garden that afternoon, and seen the white rabbit and decided to follow him into Wonderland. So she thought, Well, why not? Looking back, now, I feel that the unexpected image that then came into my mind of a dimly remembered book from my childhood, that subconscious association of the burgundy-coloured sign with the bottle that Alice found labelled ‘DRINK ME’, was one of those irreversible moments in my life. I had other such moments later, but that was the first stage of my journey out of the world I knew. I turned my back on the safe world of pizzas and expensive cars and accountancy and computer-programming, with one innocent, unpremeditated step: the beginning of a journey that left that world behind for ever. So I thought, Well, why not? I pulled the car in to the side of the road, turned off the ignition and got out, feeling the evening sunlight warm upon my cheeks, smelling the sweet and woody smell of heather blowing in from the distant hills; and I sauntered in the general direction of Francis Black and his fine Bordeaux wines.
I walked down Piccadilly and turned into St James’s Street. As I passed the steps of one of the three gentlemen’s clubs at that end of St James’s, Ed Hartlepool, who was once close to me, a member of the circle of friends who adopted me and for a while were almost my family, came out of the door of his club and stood at the top of the steps down to the street, taking in the scenery. I was surprised to see him: Catherine had told me he had been forced to go and live in France as a tax exile and only came back to England for a few weeks a year. He looked the same as when I had last seen him: tall, very thin, in an immaculate navy-blue double-breasted suit, the whole effect set off by a shock of unmanageable curly fair hair starting from the top of his head. He turned to answer a comment from a large person behind him, which obviously amused him, for as he turned his head back in the direction of the street he was smiling. Then he saw me, and his smile vanished immediately. I half-acknowledged him with raised eyebrows: we were only yards apart, and I wondered if he, in his turn, would notice my presence in some way, making it necessary for me to say something to him. He said nothing; he cut me dead, looking at me and through me as if I was made from glass. I had not seen or spoken to Ed since Catherine’s funeral. Then, as I had entered the church on my crutches, he had gazed at me with a look of such deadly hatred that it had turned my legs almost to jelly. When I saw his look I had had to steady myself in order to avoid losing my balance. That had been rather an emotional occasion, and I couldn’t think now why Ed should have looked at me like that, or spoken to me in the way he did just after the service finished. Everyone knew that Catherine’s death hadn’t been my fault.
It was unsettling to see Ed again, to think he haunted this street so near to where I lived. I averted my gaze from him and hurried on towards my bank and, as I did, I heard a short, hard laugh behind me. I did not turn my head.
Once in the bank I presented my cheque and, not entirely to my surprise, there was a delay. Then my Personal Relationship Manager, Mr Rawle, came to the counter and said, ‘Good afternoon, Mr Wilberforce, good afternoon.’
‘Hello, Mr Rawle,’ I said. ‘Is everything in order?’
‘Oh, yes, everything is more or less in order. Perhaps if we could just have a quiet word over at my desk?’ He rubbed his hands and looked sideways at me with soft and pleading eyes, like a spaniel in a pinstripe suit.
I followed him over to a screened-off area of the banking parlour and sat opposite him at his desk. I found that my eyes strayed up towards the ceiling, and locked on it, so that Mr Rawle had to talk to my chin.
‘Mr Wilberforce, I wonder if you received a letter I sent you, about your account?’
I said yes, I had, and I had taken steps to put funds into my account.
‘Oh,
I walked down Piccadilly and turned into St James’s Street. As I passed the steps of one of the three gentlemen’s clubs at that end of St James’s, Ed Hartlepool, who was once close to me, a member of the circle of friends who adopted me and for a while were almost my family, came out of the door of his club and stood at the top of the steps down to the street, taking in the scenery. I was surprised to see him: Catherine had told me he had been forced to go and live in France as a tax exile and only came back to England for a few weeks a year. He looked the same as when I had last seen him: tall, very thin, in an immaculate navy-blue double-breasted suit, the whole effect set off by a shock of unmanageable curly fair hair starting from the top of his head. He turned to answer a comment from a large person behind him, which obviously amused him, for as he turned his head back in the direction of the street he was smiling. Then he saw me, and his smile vanished immediately. I half-acknowledged him with raised eyebrows: we were only yards apart, and I wondered if he, in his turn, would notice my presence in some way, making it necessary for me to say something to him. He said nothing; he cut me dead, looking at me and through me as if I was made from glass. I had not seen or spoken to Ed since Catherine’s funeral. Then, as I had entered the church on my crutches, he had gazed at me with a look of such deadly hatred that it had turned my legs almost to jelly. When I saw his look I had had to steady myself in order to avoid losing my balance. That had been rather an emotional occasion, and I couldn’t think now why Ed should have looked at me like that, or spoken to me in the way he did just after the service finished. Everyone knew that Catherine’s death hadn’t been my fault.
It was unsettling to see Ed again, to think he haunted this street so near to where I lived. I averted my gaze from him and hurried on towards my bank and, as I did, I heard a short, hard laugh behind me. I did not turn my head.
Once in the bank I presented my cheque and, not entirely to my surprise, there was a delay. Then my Personal Relationship Manager, Mr Rawle, came to the counter and said, ‘Good afternoon, Mr Wilberforce, good afternoon.’
‘Hello, Mr Rawle,’ I said. ‘Is everything in order?’
‘Oh, yes, everything is more or less in order. Perhaps if we could just have a quiet word over at my desk?’ He rubbed his hands and looked sideways at me with soft and pleading eyes, like a spaniel in a pinstripe suit.
I followed him over to a screened-off area of the banking parlour and sat opposite him at his desk. I found that my eyes strayed up towards the ceiling, and locked on it, so that Mr Rawle had to talk to my chin.
‘Mr Wilberforce, I wonder if you received a letter I sent you, about your account?’
I said yes, I had, and I had taken steps to put funds into my account.
‘Oh,
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