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Without
knowing
why
I
went
into
a
pub
,
had
a
Scotch
,
and
waited
another
quarter
of
an
hour
.
At
last
I
was
walking
up
to
the
house
.
The
street
door
was
on
the
latch
,
as
it
always
had
been
.
There
was
no
card
against
the
third
-
floor
bell
.
I
climbed
the
stairs
;
stood
outside
the
door
and
waited
,
listened
,
heard
nothing
,
then
knocked
.
No
answer
.
I
knocked
again
,
and
then
again
.
Music
,
but
it
came
from
above
.
I
tried
Ann
Taylor
’
s
flat
one
last
time
,
then
went
on
up
the
stairs
.
I
remembered
that
evening
I
had
climbed
them
with
Alison
,
taking
her
to
have
her
bath
.
How
many
worlds
had
died
since
then
?
And
yet
Alison
was
somehow
still
there
,
so
close
.
I
decided
she
really
was
close
;
in
the
flat
above
.
I
did
not
know
what
would
happen
.
Emotions
exploded
decisions
.
I
shut
my
eyes
,
counted
ten
,
and
knocked
.
Footsteps
.
A
girl
of
nineteen
or
so
opened
the
door
;
spectacles
,
rather
fat
,
too
much
lipstick
.
I
could
see
through
another
door
into
the
sitting
room
beyond
her
.
There
was
a
young
man
there
and
another
girl
,
arrested
in
the
act
of
demonstrating
some
dance
;
jazz
,
the
room
full
of
evening
sunlight
;
three
interrupted
figures
,
still
for
an
instant
,
like
a
contemporary
Vermeer
.
I
was
unable
to
hide
my
disappointment
.
The
girl
at
the
door
gave
an
encouraging
smile
.
I
backed
.
"
Terribly
sorry
.
Wrong
flat
.
"
I
began
to
go
down
the
stairs
.
She
called
after
me
,
who
did
I
want
,
but
I
said
,
"
It
’
s
all
right
.
Second
floor
.
"
I
was
out
of
sight
before
she
could
put
two
and
two
together
;
my
tan
,
my
retreat
,
peculiar
telephone
calls
from
Athens
.
I
walked
back
to
the
pub
,
and
later
I
went
to
an
Italian
restaurant
Alison
and
myself
had
used
to
go
to
.
It
was
still
the
same
,
popular
with
the
poorer
academic
and
artistic
population
of
Bloomsbury
:
research
graduates
,
out
-
of
-
work
actors
,
publishers
’
staff
,
mostly
young
,
and
my
own
kind
.
The
clientele
had
not
changed
,
but
I
had
.
I
listened
to
the
chatter
around
me
;
and
was
offput
,
and
then
alienated
,
by
its
insularity
,
its
suddenly
seen
innocence
.
I
looked
round
,
to
try
to
find
someone
I
might
hypothetically
want
to
know
better
,
become
friendly
with
;
and
there
was
no
one
.
It
was
the
unneeded
confirmation
of
my
loss
of
Englishness
;
and
it
occurred
to
me
that
I
must
be
feeling
as
Alison
had
so
often
felt
:
a
mixture
,
before
the
English
,
of
irritation
and
bafflement
,
of
having
this
same
language
,
same
past
,
so
many
same
things
,
and
yet
not
belonging
to
them
any
more
.
Being
worse
than
rootless
…
speciesless
.
I
went
and
had
one
more
look
at
the
fiat
in
Russell
Square
,
but
there
was
no
light
on
the
third
floor
.
So
I
returned
to
the
hotel
,
defeated
.
An
old
,
old
man
.
The
next
morning
I
went
round
to
the
estate
agents
who
looked
after
the
house
.
They
had
a
shabby
string
of
green
-
painted
rooms
above
a
shop
in
Southampton
Row
.
I
recognized
the
adenoidal
clerk
who
came
to
the
counter
to
look
after
me
as
the
one
I
had
dealt
with
the
previous
year
;
he
remembered
me
,
and
I
soon
extracted
from
him
what
little
information
he
had
to
give
.
