They liked Musso, too. And how they cheered old Umbrella! Oh yes, it was their cup of tea all right, was Munich.

But it wasn’t his. He didn’t know much about politics, he didn’t know as much as them (not to talk about, anyway), but he knew that Munich was a phoney business. Fine for an Earl’s Court binge, but a phoney business, however much you talked. Shame, that was all he had felt, shame which he couldn’t analyse. He had felt it all the time they were getting drunk – in fact he had hardly been able to drink at all himself. He was so ashamed he could hardly look at the pictures… All grinning, shaking hands, frock-coats, top-hats, uniforms, car-rides, cheers – it was like a sort of super-fascist wedding or christening. (Peter, of course, was a fascist, or had been at one time – used to go about Chelsea in a uniform.) And then home again, news-reels, balconies, ‘I think it is peace in our time,’ Mrs Chamberlain the first lady of the land… He was ashamed then, and he was still ashamed.

‘Peace in our time’… Well, we would see. We would see a lot of things… His thoughts flowed on, stopping temporarily and looking outwards, through the window, at each station the train stopped at, then sliding inwards and onwards as the train slid on. Darkness slowly fell, and the train slid on towards London in the night of Boxing Day, 1938. Steam collected on the window, which he rubbed away with his hand, seeing nothing but a blotchy yellow reflection of himself, and the yellow compartment in which he did his thinking.

Chapter Five

The wheels and track clicked out the familiar and unmistakable rhythm – the sly, gentle, suggestive rhythm, unlike any of its others, of a train entering a major London terminus, and he was filled with unease and foreboding as he always was by this sound. Thought and warmth must give place to action in cold streets – reality, buses, tubes, booking-offices, life again, electric-lit London, endless terrors.

Oh dear! – here we were – here was the platform under the huge roof – hollow, hellish echoing noises as in a swimming-bath, and the porters lined up for the attack – no getting out of it now! Foreboding gave place almost to panic. Liverpool Street. Where was he going? What was his plan of campaign? He realized he had made none. He was going along to Netta’s of course, but would she be there? She had said she would, but only in an off-hand way. She never said she’d be anywhere save in an off-hand way. Boxing Night! Of course, she wouldn’t be there! She would go out somewhere on Boxing Night, Peter would take her out! She’d be out dancing – people danced on Boxing Night – out with Peter doing God knows what. What was he to do if he found she was gone? This was terrible. He must get over there at once, and find out the worst.

He let the other people get out of the compartment and then rose and stretched his arms up to put The Bar 20 Rides Again back into his suitcase on the rack. ‘Porter, sir?’ – ‘No, thanks. I can manage, thanks.’ The man went off in a hurt silence. Unpleasant. He stepped on to the platform.

What now? It was half past six. Underground? Central London, and then change at Nothing Hill? Unthinkable! In his present state of suspense he couldn’t bear it. It must be a taxi. That was what the ten pounds was for, wasn’t it? But where to? Straight to Netta’s, or back to his hotel first, to leave his bag? Yes, he’d better go to his hotel first. He could have a wash there, and then stroll round to Netta’s, fairly composed and clean.

He walked out of the station, and got a floating taxi outside the Great Eastern Hotel. ‘I want to go to Earl’s Court. Do you know Fauconberg Square?’ ‘Yessir!’ – ‘Well, it’s the Fauconberg Hotel – you’ll find it.’ – ‘Yessir – rightsir!’ The man bent down his meter with cheerful briskness, and by his delighted, amiable demeanour, cancelled the unpleasantness of the hurt porter on the platform. The toilers were on his side again.

The City was mauve, misty, empty, cold.