Recovery and the Return of Ethan Hart by Stephen Benatar

in a veiled and wispy hat, this certainly shows a fair degree of insouciance.
    So, perhaps, does a small family party inching its way from the opposite direction in a flag-bedecked governess cart. But what about the pony? A bonfire is already blazing—complete with effigy of Hitler—airmen are letting off fireworks. (Not that the pony seems in any way disturbed.) Little groups gyrate around the flames or else form into crazy, jigging circles. Crocodiles of dancing civilians—many with masks and streamers and wearing grotesque fancy dress—keep pushing their way through. Flashes of news photographers. Shouting, singing, laughter. Din of rattles, bells, whistles, bangers, rockets. Trumpets, too. Champagne corks. (Champagne flows; we see dozens drinking straight from the bottle—nearest us, a little party of Norwegian airmen and sailors flourishing a huge Norwegian flag.) It’s a night of noise and brilliance. Suddenly we turn to one another…and know we’ve had enough.
    â€œMaybe we’re hungry,” says Matt.
    It isn’t something I’ve thought about, yet now I realize it’s true. The restaurants and hotels fronting on the Circus have closed their doors (and Swan & Edgar’s and other shops have barred all their windows) but anyway I suddenly remember the nearby Trocadero, which years ago I used to think so smart. In fact it goes with its location—it’s a bit vulgar: lots of elaborate decoration and variegated marble in the neo-classical style. But it’s large and there’s only a short queue waiting for tables and people do seem to be leaving.
    Here, too, the champagne flows. There appears to be no rationing of it whatsoever, unless the fact they’re charging six pounds a bottle can be seen as rationing. (And obviously it can’t. “Rosalind, it’s only money and that looks like nectar they’re giving in exchange. So please. Quit worrying.” I do…to the extent we eventually work our way through two bottles. It’s been a thirst-making kind of night—as we now, rather belatedly, realize.)
    Matt also orders scrambled egg, which goes surprisingly well with the champagne, considering it’s made with powder and sits so solidly upon the toast. It resembles a moist yellow cake—fun to cut slices from.
    We then have castle puddings with jam sauce: a far cry from the crêpes suzettes I’d eaten here before the war, with a young man I had thought the very acme of sophistication. But I feel tonight I wouldn’t change dried egg and castle puddings for any amount of roast duck or sophistication or balanced menu planning.
    At the Troc, moreover, I find a nice lavatory—not such an easy undertaking in London at the moment—and a nice telephone, not only working but actually unqueued-for, on which I ring my mother. Matt then pays our bill, leaves an extraordinary tip for the waiter (it must be a good night for waiters, porters and the like) and we return, feeling fortified, to face the hubbub.
    Before two-thirty, however, we are back in Northumberland Avenue and by this time the crowds have definitely diminished. Matt has little trouble in getting to Baker Street, and from then on our way is clear. We should arrive in Chesham by four.
    â€œWe might just beat the milkman! Are you sure your mother’s going to greet us with such squeals of joy?”
    â€œOf course I am. She said she’d put the key under the mat and make up our beds and leave us out a snack. If she’s awake she may get up and say hello; if not she’ll meet you in the morning.”
    â€œTo which she’s looking forward.”
    â€œTo which she’s looking forward.”
    â€œI think you must be drunk. You’ve already told me all of this.”
    â€œWell, if I must be drunk you must be drunk. Which is by far the more dangerous. In my opinion.” And I put my hand on his, to offer him assistance with the