Secondhand Daylight by D.J. Taylor

Author:D.J. Taylor [D. J. Taylor]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781780335230
Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group
Published: 2012-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

PART TWO

8

TIME OUT OF MIND

Tea and two slices cost fourpence

A kipper on toast is a shilling

And afterwards step down to Greek Street

To see if the ladies are willing.

James Ross, Soho Eclogues

Naturally, when I woke up the next morning – a bit on the late side – I was in the most tremendous stew. And as if the memory of the previous night wasn’t enough to be going on with, I discovered that the top of my calf where Hercules had sunk his teeth into it had turned a purplish colour. Worse, the London Mercury had sent back a poem which I’d reckoned would knock anything T. S. Eliot had ever written into a cocked hat. On the plus side there was a letter from Tommy Kilmarnock asking me to come round and see him soon as convenient, and this cheered me up no end, as Tommy was a tip-top divorce lawyer with a list of West End clients as long as your laundry bill and the jobs he put my way usually paid cash in advance.

It was nearly twelve by the time I got round to his chambers, which were in one of those flyblown squares between the Strand and the river, and his clerk said he was out seeing a client but he’d left instructions to ask: would I mind waiting? Well, I hung about in his office for a bit, read the line of invitations on his mantelpiece, which were mostly to parties in Belgrave Square, browsed through one or two of the juicier cases in the Law Gazette – it’s surprising what those society women will say about the husbands they’re getting shot of – and at about half past he breezed through the door wearing a twenty-guinea suit and smoking an outsize cigar that practically needed a tripod to rest on.

‘How’s business?’ I asked as he plonked his things on the table, told the clerk to fetch two stiff whiskies and looked at a telegram that had just come in from the Duchess of Westmorland.

‘Not so bad. Terribly immoral lot these days, you know, the upper classes.’

I nodded at the line of invitation cards. ‘Will you be going to the Countess of Kinnoul’s thé dansant next Friday week?’

‘Bessie Kinnoul? No, I’ve chucked. Lavinia Sutherland’s asked me to one of her beanos at Claridge’s.’

As you can see, Tommy had come a long way since he was junior clerk to Messrs Sheldrake & Finkelstein in the Hackney Road. There were some papers on his desk which he’d pulled out of a file marked ‘AA’, and when he’d looked at them for a while and told me about various mutual acquaintances, none of whom were exactly distinguishing themselves in the world, he said: ‘Doing anything this evening?’

I explained about the front-of-house engagement at the Toreador, but Tommy shook his head. ‘That’s OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll fix it with Sammy. He owes me a favour. Now, how would you like a little trip to the seaside?’

‘Where to exactly?’

‘Ramsgate. Down in Kent.

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