eyes wide, at the splendid sight which confronted me. The kitchen was a historical masterpiece, untouched by the mid-twentieth-century mania for making kitchens look like poor relations of the morgue. I saw a large wooden table, very handsome, a gas stove which could only have been pre-war, and a distinguished porcelain sink. The old range had been left in place for its ornamental value, and beside it there was even a set of brass fire-irons: poker, tongs, shovel and soot-brush. Amazing! Anyone who lived in 1963 and kept fire-irons in his kitchen had to be exceptional, and I saw clearly then that Perry was no mn-of-the-mill theatrical hanger-on with homosexual leanings but a highly original celibate who spoke Russian, lived in a palace, devoted his free time to civilised cultural pursuits – and kept Rose’s lime juice in some corner I now had to find.
I opened the door of a gas -gas! – refrigerator that had to be at least thirty years old but no bottle of lime juice stood keeping cool on the shelves. Instead I found caviar from Fortnum’s, a bottle of champagne, half a Melton Mowbray pie and a jar of olives. By this time I was beginning to think that all the kitchen lacked was one of the old-style butlers, complete with white hair, a stoop and corns.
I prowled on, pausing at an antique cupboard which housed some very grand china, and reached a door set in the wall near the back entrance – the tradesmen’s entrance, as it would have been in the old days. Opening the door I discovered a coal-cellar – a coal-cellar! Within spitting distance of Piccadilly! – and inside this astonishing relic of a vanished past was a large load of coal. Surreal. What kind of man kept a cellar full of coal in a designated smokeless zone? A man of infinite wit and style.
I decided Perry was probably the one man in England who was worthy of being Christian’s best friend.
But still no Rose’s lime juice. Abandoning the coal-cellar I opened yet another mysterious door and found a larder complete with a cooked pheasant sitting on a plate and a tub of Stilton exuding its famous pong. Nearby I spotted pâté de foie gras, Gentleman’s Relish and — yes, Rose’s lime juice. Grabbing the bottle I helped myself to a spare sliver of Stilton before moving to the table to replenish my glass.
Perry clattered down the stairs just as I was diluting the juice with water. He had an empty jug in his hands and Christian at his heels. ‘... playing with fire,’ he was saying as I tuned in to the conversation in mid-sentence. ‘Marina may be all talk and no action, but —’ He saw me and broke off.
‘Nick!’ exclaimed Christian in delight.
‘Hi!’ I said pleased.
‘Sorry, Nick — I’ve been neglecting you,’ said Perry, setting down the jug on the table and extracting some ice from the bag in the refrigerator. ‘Glad you found the lime juice. Would you like to see my coal-cellar?’
‘It’s a land-mark,’ said Christian, preparing to exhibit it to me. The last full coal-cellar left in London. He shows it to everyone.’
‘Groovy,’ I said, feigning ignorance of the phenomenon and taking a peek. ‘But why all the coal?’
‘I made a mistake with the coal-merchant just before the smokeless zone was declared. Pass that bottle of gin, would you, Christian?’
The doorbell rang in the distance.
‘You answer that,’ said Christian to him. ‘I’ll mix the jungle juice.’
‘It’s probably my neighbours complaining about the noise ...’ He clattered back upstairs.
‘How are things going?’ said Christian agreeably to me as he poured a huge slug of gin into the jug.
‘Okay.’ Awkwardly I edged closer to him. ‘Sorry about my father,’ I said. ‘I really busted a gut trying to get him to see you. I hope you didn’t feel I’d let you down.’
‘Of course I didn’t!’ He gave me his warmest smile. ‘He wrote a most helpful letter, so you needn’t think you pleaded my cause in vain ... All set for your
I opened the door of a gas -gas! – refrigerator that had to be at least thirty years old but no bottle of lime juice stood keeping cool on the shelves. Instead I found caviar from Fortnum’s, a bottle of champagne, half a Melton Mowbray pie and a jar of olives. By this time I was beginning to think that all the kitchen lacked was one of the old-style butlers, complete with white hair, a stoop and corns.
I prowled on, pausing at an antique cupboard which housed some very grand china, and reached a door set in the wall near the back entrance – the tradesmen’s entrance, as it would have been in the old days. Opening the door I discovered a coal-cellar – a coal-cellar! Within spitting distance of Piccadilly! – and inside this astonishing relic of a vanished past was a large load of coal. Surreal. What kind of man kept a cellar full of coal in a designated smokeless zone? A man of infinite wit and style.
I decided Perry was probably the one man in England who was worthy of being Christian’s best friend.
But still no Rose’s lime juice. Abandoning the coal-cellar I opened yet another mysterious door and found a larder complete with a cooked pheasant sitting on a plate and a tub of Stilton exuding its famous pong. Nearby I spotted pâté de foie gras, Gentleman’s Relish and — yes, Rose’s lime juice. Grabbing the bottle I helped myself to a spare sliver of Stilton before moving to the table to replenish my glass.
Perry clattered down the stairs just as I was diluting the juice with water. He had an empty jug in his hands and Christian at his heels. ‘... playing with fire,’ he was saying as I tuned in to the conversation in mid-sentence. ‘Marina may be all talk and no action, but —’ He saw me and broke off.
‘Nick!’ exclaimed Christian in delight.
‘Hi!’ I said pleased.
‘Sorry, Nick — I’ve been neglecting you,’ said Perry, setting down the jug on the table and extracting some ice from the bag in the refrigerator. ‘Glad you found the lime juice. Would you like to see my coal-cellar?’
‘It’s a land-mark,’ said Christian, preparing to exhibit it to me. The last full coal-cellar left in London. He shows it to everyone.’
‘Groovy,’ I said, feigning ignorance of the phenomenon and taking a peek. ‘But why all the coal?’
‘I made a mistake with the coal-merchant just before the smokeless zone was declared. Pass that bottle of gin, would you, Christian?’
The doorbell rang in the distance.
‘You answer that,’ said Christian to him. ‘I’ll mix the jungle juice.’
‘It’s probably my neighbours complaining about the noise ...’ He clattered back upstairs.
‘How are things going?’ said Christian agreeably to me as he poured a huge slug of gin into the jug.
‘Okay.’ Awkwardly I edged closer to him. ‘Sorry about my father,’ I said. ‘I really busted a gut trying to get him to see you. I hope you didn’t feel I’d let you down.’
‘Of course I didn’t!’ He gave me his warmest smile. ‘He wrote a most helpful letter, so you needn’t think you pleaded my cause in vain ... All set for your
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