second-hand. In winter he tended to turn up in a raglan coat, rather short, and an old-fashioned soft hat. This summer he favoured a black cotton shirt and black trousers with pleats and pockets that stood out at the sides: standard wear in certain quarters in about 1952. Where he got this stuff I never asked, although I did sometimes speculate rather idly about his hair which was cut very short and from time to time appeared more irregularly auburn than at others. The collars of his defeated shirts were rather tight and the knots of his ties very small. He had, however, his occasions of splendour. For a night out at one of his clubs he would change into immaculate jeans and a polo shirt with a motif over the left breast, or a linen jacket, into the top pocket of which a pair of dark glasses would be inserted. I think it pleased him to dress like a poor clerk in the daytime and a man about town in the evenings. Isometimes wished that he would reverse the procedure, but he never did. I could quite see that after his evening swim he would want to change his personality; the working day would thus be symbolically washed away, and the real, the authentic Robin would emerge, as if after a baptism. I sometimes ran into him in the course of my evening walks, either coming home from the theatre or going off to one of his numerous clubs. As he lives just around the corner from me this was hardly surprising. Otherwise, our lives did not impinge. From time to time he would urge me to join him for a swim, but I knew how to deal with that one. He was never surprised and only mildly regretful; I think he had kindly ideas about companionship, of which I sensed that he had more need than I did. But he was very incurious, which I found restful. Perhaps that was why we got on so well; each of us was basically incurious about the other. We accepted each other, in a ruminative and casual manner, and moved like dreamers through our day, pausing occasionally for mugs of tea which he made in the back of the shop, and sometimes not speaking for hours.
In the evenings he seemed brisker and more purposeful. Once he asked me to join him for a drink and I idly agreed, thinking that we would go to the pub on the corner. He had in mind, however, a new wine bar that had just opened, an odd place, down some basement steps, specializing in elaborate cocktails, and staffed by men in mess jackets. Despite its restricted space it was got up to look like an ocean liner. There was even the standard well-dressed slightly drunk woman at the bar, trying to engage the barman in conversation, though I suspected that she too was on the staff.
‘Do you come here often?’ I asked, aware that this ritual remark was well in keeping with the spirit of the place.
‘Only just opened,’ he replied. ‘Going to do well, though. Look over there.’
I saw a couple of well-known faces, or at least faces known to me from the gossip columns. I suppose this district is coming up in the world, although I cannot imagine how people can enjoy spending their evenings underground in this manner. I emerged thankfully into the hazy summer evening, breathing the dust-laden air. I left him there. I suppose that after keeping himself fit as he did he could stand the confinement better than I could. I preferred my odd hypnotic walks, and in his acquiescent way he accepted this. But it was kind of him. He often asked me to join him and never seemed to mind if I refused.
Days and evenings passed in this manner, and it occurred to me, with the sharpening of the weather, that I had not seen the Livingstones, nor made contact, for some time. I remembered my invitation to Heather and Michael, now rather diminished in urgency by the passage of time and my abortive telephone call, and I found myself somewhat reluctant to renew it. If, as I suspected, we had drifted apart, was there really any point in trying to drift together again? We had nothing in common, nothing really to talk about, and
In the evenings he seemed brisker and more purposeful. Once he asked me to join him for a drink and I idly agreed, thinking that we would go to the pub on the corner. He had in mind, however, a new wine bar that had just opened, an odd place, down some basement steps, specializing in elaborate cocktails, and staffed by men in mess jackets. Despite its restricted space it was got up to look like an ocean liner. There was even the standard well-dressed slightly drunk woman at the bar, trying to engage the barman in conversation, though I suspected that she too was on the staff.
‘Do you come here often?’ I asked, aware that this ritual remark was well in keeping with the spirit of the place.
‘Only just opened,’ he replied. ‘Going to do well, though. Look over there.’
I saw a couple of well-known faces, or at least faces known to me from the gossip columns. I suppose this district is coming up in the world, although I cannot imagine how people can enjoy spending their evenings underground in this manner. I emerged thankfully into the hazy summer evening, breathing the dust-laden air. I left him there. I suppose that after keeping himself fit as he did he could stand the confinement better than I could. I preferred my odd hypnotic walks, and in his acquiescent way he accepted this. But it was kind of him. He often asked me to join him and never seemed to mind if I refused.
Days and evenings passed in this manner, and it occurred to me, with the sharpening of the weather, that I had not seen the Livingstones, nor made contact, for some time. I remembered my invitation to Heather and Michael, now rather diminished in urgency by the passage of time and my abortive telephone call, and I found myself somewhat reluctant to renew it. If, as I suspected, we had drifted apart, was there really any point in trying to drift together again? We had nothing in common, nothing really to talk about, and
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