England Made Me by Graham Greene

twenty years Minty had fetched his monthly letters from the General Post Office; it prevented embarrassment. On occasion it was necessary to change a lodging without the usual notice. He found the sun quite hot in the square by the station, but he always wore a coat when he went to fetch his letters. He parked his cigarette outside in a spot where a beggar was unlikely to find it. Presenting a dog-eared card at the Poste Restante counter he believed that, as an Englishman and an old Harrovian, he honoured Stockholm by choosing it as his home. For no one could deny that he was a gentleman of leisure who might have lived in any place with a post office and scope for personality.
    To his surprise there were two letters; this was something which had to be celebrated with another cup of tepid coffee. He chose a leather arm-chair facing the street in the lounge opposite the station and sat there waiting for his coffee to cool. He was so certain that this was one of his days that he ground out the stump of his cigarette and bought a packet. Then he tried a little coffee in a spoon, but it was still too hot.
    On the point of opening one of the letters he paused, his eye caught by an unusual activity at the station. Several men were running across the road with movie cameras. He saw Nils darting by outside and waved to him. He remembered what it was all about. ‘The film star’s return home.’ He had earned sixty crowns a few days ago translating into Swedish all the dope he could discover in the movie magazines. ‘The screen’s greatest lover.’ ‘The mystery woman of Hollywood.’ A number of people (were they hired by the hour? Minty wondered) began to cheer, and several business men, with portfolios under their arms, stopped on the pavement and scowled at the station. They obscured Minty’s view. Minty stood on his chair. It was just as well to keep an eye open even if it was not his own pigeon. The actress was not very popular in Sweden; something disgraceful might happen; something which someone would want hushed up. If, for example, she was hissed . . .
    But nothing happened. A woman came out of the station in a camel-hair coat with a big collar; it was just possible to see that she was wearing grey flannel trousers; Minty had one glimpse of a pale haggard humourless face, a long upper lip, the unreal loveliness and the unreal tragedy of a mask like Dante’s known too well. The movie cameras whirred and the woman put her hands in front of her face and stepped into a car. Somebody threw an expensive bouquet of flowers (who paid for that? Minty wondered) which missed the car and fell in the road. Nobody took any notice. A little woman in heavy black tweeds and a black veil scuttled into the car and it drove away. The newspaper-men came together in front of the station and Minty could hear their laughter.
    He opened the first letter. Scott and James, solicitors. Enclosed find money order for £15, being your allowance for the month ending next September 20th. Please sign and return the enclosed receipt . Reference GL/RS. GL, Minty pondered. I haven’t had those initials before. New blood in the old firm. After twenty years it amused him to find the smallest variation in the letter’s form. Before he opened the second letter he drank his coffee for luck.
    Holy Cnut, it’s Aunt Ella. I’d quite forgotten the old – the old woman (be careful, Minty) was alive.
    Dearest Ferdinand . The name checked Minty. He had not seen that particular arrangement of letters for a very long while. One signed one’s Christian name on cheques, of course, but somehow Minty carried off the burden of the name. Dearest Ferdinand . He laughed and stirred his coffee; that’s me.
    It seems a long while since I heard from you . A long while, Minty thought. I should think it is a long while: the best part of twenty years. I happened to come across an old letter of yours the other day