Cheyne Walk, London, August 1922
Joe Sandilands had grown out of the habit of packing. In India, his many journeys had been eased by the silent and efficient attentions of a bearer. And now, six weeks after his return, he was ashamed to find he’d almost lost the knack.
In irritation, he left his suitcase in the middle of the living-room floor, gaping open in readiness for the inevitable afterthoughts. These swiftly followed as he cruised about his room, his eye lighting on things without which he couldn’t possibly survive a long weekend in the country. As he passed his bookshelves he tweaked from the ranks the Wodehouse he hadn’t had time to read since his return. He threw it in. A packet of Fribourg amp; Treyer cigarettes followed. There would be boxes full of Turkish or Virginian available to guests on every gleaming table at the great house he was about to visit but he never liked to be seen helping himself. He paused and considered. Could it be interpreted as an insult to one’s host — taking one’s own supplies?
The ludicrous question betrayed the level of his anxiety concerning this jaunt. He defiantly chucked in another packet. He followed it with a bag of mint humbugs.
Glad to be distracted by a peremptory hoot from the river, he went to stand at the window, looking down on the restless surface of the Thames and listened while the bells of Chelsea Old Church struck the hour. Six o’clock. Cocktail time. His sister Lydia, a stickler for punctuality, would be getting back from her shopping expedition at any moment. Time to go down and help her with her bags. There would be bags! And the hand-operated mechanism of the lift he knew terrified her, though, independent girl that she was, she would never summon help. Joe started guiltily as he heard her upstairs already and letting herself into the flat.
She called out a greeting and dropped a cascade of packages and hat boxes on to the sofa. Responding to Joe’s raised eyebrows, she said, ‘Just a few things. The rest are being delivered to Surrey.’ She kicked off her shoes and, cursing gently about the traffic in Sloane Street, came to join him at the window. Joe poured out a gin and tonic and handed it to her. They listened for a moment in companionable silence to the swash and rustle of a tugboat towing a flotilla of barges upstream into the glare of the westering sun.
‘I love this time of day,’ Joe said, sipping his dry sherry.
His sister looked at him in disbelief. ‘Isn’t it time you found somewhere better than this? Tiny rooms you can only get up to in a dangerous, wheezing old lift? An attack of vertigo every time you look through the window? Lots Road power station on one side, smoky tugs going up and down the river all day — and night too, as far as I can see … Joe, you’re living in a coal hole!’
‘It suits me,’ Joe said defensively. ‘I like the river from this distance. Nobody knows where I am. I can get a bit of peace and quiet. And anyway, this place seems to suit you well enough too — handy for Harrods and always a spare room to be had when the sales are on. What more could a girl want?’
‘A little less of the bachelor austerity, is what.’ Lydia put down her glass and moved around the room switching on lamps and plumping up cushions. ‘Your Mrs Jago only cleans this place for you — you can’t expect her to add any decorative touches. Why don’t you let me … Ah! Getting ahead with your packing, I see?’ She made for the open suitcase. ‘I’ll help you.’