Consider Her Ways (19 page)

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 into 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 platter-like 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, pin-heeled and quite hideous. I suppose all high-fashion 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 plate-hatted lady in a well-worn fur-coat posted herself beside me and addressed me as ‘dearie' 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 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
recognized. 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 Colin 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 recognize 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 recognize. 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 run into Tommy – Tommy Westhouse. Sort of blowing sulphur – hopping mad with his American agent. You remember that god-awful thing of Tommy's –
The Thornèd Rose
– kind 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 over-subscribed. Saw the Lit. Sup. wagged a bit of a finger at you. Not had time to read it myself yet. Too much on hand.'

I chose the easier – the non-committal way. It seemed easier than trying to understand, so I told him it was doing just about as expected.

The Club, when in due course we reached it, turned out to be the Savage. I am not a member, but the porter greeted me by name, as though I were in the habit of dropping in every day.

‘Just a quick one,' Martin suggested. ‘Then we'll look in and see George about your cheque.'

I had misgivings over that, but it went off all right, and during lunch I did my best to keep my end up. I had the same troubles that I have now – true it was from the other end, but the principle still holds: if things are
too
queer people will find it easier to think you are potty than to help you; so keep up a front.

I am afraid I did not do very well. Several times I caught Martin glancing at me with a perplexed expression. Once he asked: ‘Quite sure you're feeling all right, old man?'

But the climax did not come until, with cheese on his plate, he
reached out his left hand for a stick of celery. And as he did so I noticed the gold signet ring on his little finger, and that jolted me right out of my caution – for, you see, Martin doesn't have a little finger on his left hand, or a third finger, either. He left both of them somewhere near the Rhine in 1945 …

‘Good God!' I exclaimed. For some reason that pierced me more sharply than anything yet. He turned his face towards me.

‘What on earth's the matter, man? You're as white as a sheet.'

‘Your hand –' I said.

He glanced at it curiously, and then back at me, even more curiously.

‘Looks all right to me,' he said, eyes a little narrowed.

‘But – but you lost the two last fingers – in the war,' I exclaimed. His eyebrows rose, and then came down in an anxious frown. He said, with kind intention:

‘Got it a bit mixed, haven't you, old man? Why, the war was over before I was born.'

Well, it goes a bit hazy just after that, and when it got coherent again I was lying back in a big chair, with Martin sitting close beside, saying:

‘So take my advice, old man. Just you trot along to the quack this afternoon. Must've taken a bit more of a knock than you thought, you know. Funny thing, the brain – can't be too careful. Well, I'll have to go now I'm afraid. Appointment. But don't you put it off. Risky. Let me know how it goes.' And then he was gone.

I lay back in the chair. Curiously enough I was feeling far more myself than I had since I came to on the pavement in Regent Street. It was as if the biggest jolt yet had shaken me out of the daze, and got the gears of my wits into mesh again … I was glad to be rid of Martin, and able to think …

I looked round the lounge. As I said, I am not a member, and did not know the place well enough to be sure of details, but I rather thought the arrangement was a little different, and the carpet, and some of the light fittings, from when I saw it last …

There
were few people around. Two talking in a corner, three napping, two more reading papers; none taking any notice of me. I went over to the periodicals table, and brought back the
New Statesman
, dated 22 January 1954. The front page leader was advocating the nationalization of transport as a first step towards putting the means of production into the hands of the people and so ending unemployment. There was a wave of nostalgia about that. I turned on, glancing at articles which baffled me for lack of context. I was glad to find Critic present, and I noticed that among the things that were currently causing him concern was some experimental work going on in Germany. His misgivings were, it seemed, shared by several eminent scientists, for, while there was little doubt now that nuclear fission was a theoretical possibility, the proposed methods of control were inadequate. There could well be a chain reaction resulting in a disaster of cosmic proportions. A consortium which included names famous in the Arts as well as many illustrious in the sciences was being formed to call upon the League of Nations to protest to the German government in the name of humanity against reckless research …

Well, well … !

With returning confidence in myself I sat and pondered.

Gradually, and faintly at first, something began to glimmer … Not anything about the how, or the why – I still have no useful theories about those – but about
what
could conceivably have happened.

It was vague – set off, perhaps, by the thought of that random neutron which I knew in one set of circumstances to have been captured by a uranium atom, but which, in another set of circumstances, apparently had not …

And there, of course, one was brought up against Einstein and relativity which, as you know, denies the possibility of determining motion absolutely and consequently leads into the idea of the four-dimensional space-time continuum. Well, then, since you cannot determine the motions of the factors in the continuum,
any pattern of motion must be illusory, and there cannot be any determinable consequences. Nevertheless, where the factors are closely similar – are composed of similar atoms in roughly the same relation to the continuum, so to speak – you
may
quite well get similar consequences. They can never be identical, of course, or determination of motion would be possible. But they could be very similar, and capable of consideration in terms of Einstein's Special Theory, and they
could
be determined further by a set of closely similar factors. In other words although the infinite point which we may call a moment in 1954
must
occur throughout the continuum, it
exists
only in relation to each observer, and
appears
to have similar existence in relation to certain close groups of observers. However, since no two observers can be identical – that is, the same observer – each must perceive a different past, present, and future from that perceived by any other; consequently, what he perceives arises only from the factors of his relationship to the continuum, and exists only for him.

Therefore I began to understand that
what
had happened must be this: in some way – which I cannot begin to grasp – I had somehow been translated to the position of a different observer – one whose angle of view was in some respects very close to my own, and yet different enough to have relationships, and therefore realities, unperceived by me. In other words, he must have lived in a world real only to him, just as I had lived in a world real only to me – until this very peculiar transposition had occurred to put me in the position of observing
his
world, with, of course, its relevant past and future, instead of the one I was accustomed to.

Mind you, simple as it is when you consider it, I certainly did not grasp the form of it all at once, but I did argue my way close enough to the observer-existence relationship to decide that whatever might have gone amiss, my own mind was more or less all right. The trouble really seemed to be that it was in the wrong place, and getting messages not intended for me; a receiver somehow hooked into the wrong circuit.