The Duchess of Bloomsbury Street Read Online Free Page A

Mary Bailey was born in Philadelphia, died in Virginia and never saw London. But the name persisted in my head. Maybe she was a namesake. Maybe it was her grandmother orgreat-grandmother who had wanted to go home again. All I knew, sitting there, was that some long-dead Mary Bailey or other had finally found a descendent to go home for her.
    I came back here and fixed myself up so I’d make a good impression on Deutsch’s. Brushed my navy suit jacket (which they will flatly refuse to believe back home) and spent half an hour tying my new red-white-and-blue scarf in an ascot so I’d look British. Then I went down to the lobby and sat bolt upright in a chair by the door, afraid to move for fear of mussing myself, till a young secretary blew in to escort me three doors up Great Russell Street to Deutsch’s.
    I met Carmen—very brisk and efficient and dramatic-looking—and got interviewed by a bouncy young reporter from the Evening Standard named Valerie Jenkins. After the interview the three of us and a photographer piled into a cab, and Carmen said to the driver:
    â€œEighty-four Charing Cross Road.”
    I felt uneasy, knowing I was on my way to that address. I’d bought books from 84 Charing Cross Road for twenty years. I’d made friends there whom I never met. Most of the books I bought from Marks & Co. were probably available in New York. For years, friends had advised me to “try O’Malley’s,” “try Dauber & Pine.” I’d never done it. I’d wanted a link with London and I’d managed it.
    Charing Cross Road is a narrow, honky-tonk street, choked with traffic, lined with second-hand bookshops. The open stalls in front were piled with old books and magazines, here and there a peaceful soul was browsing in the misty rain.
    We got out at 84. Deutsch’s had stuffed the empty window with copies of the book. Beyond the window theshop interior looked black and empty. Carmen went next door to Poole’s and got the key and let us in to what had once been Marks & Co.
    The two large rooms had been stripped bare. Even the heavy oak shelves had been ripped off the walls and were lying on the floor, dusty and abandoned. I went upstairs to another floor of empty, haunted rooms. The window letters which had spelled Marks & Co. had been ripped off the window, a few of them were lying on the window sill, their white paint chipped and peeling.
    I started back downstairs, my mind on the man, now dead, with whom I’d corresponded for so many years. Halfway down I put my hand on the oak railing and said to him silently:
    â€œHow about this, Frankie? I finally made it.”
    We went outside—and I stood there and let them take my picture as meekly as if I did it all the time. That’s how anxious I am to make a good impression and not give anybody any trouble.
    When I came back to the hotel there was a letter at the desk. From Pat Buckley, the Old Etonian Jean Ely wrote to about me.
    No salutation, just:

    Jean Ely writes that you are here on your first visit. Can you have a bite of supper here on Sunday at 7:30?—and we will drive around and see a bit of old London.
    Call me Saturday or Sunday before 9:30 A.M.
    In haste—
P.B.

Saturday, June 19
    Totally demoralized.
    Just came up from breakfast and phoned Pat Buckley.
    â€œOh, yes,” he said in a very U accent, “Hallo.”
    I told him I’d love to come to supper tomorrow night and asked if there were other people coming.
    â€œI’m not giving a supper party for you!” he said impatiently. “Jean wrote me you wanted to see London!”
    I stammered that I was glad we’d be alone, I’d only asked so I’d know how to dress; if we were alone I could wear a pantsuit.
    â€œOh, Lord, must you?” he said. “I loathe women in trousers. I suppose it’s old-fashioned of me but I do think you all look appalling in them. Oh well, I suppose if you must,