The
fiat
had
been
assigned
to
Alison
at
the
beginning
of
July
—
ten
days
or
a
fortnight
after
Parnassus
.
He
had
no
idea
whether
Alison
had
been
living
there
or
not
.
He
looked
at
a
copy
of
the
new
lease
.
The
assignee
’
s
address
was
the
same
as
the
assigner
’
s
.
"
Must
have
been
sharing
,
"
said
the
clerk
.
And
that
was
that
.
And
what
did
I
care
?
Why
should
I
go
on
searching
for
her
?
But
I
waited
in
all
the
evening
after
my
visit
to
the
estate
agent
,
hoping
for
another
message
.
The
next
day
I
moved
to
the
Russell
Hotel
,
so
that
I
had
only
to
stroll
out
of
the
entrance
and
look
across
the
square
to
see
the
house
,
to
wait
for
the
windows
on
that
black
third
floor
to
light
.
Four
days
passed
,
and
no
lights
;
no
letters
,
no
phone
calls
,
not
the
smallest
sign
.
I
grew
impatient
and
frustrated
,
hamstrung
by
this
inexplicable
lapse
in
the
action
.
I
thought
perhaps
that
they
had
lost
me
,
they
did
not
know
where
I
was
,
and
that
worried
me
;
then
it
angered
me
that
I
was
worried
.
The
need
to
see
Alison
drowned
everything
else
.
To
see
her
.
To
twist
the
secret
out
of
her
;
and
other
things
I
could
not
name
.
A
week
passed
,
a
week
wasted
in
cinemas
,
theatres
,
in
lying
on
my
hotel
bed
and
staring
at
the
wall
,
waiting
for
that
implacably
silent
telephone
beside
me
to
ring
.
I
nearly
sent
a
cable
to
Bourani
with
my
address
;
but
pride
stopped
that
.
At
last
I
gave
in
.
I
could
stand
the
hotel
and
Russell
Square
,
that
eternally
empty
flat
,
no
longer
.
I
saw
a
place
advertised
on
a
tobacconist
’
s
board
.
It
was
a
scruffy
attic
"
flat
"
over
two
floors
of
sewing
rooms
at
the
north
end
of
Charlotte
Street
,
on
the
other
side
of
the
Tottenham
Court
Road
.
It
was
expensive
,
but
there
was
a
telephone
and
,
though
the
landlady
lived
in
the
basement
,
she
was
an
unmistakable
Charlotte
Street
bohemian
of
the
1930
’
s
vintage
:
sluttish
,
battered
,
chain
-
smoking
.
She
managed
to
let
me
know
within
the
first
five
minutes
I
was
in
the
house
that
Dylan
Thomas
had
once
been
"
a
close
friend
"
—
"
God
,
the
times
I
’
ve
had
to
put
him
to
bed
,
poor
sod
.
"
I
didn
’
t
believe
her
.
"
Dylan
slept
(
or
slept
it
off
)
here
"
is
to
Charlotte
Street
rather
what
the
similar
claim
about
Queen
Elizabeth
used
to
be
to
the
country
inns
of
England
.
But
I
liked
her
—
"
My
name
’
s
Joan
,
everyone
calls
me
Kemp
.
"
Kemp
’
s
intellect
,
like
her
pottery
and
paintings
,
was
a
mess
;
but
her
heart
was
in
the
right
place
.
"
Okay
,
"
she
said
at
the
door
,
after
I
’
d
agreed
to
take
the
rooms
.
"
As
long
as
I
have
your
money
.
Bring
in
who
you
want
when
you
want
.
The
last
boy
was
a
ponce
.
An
absolute
sweetie
.
The
bloody
fascists
got
him
last
week
.
"
"
Good
Lord
.
"
She
nodded
.
"
Them
.
"
I
looked
round
,
and
saw
two
young
policemen
standing
on
the
corner
.
I
also
bought
an
old
MG
.
