While England Sleeps Read Online Free Page A

an oaf when it comes to umbrellas.”
    His smile disappeared.
    “What?” he said.
    “I said I’m afraid I’ve lost that umbrella you loaned me.”
    “Where?”
    “On the underground. Rupert, I—”
    “Then it’s hopeless. We’ll never get it back.”
    He stood, turning away from me, his face ashen. Really, I was thinking, all this fuss over an umbrella!
    “Of course I’ll replace it,” I offered.
    “Replace it! Good God, don’t you have eyes? Didn’t you see the silver on the base? The ivory handle? The monogram?”
    “Well, as I said—”
    “That was no ordinary umbrella you lost, Brian! My God, it was antique! From before the war! Worth a hundred pounds, at least!”
    “A hundred pounds,” I repeated faintly. “Oh, God.” I sat down, aghast—a hundred pounds for an umbrella! Then I stood up again. “I’ll call the lost property office at Baker Street,” I said. “Maybe someone—”
    “Don’t even bother. Any idiot could tell how much that umbrella was worth. Probably it’s being dismantled as we speak, the silver melted down to sell, the ivory—” A tear snaked out of his left eye. He fell back into the cushions in an attitude of despair, and I turned away, overcome by contradictory emotions: horror and guilt at having lost something of such value, and at the same time amazement that Rupert would have loaned me the umbrella in the first place. Certainly had I been aware that it was not just an ordinary umbrella, I never would have taken it.
    “Rupert,” I said finally, “I don’t care if it cost a thousand pounds; I’ll replace it”—wondering where on earth I’d come up with that sort of money. But Rupert gulped and heaved, and with what seemed Herculean effort recovered his good breeding.
    “Don’t give it another thought; it’s in the nature of umbrellas to be lost. I’ve simply overreacted because of its sentimental value, for which I apologize heartily. Now have some tea.”
    He poured out the tea, which by now was bitter and black, and with great wrenching and ripping hauled the conversation away from that fatal object with which we had both become—and would remain for some time—horribly and unalterably obsessed. “Did I tell you about Daisy Parker’s wedding? What a nightmare that was! Her old flame showed up, drunk, just as I was giving my toast!” I hardly listened. Instead my mind was crawling backward, trying to recollect the exact moment the umbrella had been misplaced.
    After tea I went upstairs to rest but could not stop thinking about the wretched umbrella, which in truth I had hardly looked at. Was I a fool not to have appreciated its value? No, it had simply never occurred to me that there could be such a thing in the world as a hundred-pound brolly!
    Around seven-thirty the doorbell rang. Dutifully I dragged myself downstairs. Across the living room sofa from Rupert, a jowly old woman was peering through an old-fashioned pince-nez at the antique crystal collection. I recognized her face, though I wasn’t sure where from.
    “Brian, may I introduce Lady Abernathy? Lady Abernathy, Mr. Botsford.”
    “How do you do.”
    Her hand barely grazed my own, and she returned to examining the crystal. I sat next to Rupert. A mask of politesse barely covered the stricken look that had taken his face like a palsy.
    “Brian is a writer,” Rupert said to Lady Abernathy, as we sat down to table. “He’s just about to finish his first novel.”
    “Ah,” Lady Abernathy said. “And am I correct in presuming that it will be a modern novel?”
    “I suppose you could say so. Yes.”
    “Then I’m afraid I shall never read it. The other day, I attempted to read a novel by Mrs. Woolf that dear Rupert had recommended. Quite horrifying. After fifty pages I was obliged to reach for my Bible.”
    “So you value traditional works, Lady Abernathy,” Rupert said.
    “There is only one novel I consider worth reading anymore— Jane Eyre . I read it every