Consider Her Ways and Others

by John Wyndham

  Presently Colin looked up.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘And yet there is something …’ He tried covering parts of the full-face portrait with his hand. ‘Something about the setting and shape of the eyes – but not quite. The brow, perhaps, but it’s difficult to tell with the hair done like that …’ He pondered the photographs a little longer, and then handed them back. ‘Thank you for letting me see them.’

  The doctor picked up one of the others and passed it over.

  ‘This was Malcolm, my son.’

  It showed a laughing young man standing by the forepart of a car which bristled with exhaust manifold and had its bonnet held down by straps.

  ‘He loved that car,’ said the doctor, ‘but it was too fast for the old track there. It went over the banking, and hit a tree.’

  He took the picture back, and handed Colin a glass of brandy.

  Colin swirled it. Neither of them spoke for some little time. Then he tasted the brandy, and, presently, lit a cigarette.

  ‘Very well,’ he said again. ‘I’ll try to tell you. But first I’ll tell you what happened – whether it was subjective, or not, it happened for me. The implications and so on we can look at later – if you want to.’

  ‘Good,’ agreed the doctor. ‘But tell me first, do we start from the moment of the accident – or was there anything at all relevant before that?’

  ‘No,’ Colin Trafford said, ‘that’s where it does start.’

  It was just another day. Everything and everybody perfectly ordinary – except that this demonstration was something a bit special. What it concerned is not my secret, and not, as far as I know, relevant. We all gathered round the apparatus. Deakin who was in charge, pulled down a switch. Something began to hum, and then to whine, like a motor running faster and faster. The whine became a shriek as it went up the scale. There was a quite piercingly painful moment or two near the threshold of audibility, then a sense of relief because it was over and gone, with everything seeming quiet again. I was looking across at Deakin watching his dials, with his fingers held ready over the switches, and then, just as I was in the act of turning my head towards the demonstration again, there was a flash … I didn’t hear anything, or feel anything: there was just this dazzling white flash … Then nothing but black … I heard people crying out, and a woman’s voice screaming … screaming … screaming …

  I felt crushed by a great weight. I opened my eyes. A sharp pain jabbed through them into my head, but I struggled against the weight, and found it was due to two or three people being on top of me; so I managed to shove a couple of them off, and sit up. There were several other people lying about on the ground, and a few more picking themselves up. A couple of feet to my left was a large wheel. I looked farther up and found that it was attached to a bus – a bus that from my position seemed to tower like a scarlet skyscraper, and appeared, moreover, to be tilted and about to fall on me. It caused me to get up very quickly, and as I did I grabbed a young woman who had been lying across my legs, and dragged her to a safer place. Her face was dead white, and she was unconscious.

  I looked around. It wasn’t difficult to see what had happened. The bus, which must have been travelling at a fair speed, had, for some reason got out of control, run across the crowded pavement, and through the plate-glass window of a shop. The forepart of the top deck had been telescoped against the front of the building, and it was up there that the screaming was going on. Several people were still lying on the ground, a woman moving feebly, a man groaning, two or three more quite still. Three streams of blood were meandering slowly across the pavement among the crystals of broken glass. All the traffic had stopped, and I could see a couple of policemen’s helmets bobbing through the crowd towards us.

  I moved my arms and legs experimentally. They worked perfectly well, and painlessly. But I felt dazed, and my head throbbed. I put my hand up to it and discovered a quite tender spot where I must have taken a blow on the left occiput.

  The policemen got through. One of them started pushing back the gaping bystanders, the other took a look at the casualties on the ground. A third appeared and went up to the top deck of the bus to investigate the screaming there.

  I tried to conquer my daze, and looked round further. The place was Regent Street, a little up from Piccadilly Circus; the wrecked window was one of Austin Reed’s. I looked up again at the bus. It was certainly tilted, but not in danger of toppling, for it was firmly wedged into the window opening to within a yard of the word ‘General’, gleaming in gold letters on its scarlet side.