The
body
was
bad
and
the
roof
leaked
,
but
the
engine
seemed
to
have
a
year
or
two
of
life
left
.
I
took
Kemp
out
to
Jack
Straw
’
s
Castle
on
a
grand
inaugural
run
She
drank
like
a
trooper
and
talked
like
one
,
but
in
every
other
way
she
was
what
I
wanted
and
what
I
needed
:
a
warm
heart
and
a
compulsive
gossip
about
herself
,
who
accepted
without
suspicion
my
explanation
of
my
joblessness
;
partly
reconciled
me
,
in
her
bitter
-
warm
way
,
to
London
and
being
English
;
and
—
at
least
to
begin
with
—
stopped
me
from
being
,
whenever
I
felt
it
,
too
morbidly
abandoned
and
alone
.
A
long
August
passed
,
and
I
had
fits
of
acute
depression
,
fits
of
torpid
indifference
.
I
was
like
a
fish
in
stale
water
,
stifled
by
the
grayness
of
England
.
Just
as
I
looked
back
,
Adam
after
the
fall
,
to
the
luminous
landscapes
,
the
salt
and
thyme
of
Phraxos
,
I
looked
back
to
the
events
of
Bourani
,
which
could
not
have
happened
,
but
which
had
happened
,
and
found
myself
,
at
the
end
of
some
tired
London
afternoon
,
as
unable
to
wish
that
they
had
not
happened
as
I
was
to
forgive
Conchis
for
having
given
me
the
part
he
did
.
Slowly
I
came
to
realize
that
my
dilemma
was
in
fact
a
sort
of
de
facto
forgiveness
,
a
condonation
of
what
had
been
done
to
me
;
even
though
,
still
too
sore
to
accept
that
something
active
had
taken
place
,
I
thought
of
"
done
"
in
a
passive
sense
.
I
thought
in
the
same
way
of
Lily
.
One
day
I
nearly
crashed
,
breaking
hard
at
the
glimpse
of
a
girl
with
long
blonde
hair
walking
down
a
side
street
.
I
swerved
the
car
into
the
curb
and
raced
after
her
.
Even
before
I
saw
the
plain
face
I
knew
it
was
not
Lily
.
But
if
I
had
rushed
after
the
girl
in
the
side
street
it
was
because
I
wanted
to
face
Lily
,
to
question
her
,
to
try
to
understand
the
ununderstandable
;
not
because
I
longed
for
her
.
I
could
have
longed
for
certain
aspects
of
her
,
for
certain
phases
—
but
it
was
that
very
phasality
that
made
her
impossible
to
love
.
So
I
could
almost
think
of
her
,
the
light
-
phase
her
,
as
one
thinks
tenderly
but
historically
of
the
moments
of
poetry
in
one
’
s
life
,
and
yet
still
hate
her
for
what
she
had
done
.
But
I
had
to
do
something
while
I
waited
,
while
I
absorbed
the
experience
osmotically
into
my
life
.
So
throughout
the
latter
half
of
August
I
pursued
the
trail
of
Conchis
and
Lily
in
England
;
and
through
them
,
of
Alison
.
It
kept
me
,
however
tenuously
and
vicariously
,
in
the
masque
;
and
it
dulled
my
agonizing
longing
to
see
Alison
.
Agonizing
because
a
new
feeling
had
seeded
and
was
growing
inside
me
,
a
feeling
I
wanted
to
eradicate
and
couldn
’
t
,
not
least
because
I
knew
the
seed
of
it
had
been
planted
by
Conchis
and
was
germinating
in
this
deliberate
silence
and
absence
he
had
surrounded
me
with
;
a
feeling
that
haunted
me
as
the
embryo
grows
in
the
reluctant
mother
’
s
womb
,
sweeping
her
day
and
night
,
that
I
despised
,
disproved
,
dismissed
,
and
still
it
grew
,
with
rage
,
then
in
green
moments
melting
her
with
…
but
I
couldn
’
t
say
the
word
.
And
for
a
time
it
lay
buried
under
inquiries
,
conjectures
,
letters
.
