Free Nothing So Strange by James Hilton Page A

previous
evening had been.
    Suddenly, as I was crossing Parliament Hill Fields, I remembered my
father’s remark about Brad’s furnished rooms and that my mother “must have”
been there; if that were so, or even if it weren’t, the conclusion leaped at
me that there was no reason against my calling on him myself. I also
remembered the address from that night of the Byfleets’ party when we drove
him home and he gave directions to Henry; it was 25 Renshaw Street, off the
Camden Road. I found a tram that took me near by. In daylight the street
seemed what it mainly was, a slum; but in London appearances can be
deceptive; some of those identical houses have declined to different levels,
so that they are not always either as bad or as passable as they look. The
one Brad lived in had the remains of quality; it was dingy but not dirty; one
could have lived in it if one had to. There was a rack of names in the
hallway, and the stale smell of cabbage and floor polish that seems to
pervade so many London houses whether slums or not. Brad was on the second
floor; I climbed to it and tapped on his door. He called “Come in,” as if he
had left it ready for someone to open.
    It wasn’t such a bad room, especially in the morning sunshine. The windows
were tall and there was a marble mantelpiece surmounting a small gas fire.
The furniture was shabby and the whole place littered as one might expect
when anyone has a day’s notice to pack for abroad. I took in the surroundings
first because Brad was in some inner room; he came out fixing his tie.
“Well….” he exclaimed. “This is a surprise….”
    I said yes, I imagined it was, and I hoped he didn’t mind my having called
on him without warning. “I was just taking a walk, it’s such a lovely day, I
thought I’d drop in to say good-by properly … there wasn’t a chance last
night.”
    He laughed. “So many things were happening.”
    I laughed also. “I see you’re packing and I know you must be terribly busy
… but I did want to wish you plenty of fun and success.”
    “That’s nice of you—very nice of you.”
    I decided I wouldn’t stay more than ten minutes, but in the meantime I
might as well sit down. When I did so he moved over to the mantelpiece,
leaning his back against it and looking as if he didn’t know what to say
next.
    I said: “I’m glad I’ve seen where you live. These old houses do have big
rooms, that’s one thing.”
    “I changed from the set upstairs a few months ago. These are bigger and
there’s a kitchenette. I couldn’t exactly afford the change, but I decided to
spend more on luxury. I’m not such an austere devil at heart as some people
imagine.”
    “I wouldn’t call it luxury .”
    “Well, of course, you wouldn’t.”
    There was a silence then which both of us, I think, kept up deliberately
till it was broken by some rather noisy plumbing in another part of the
house. He laughed again. “Do you wonder I didn’t give any dinner parties
here? Impossible place, isn’t it?”
    “No, I don’t think so. You once said all you wanted was to do useful work.
Plenty of useful work has been done in rooms like this.”
    “And you think I’ve changed since I said that?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe it’s just the mood you’re in at the thought of
leaving.”
    He said suddenly: “Let’s take a walk.”
    “ Now ? A walk? But … can you….” I looked round at the unfinished
packing.
    “You said it was a lovely day.”
    “On the Heath, yes, but—”
    “Then let’s go there.”
    “Are you sure you’ve enough time?”
    “Yes.”
    “All right then.”
    We took a bus up the Hampstead Road, and during the ride he went on
talking of his rooms and their amenities so ironically that I began to see
less and less point in it. Was he trying to hate the place just to help him
over the wrench of departure? I hinted at that, and he answered: “Wait till
we start walking and I’ll let