  At this point it occurred to me that I was supernumerary, and that if I were to hang around much longer I should find myself roped in as a witness – not, mind you, that I would grudge being a witness in the ordinary way, if it would do anyone any good, but I was suddenly and acutely aware that this was not at all in the ordinary way. For one thing I had no knowledge of anything whatever but the aftermath – and, for another, what was I doing here anyway …? One moment I had been watching a demonstration out at Watford; the next, there was this. How the devil did I come to be in Regent Street at all …?

  I quietly edged my way into the crowd, then out of it again, zigzagged across the road amid the held-up traffic, and headed for the Café Royal, a bit further down.

  They seemed to have done things to the old place since I was there last, a couple of years before, but the important thing was to find the bar, and that I did, without difficulty.

  ‘A double brandy, and some soda,’ I told the barman.

  He gave it me, and slid along the siphon. I pulled some money out of my pocket, coppers and a little small silver. So I made to reach for my notecase.

  ‘Half a crown, sir,’ the barman told me, as if fending off a note.

  I blinked at him. Still, he had said it. I slid over three shillings. He seemed gratified.

  I added soda to the brandy, and took a welcome drink. It was as I was putting the glass down that I caught sight of myself in the mirror behind the bar …

  I used to have a moustache. I came out of the Army with it, but decided to jettison it when I went up to Cambridge. But there it was – a little less luxuriant, perhaps, but resurrected. I put up my hand and felt it. There was no illusion, and it was genuine, too. At almost the same moment I noticed my suit. Now, I used to have a suit pretty much like that, years ago. Not at all a bad suit either, but still, not quite the thing we organization men wear in E.P.I …

  I had a swimming sensation, took another drink of the brandy, and felt, a little unsteadily, for a cigarette. The packet I pulled out of my pocket was unfamiliar – have you ever heard of Player’s ‘Mariner’ cigarettes – No? Neither had I, but I got one out, and lit it with a very unsteady match. The dazed feeling was not subsiding; it was growing, rapidly …

  I felt for my inside pocket. No wallet. It should have been there – perhaps some opportunist in the crowd round the bus had got it … I sought through the other pockets – a fountain-pen, a bunch of keys, a couple of cash receipts from Harrods, a cheque book – containing cheques addressed to the Knightsbridge branch of the Westminster Bank. Well, the bank was all right, but why Knightsbridge? – I live in Hampstead …

  To try to get some kind of grip on things I began to recapitulate from the moment I had opened my eyes and found the bus towering over me. It was quite vivid. I had a sharp recollection of staring up at that scarlet menace, with the gilded word ‘General’ shining brightly … yes, in gleaming gold – only, as you know, the word ‘General’ hasn’t been seen on London buses since it was replaced by ‘London Transport’ in 1933 …

  I was getting a little rattled by now, and looked round the bar for something to steady my wits. On one table I noticed a newspaper that someone had discarded. I went across to fetch it, and got carefully back on to my stool before I looked at it. Then I took a deep breath and regarded the front page. My first response was dismay for the whole thing was given up to a single display advertisement. Yet there was some reassurance, o
f a kind, at the top, for it read: ‘Daily Mail, London, Wednesday 27 January 1954.’ So it was at least the right day – the one we had fixed for the demonstration at the labs.

  I turned to the middle page, and read: ‘Disorders in Delhi. One of the greatest exhibitions of civil disobedience so far staged in India took place here today demanding the immediate release of Nehru from prison. For nearly all the hours of daylight the city has been at a standstill –’ Then an item in an adjoining column caught my eye: ‘In answer to a question from the Opposition front bench Mr Butler, the Prime Minister, assured the House that the Government was giving serious consideration –’ In a dizzy way I glanced at the top of the page: the date there agreed with that on the front, 27 January 1954, but just below it there was a picture with the caption: ‘A scene from last night’s production of The Lady Loves, at the Laughton Theatre, in which Miss Amanda Coward plays the lead in the last of her father’s many musical plays. The Lady Loves was completed only a few days before Noel Coward’s death last August, and a moving tribute to his memory was paid at the end of the performance by Mr Ivor Novello who directed the production.’