The
newspaper
cuttings
.
Different
type
from
that
of
the
Holborn
Gazette
,
where
the
inquest
report
would
have
appeared
;
and
did
not
appear
.
Foulkes
pamphlet
.
Is
in
the
British
Museum
Catalogue
.
Conchis
’
s
are
not
.
Theatre
costumier
’
s
.
I
tried
Berman
’
s
and
one
or
two
others
,
without
the
least
success
.
Earthquakes
.
There
were
earthquakes
in
1884
and
1892
in
the
Ionian
Islands
.
In
a
tragic
way
that
part
of
Conchis
’
s
story
was
confirmed
just
before
I
began
my
research
.
On
August
9
,
1953
,
450
people
died
in
the
Ionian
disaster
.
Military
history
.
Letter
from
Major
Arthur
Lee
-
Jones
.
DEAR
MR
.
URFE
,
I
’
m
afraid
your
letter
does
ask
,
as
you
say
yourself
,
for
the
impossible
.
The
units
engaged
in
the
Neuve
Cha
pelle
set
piece
were
mostly
regular
ones
.
I
think
it
most
unlikely
that
any
Princess
Louise
’
s
Kensington
Regiment
volunteers
would
have
seen
that
engagement
,
even
under
the
circumstances
you
suggest
.
But
of
course
we
have
poor
detailed
records
of
that
chaotic
time
,
and
I
can
’
t
hazard
more
than
an
opinion
.
I
can
find
no
trace
in
the
records
of
a
captain
called
Montague
.
Usually
one
is
on
safer
ground
with
officers
.
But
perhaps
he
was
seconded
from
one
of
the
county
regiments
.
De
Deukans
.
No
family
of
this
name
in
the
Almanach
de
Gotha
or
any
other
likely
source
I
looked
at
.
The
fire
at
Givray
-
le
-
Duc
on
August
17
,
1922
.
Unreported
in
The
Times
and
the
Telegraph
.
Perhaps
not
surprisingly
,
as
I
found
Givray
-
le
-
Duc
was
absent
from
even
the
largest
French
gazetteers
.
The
spider
Theridion
deukansii
:
doesn
’
t
exist
,
though
there
is
a
genus
Theridion
.
Seidevarre
.
Letter
from
Johan
Fredriksen
.
DEAR
SIR
,
The
mayor
of
Kirkenes
has
passed
to
me
,
who
is
the
schoolmaster
,
your
letter
to
answer
.
There
is
in
Pasvikdal
a
place
of
the
name
Seidevarre
and
there
was
in
that
place
many
years
from
now
a
family
of
the
name
Nygaard
.
I
am
very
sorry
we
do
not
know
what
is
become
with
this
family
.
I
am
very
pleased
to
help
you
.
Lily
’
s
mother
.
I
drove
down
to
Cerne
Abbas
,
not
expecting
to
find
either
an
Ansty
Cottage
or
a
Silver
Street
.
I
did
not
.
I
told
the
manageress
at
the
little
hotel
where
I
had
lunch
that
I
’
d
once
known
two
girls
from
Genie
Abbas
—
twins
,
very
pretty
,
but
I
’
d
forgotten
their
surname
.
It
left
her
deeply
worried
—
she
knew
everyone
in
the
village
and
couldn
’
t
think
who
it
could
have
been
.
The
"
headmaster
"
at
the
primary
school
:
in
reality
a
headmistress
.
Obviously
the
letters
bad
been
intercepted
on
Phraxos
;
and
a
reply
sent
to
England
for
posting
.
Charles
-
Victor
Bruneau
.
Not
in
Grove
.
A
man
I
spoke
to
at
the
Royal
Academy
of
Music
had
never
heard
of
him
;
or
,
needless
to
say
,
of
Gonchis
.
Conchis
’
s
costume
at
the
"
trial
.
"
On
my
way
back
from
Cerne
Abbas
I
stopped
for
dinner
in
Hungerford
,
and
passed
an
antique
shop
on
my
way
to
the
hotel
.
