things will be complicated. I shall clear out.”
“Where will you go?”
“I think I’ll go to Jess. She has a floor in a house at St. John’s Wood. Shares it with a girl called Frieda, who is a government typist, and is crazy on an Italian prisoner of war. She met him when she went harvesting on her holidays and is mad-keen on him. It’s unconditional surrender—in reverse. But that’s by the way. I think I’ll go to Jess. She has a spare room—very spare—but it will do.”
He picked up the newspaper, glanced at it, then said:
“Budapest threatened. You know, Max, a year hence, everything in this paper will seem worlds away. I’ll tell you what I mean. Last night, a fellow mentioned the Battle of the River Plate. My mind side-slipped. The Battle of the River Plate? When was that? This war? Last war? It took quite a time to remember.”
He turned the paper over and, a minute later, gave a long low whistle.
Listen to this. There was a murder last night. Girl of twenty-five—artist’s model—stabbed in Chelsea. Doors left open. No struggle. No robbery. Got that? I was a journalist once and I’ll bet you this will be a sensation. Twenty-five—artist’s model—mystery! It’s got everything. It will push the war off the front page of the picture papers.
I said nothing, so he glanced at me.
“I say, Max, I don’t want to emphasise it, but you do really look absolutely ghastly.”
“I don’t feel good. I’d better go home. D’you think the porter could get a taxi?”
“Of course not! He’s deaf—and the boy who helps him is dumb. That’s why the club can keep ’em. I’ll get a taxi. It will take me, roughly, about an hour and a half.”
Some ten minutes later, he returned triumphant.
“Marvellous luck! Spotted a taxi with nine American soldiers getting out of it. Now, before you go, what’s your address?”
I gave him a card, then, as we went downstairs, he said:
“Grand meeting you, Max, and hearing all your news.” Then he added: “I’m right about that murder. I got a later paper. Banner headline: THE CHELSEA MURDER. By the way, that artist’s model lived at Mitre Street. That’s near you, isn’t it?”
“Quite near.”
When we reached the pavement, he said:
“Let’s meet soon. And don’t waste any more time on camouflage. Still, it’s a miracle they didn’t send you to the mines. I expect to be directed to them soon. So you’d better get some coal in.”