  I read that again, with care. Then I looked up and about, for reassurance, at my fellow drinkers, at the furniture, at the barman, at the bottles: it was all convincingly real.

  I dropped the paper, and finished the rest of my brandy. I could have done with another, but it would have been awkward if, with my wallet gone, the barman should change his mind about his modest price. I glanced at my watch – and there was a thing, too! It was a very nice watch, gold, with a crocodile strap, and hands that stood at twelve-thirty, but I had never seen it before. I took it off and looked at the back. There was a pretty bit of engraving there; it said: ‘C. for ever O. 10.X.50.’ And it jolted me quite a little, for 1950 was the year I was married – though not in October, and not to anyone called O. My wife’s name was Della. Mechanically I restrapped the watch on my wrist, and left.

  The interlude and the brandy had done me some good. When I stepped out into Regent Street again I was feeling less dazed (though, if it is not too fine a distinction, more bewildered) and my head had almost ceased to ache, so that I was able to pay more attention to the world about me.

  At first sight Piccadilly Circus gave an impression of being much as usual, and yet a suggestion that there was something a bit wrong with it. After a few moments I perceived that it was the people and the cars. Surprising numbers of the men and women, too, wore clothing that looked shabby, and the flower-girls below Eros seemed like bundles of rags. The look of the women who were not shabby took me completely aback. Almost without exception their hats were twelve-inch platter-like things balanced on the top of their heads. The skirts were long, almost to their ankles, and, worn under fur coats, gave an impression that they were dressed for the evening, at midday. Their shoes were pointed, over-ornamented, pin-heeled and quite hideous. I suppose all high-fashion would look ludicrous if one were to come upon it unprepared, but then one never does – at least one never had until now … I might have felt like Rip van Winkle newly awakened, but for the date line on that newspaper … The cars were odd, too. They seemed curiously high-built, small, and lacking in the flashy effects one had grown accustomed to, and when I paid more attention I did not see one make I could readily identify – except a couple of unmistakable Rolls.

  While I stood staring curiously a plate-hatted lady in a well-worn fur-coat posted herself beside me and addressed me as ‘dearie’ in a somewhat grim way. I decided to move on, and headed for Piccadilly. On the way, I looked across at St James’s Church. The last time I had seen it it was clothed in scaffolding, with a hoarding in the garden to help to raise funds for the rebuilding – that would have been about a fortnight before – but now all that had gone, and it looked as if it had never been bombed at all. I crossed the road to inspect it more closely, and was still more impressed with the wonderful job they had made of the restoration.

  Presently I found myself in front of Hatchard’s window, and paused to examine their contents. Some of the books had authors whose names I knew; I saw works by Priestley, C. S. Lewis, Bertrand Russell, T. S. Eliot, and others, but scarcely a title that I recognized. And then, down in the front, my eye was caught by a book in a predominantly pink jacket: Life’s Young Day, a novel by Colin Trafford.

  I went on goggling at it, probably with my mouth open. I once had ambitions in that direction, you know. If it had not been for the war I’d probably have taken an Arts degree, and tried my hand at it, but as things happened I made a friend in the regiment who turned me to science, and could put me in the way of a job with E.P.I. later. Therefore it took me a minute or two to recover from the coincidence of seeing my name on the cover, and, when I did, my curiosity was still strong enough to take me into the shop.

  There I discovered a pile of half a dozen copies lying on a table. I picked up the top one, and opened it. The name was plain enough on the title-page – and opposite was a list of seven other titles under ‘author of’. I did not recognize the publisher’s name, but overleaf there was the announcement: ‘First published January 1954.’

  I turned it over in my hand, and then all but dropped it. On the back was a picture of the author; undoubtedly me – and with the moustache … The floor seemed to tilt slightly beneath my feet.

  Then, somewhere over my shoulder, there was a voice; one that I seemed to recognize. It said:

  ‘Well met, Narcissus! Doing a bit of sales-promotion, eh? How’s it going?’

  ‘Martin!’ I exclaimed. I had never been so glad to see anyone in all my life. ‘Martin. Why we’ve not met since – when was it?’