Propped
up
in
the
window
were
five
old
Tarot
cards
.
On
one
of
them
was
a
man
dressed
exactly
as
Gonchis
had
been
;
even
to
the
same
emblems
on
his
cloak
.
Underneath
were
the
words
Le
Sorcier
—
the
sorcerer
.
The
shop
was
shut
,
but
I
took
its
address
and
later
they
sold
me
the
card
by
post
;
a
"
nice
eighteenthcentury
card
.
"
It
gave
me
a
sharp
shock
when
I
first
saw
it
—
I
looked
round
,
as
if
it
had
been
planted
there
for
me
to
notice
;
as
if
I
was
being
watched
.
The
"
psychologists
"
at
the
trial
.
I
tried
the
Tavistock
Clinic
and
the
American
Embassy
.
All
the
names
totally
unknown
,
though
some
of
the
institutes
exist
.
Nevinson
.
This
was
the
man
whose
Oxford
college
was
in
a
book
in
the
school
library
.
The
Bursar
’
s
Office
at
Balliol
sent
me
an
address
in
Japan
.
I
wrote
him
a
letter
.
Two
weeks
later
I
had
a
reply
.
Faculty
of
English
,
Osaka
UniversityDEAR
MR
.
URFE
,
Thank
you
for
your
letter
,
it
came
,
as
it
were
,
from
the
distant
past
,
and
gave
me
quite
a
surprise
!
But
I
was
delighted
to
hear
that
the
school
has
survived
the
tvar
,
and
I
trust
you
have
enjoyed
your
stay
there
as
much
as
I
did
.
I
had
forgotten
about
Bourani
.
I
remember
the
place
now
,
however
,
and
(
very
vaguely
!
)
the
owner
.
Did
I
have
a
iolent
argument
with
him
once
about
Racine
and
predestination
?
I
have
an
intuition
,
no
more
,
that
I
did
.
But
so
much
has
flowed
under
the
bridges
since
those
days
.
Other
"
victims
"
before
the
war
—
alas
,
I
can
’
t
help
you
.
The
man
before
me
I
never
met
.
I
did
know
Geoffrey
Sugden
,
who
was
there
for
three
years
after
me
.
I
never
heard
him
refer
especially
to
Bourani
.
If
you
are
ever
in
this
part
of
the
world
,
I
should
be
delighted
to
talk
over
old
times
with
you
,
and
to
offer
you
,
if
not
an
ouzo
,
at
least
a
sake
pou
na
pinete
.
Yours
sincerely
,
DOUGLAS
NEVINSONThe
incident
on
the
ridge
.
When
the
kapetan
called
me
prodotis
(
traitor
)
.
Of
course
they
knew
one
day
I
would
know
what
treachery
they
meant
.
Wimmel
.
In
late
August
,
a
piece
of
luck
.
One
of
my
teeth
began
to
hurt
and
Kemp
sent
me
to
her
dentist
to
have
it
seen
to
.
While
I
was
in
the
waiting
room
I
picked
up
an
old
film
magazine
of
the
previous
January
.
Halfway
through
I
came
on
a
picture
of
"
Wimmel
.
"
He
was
even
dressed
in
Nazi
uniform
.
Underneath
there
was
a
caption
paragraph
.
Ignaz
Pruszynski
,
who
plays
the
fiendish
Town
Commandant
in
Poland
’
s
much
praised
film
of
the
Resistance
,
Black
Ordeal
,
in
real
life
played
a
very
different
role
.
He
led
a
Polish
underground
group
all
through
the
Occupation
,
and
was
awarded
the
Polish
equivalent
of
our
own
Victoria
Cross
.
Hypnotism
.
I
read
a
couple
of
books
on
this
.
Conchis
had
evidently
learnt
the
technique
professionally
.
It
was
"
virtually
impossible
"
to
get
the
person
hypnotized
to
do
acts
that
"
run
deeply
counter
to
his
moral
beliefs
.
