drank a little of the brandy. Opening the diary, he looked at the calendar inside.
‘Oh, God!’ he said. ‘This is too real. What – what has happened to me?’
I said, sympathetically:
‘A partial loss of memory isn’t unusual after a shock, you know – in a little time it comes back quite all right as a rule. I suggest you look in there’ – I pointed to the wallet – ‘very likely there will be something to remind you.’
He hesitated, but then felt in the right-hand side of it. The first thing he pulled out was a colour-print of a snapshot; obviously a family group. The central figure was himself, five or six years younger, in a tweed suit; another man, about forty-five, bore a family resemblance, and there were two slightly younger women, and two girls and two boys in their early teens. In the background part of an eighteenth-century house was visible across a well-kept lawn.
‘I
don’t think you need to worry about your life,’ I said. ‘It would appear to have been very satisfactory.’
There followed three engraved cards, separated by tissues, which announced simply: ‘Sir Andrew Vincell’, but gave no address. There was also an envelope addressed to Sir Andrew Vincell, O.B.E. , British Vinvinyl Plastics, Ltd, somewhere in London ECI.
He shook his head, took another sip of the brandy, looked at the envelope again, and gave an unamused laugh. Then with a visible effort he took a grip on himself, and said, decisively:
‘This is some silly kind of dream. How does one wake up?’ He closed his eyes, and declared in a firm tone: ‘I am Andrew Vincell. I am aged twenty-three. I live at number forty-eight Hart Street. I am articled to Penberthy and Trull, chartered accountants, of one hundred and two, Bloomsbury Square. This is July the twelfth, nineteen hundred and six. This morning I was struck by a tram in Thanet Street. I must have been knocked silly, and have been suffering from hallucinations. Now!’
He re-opened his eyes, and looked genuinely surprised to find me still there. Then he glared at the envelope, and his expression grew peevish.
‘
Sir
Andrew Vincell!’ he exclaimed scornfully, ‘and Vinvinyl Plastics, Limited! What the devil is that supposed to mean?’
‘Don’t you think,’ I suggested, ‘that we must assume that you are a member of the firm – I would say, from appearances, one of its directors?’
‘But I told you –’ He broke off. ‘What
is
plastics?’ he went on. ‘It doesn’t suggest anything but modelling clay to me. What on earth would I be doing with modelling clay?’
I hesitated. It looked as if the shock, whatever it was, had had the effect of cutting some fifty years out of his memory. Perhaps, I thought, if we were to talk of a matter which was obviously familiar and important to him it might stir his recollection. I tapped the table top.
‘Well,
this, for instance, is a plastic,’ I told him.
He examined it, and clicked his finger-nails on it.
‘I’d not call that plastic. It is very hard,’ he observed.
I tried to explain:
‘It was plastic before it hardened. There are lots of different kinds of plastics. This ash-tray, the covering on your chair, this pen, my cheque-book cover, that woman’s raincoat, her handbag, the handle of her umbrella, dozens of things all round you – even my shirt is a woven plastic.’
He did not reply immediately, but sat looking from one to another of these things with growing attention. At last he turned back to me again. This time his eyes gazed into mine with great intensity. His voice shook slightly as he said once more:
‘This really
is
1958?’
‘Certainly it is,’ I assured him. ‘If you don’t believe your own diary, there’s a calendar hanging behind the bar.’
‘No horses,’ he murmured to himself, ‘and the trees in the Square grown so tall … a dream is never consistent, not to that extent …’ He paused, then, suddenly: ‘My God!’ he exclaimed, ‘my God, if it
‘Oh, God!’ he said. ‘This is too real. What – what has happened to me?’
I said, sympathetically:
‘A partial loss of memory isn’t unusual after a shock, you know – in a little time it comes back quite all right as a rule. I suggest you look in there’ – I pointed to the wallet – ‘very likely there will be something to remind you.’
He hesitated, but then felt in the right-hand side of it. The first thing he pulled out was a colour-print of a snapshot; obviously a family group. The central figure was himself, five or six years younger, in a tweed suit; another man, about forty-five, bore a family resemblance, and there were two slightly younger women, and two girls and two boys in their early teens. In the background part of an eighteenth-century house was visible across a well-kept lawn.
‘I
don’t think you need to worry about your life,’ I said. ‘It would appear to have been very satisfactory.’
There followed three engraved cards, separated by tissues, which announced simply: ‘Sir Andrew Vincell’, but gave no address. There was also an envelope addressed to Sir Andrew Vincell, O.B.E. , British Vinvinyl Plastics, Ltd, somewhere in London ECI.
He shook his head, took another sip of the brandy, looked at the envelope again, and gave an unamused laugh. Then with a visible effort he took a grip on himself, and said, decisively:
‘This is some silly kind of dream. How does one wake up?’ He closed his eyes, and declared in a firm tone: ‘I am Andrew Vincell. I am aged twenty-three. I live at number forty-eight Hart Street. I am articled to Penberthy and Trull, chartered accountants, of one hundred and two, Bloomsbury Square. This is July the twelfth, nineteen hundred and six. This morning I was struck by a tram in Thanet Street. I must have been knocked silly, and have been suffering from hallucinations. Now!’
He re-opened his eyes, and looked genuinely surprised to find me still there. Then he glared at the envelope, and his expression grew peevish.
‘
Sir
Andrew Vincell!’ he exclaimed scornfully, ‘and Vinvinyl Plastics, Limited! What the devil is that supposed to mean?’
‘Don’t you think,’ I suggested, ‘that we must assume that you are a member of the firm – I would say, from appearances, one of its directors?’
‘But I told you –’ He broke off. ‘What
is
plastics?’ he went on. ‘It doesn’t suggest anything but modelling clay to me. What on earth would I be doing with modelling clay?’
I hesitated. It looked as if the shock, whatever it was, had had the effect of cutting some fifty years out of his memory. Perhaps, I thought, if we were to talk of a matter which was obviously familiar and important to him it might stir his recollection. I tapped the table top.
‘Well,
this, for instance, is a plastic,’ I told him.
He examined it, and clicked his finger-nails on it.
‘I’d not call that plastic. It is very hard,’ he observed.
I tried to explain:
‘It was plastic before it hardened. There are lots of different kinds of plastics. This ash-tray, the covering on your chair, this pen, my cheque-book cover, that woman’s raincoat, her handbag, the handle of her umbrella, dozens of things all round you – even my shirt is a woven plastic.’
He did not reply immediately, but sat looking from one to another of these things with growing attention. At last he turned back to me again. This time his eyes gazed into mine with great intensity. His voice shook slightly as he said once more:
‘This really
is
1958?’
‘Certainly it is,’ I assured him. ‘If you don’t believe your own diary, there’s a calendar hanging behind the bar.’
‘No horses,’ he murmured to himself, ‘and the trees in the Square grown so tall … a dream is never consistent, not to that extent …’ He paused, then, suddenly: ‘My God!’ he exclaimed, ‘my God, if it
Similar Books