  ‘Oh, for at least three days, old boy,’ he said, looking a little surprised.

  Three days! I’d seen a lot of Martin Falls at Cambridge, but only run across him twice since we came down, and the last of those was two years ago. But he went on:

  ‘What about a spot of lunch, if you’re not booked?’ he suggested.

  And that wasn’t quite right either. I’d not heard anyone speak of a spot of lunch for years. However, I did my best to feel as if things were becoming more normal.

  ‘Fine,’ I said, ‘but you’ll have to pay. I’ve had my wallet pinched.’

  He clicked his tongue.

  ‘Hope there wasn’t much in it. Anyway, what about the club? They’ll cash you a cheque there.’

  I put the book I was still holding back on the pile, and we left.

  ‘Funny thing,’ Martin said. ‘Just run into Tommy – Tommy Westhouse. Sort of blowing sulphur – hopping mad with his American agent. You remember that god-awful thing of Tommy’s – The Thornèd Rose – kind of Ben Hur meets Cleopatra, with the Marquis de Sade intervening? Well, it seems this agent –’ He rambled on with a shoppy, anecdotal recital full of names that meant nothing to me, but lasted through several streets and brought us almost to Pall Mall. At the end of it he said: ‘You didn’t tell me how Life’s Young Day’s doing. Somebody said it was over-subscribed. Saw the Lit. Sup. wagged a bit of a finger at you. Not had time to read it myself yet. Too much on hand.’

  I chose the easier – the non-committal way. It seemed easier than trying to understand, so I told him it was doing just about as expected.

  The Club, when in due course we reached it, turned out to be the Savage. I am not a member, but the porter greeted me by name, as though I were in the habit of dropping in every day.

  ‘Just a quick one,’ Martin suggested. ‘Then we’ll look in and see George about your cheque.’

  I had misgivings over that, but it went off all right, and during lunch I did my best to keep my end up. I had the same troubles that I have now – true it was from the other end, but the principle still holds: if things are too queer people will find it easier to think you are potty than to help you; so keep up a front.

  I am afraid I did not do very well. Several times I caught Martin glancing at me with a perplexed expression. Once he asked: ‘Quite sure you’re feeling
all right, old man?’

  But the climax did not come until, with cheese on his plate, he reached out his left hand for a stick of celery. And as he did so I noticed the gold signet ring on his little finger, and that jolted me right out of my caution – for, you see, Martin doesn’t have a little finger on his left hand, or a third finger, either. He left both of them somewhere near the Rhine in 1945 …

  ‘Good God!’ I exclaimed. For some reason that pierced me more sharply than anything yet. He turned his face towards me.

  ‘What on earth’s the matter, man? You’re as white as a sheet.’

  ‘Your hand –’ I said.

  He glanced at it curiously, and then back at me, even more curiously.

  ‘Looks all right to me,’ he said, eyes a little narrowed.

  ‘But – but you lost the two last fingers – in the war,’ I exclaimed. His eyebrows rose, and then came down in an anxious frown. He said, with kind intention:

  ‘Got it a bit mixed, haven’t you, old man? Why, the war was over before I was born.’

  Well, it goes a bit hazy just after that, and when it got coherent again I was lying back in a big chair, with Martin sitting close beside, saying:

  ‘So take my advice, old man. Just you trot along to the quack this afternoon. Must’ve taken a bit more of a knock than you thought, you know. Funny thing, the brain – can’t be too careful. Well, I’ll have to go now I’m afraid. Appointment. But don’t you put it off. Risky. Let me know how it goes.’ And then he was gone.

  I lay back in the chair. Curiously enough I was feeling far more myself than I had since I came to on the pavement in Regent Street. It was as if the biggest jolt yet had shaken me out of the daze, and got the gears of my wits into mesh again … I was glad to be rid of Martin, and able to think …

  I looked round the lounge. As I said, I am not a member, and did not know the place well enough to be sure of details, but I rather thought the arrangement was a little different, and the carpet, and some of the light fittings, from when I saw it last …