✽

Yates's is friendly, the first impression going in, the first time I have felt that kind of warmth since I came to this city this morning, an alien city, though I know it, really, I keep telling myself, friendly here, a relief, a great relief!        Nearly full, push my way through, here it was I spoke to that Russian seaman so long ago, without Tony then, where was Tony, what was I doing here on my own?    Now there is a group there discussing football, they must be going later on, yes, what time is it, ten to one, yes, time for a good drink and then lunch, noticed a restaurant underneath as I came in, nearby, looked okay, shall go there, perhaps, when I have finished here, what shall I have now, a wide range indeed, in Yates's, imported beverages of all descriptions, Commonwealth ports and sherries, Australian White and Red, very cheap, remarkably good value, no doubt, but I'll have Marsala, I think, for no other reasons, but that I need something thick and sweet and comforting, I need comforting, why do I need comforting?             Comforting, indeed, sweet, not as thick as I had anticipated, to the palate, as it goes down, good, so good, yes, now I can look around, at people, at the place, having the excuse of a drink in my hand, in my stomach.

Curiously enough, I don't ever remember coming in here with Tony, or June, or them both, now that I think about it. Paradoxically. Is that a paradox? Yet certainly I associate this place with him, I can place him here in this kind of situation very easily in my mind. But not the occasion, that is very difficult, as far as I can remember we never came in here together.                                 The bottles stacked high ends-out to the ceiling in that corner, the cream paint everywhere smoke-darkened, castiron corinthian columns supporting the gallery, balcony, yes, balcony they call it, for a notice, Balcony Bar, Open Every Evening, Enjoy a drink in comfort, Good Old Time Music by the Friends' Trio. A strip of mirror round the wall just under the soffit, oval plates concealing the intersections, slightly embossed, engraved, whichever, figures, not very well done, but part of the place, they do fit in, as do the barrels made into tables, for a change, the rexine-covered chairs, into the whole atmo-sphere. A very live place, the customers enjoying their drinking, almost without exception, their conversation, the noise in here, lively, mainly middleaged, the customers here, certainly making the most of their drinking this Saturday lunch time, healthy drinking, I could call it, drinking for its own sake, for health's sake, is it? Enjoyable to me to be amongst them, too, sipping my Marsala, should have another, yes, push my way over to bar, have a large one this time, the warmth of it on this cold day is good for me, so I persuade myself, Marsala good for me.

I should go upstairs, for the nostalgia's sake. Should I? It will look odd, since there is no service up there, nothing going on, but what the hell, I don't mind looking odd while there's no one I know to see me, to be telling me I am odd, I must do it for a reason. The nostalgia, so up, the stairs, aluminium edges to red worn treads, the risers kicked, thoroughly. Two long sides, cast railing round the rectangular well, at the far end, walk slowly towards, no one up here, windows to floor, tiny balconies outside, overlooking the square, how pleasant to sit on a summer's evening and watch the promenading, ha, yes, castiron tables yet with formica tops, bentwood chairs, frames that is, seats panelled with brass studs and rexine, the long benches down the sides; at right angles to the well, in groups, other slightly more modern chairs here and there, a bar, no, two bars, a couple of genuine oil paintings! In heavy gilded floriated frames!                    Here it must have been I sat, for the music, for the poem, this space cleared for the musicians, the piano, the violinists' musicstand, here.            Lincrustre work round the walls. The dark brown. The ceiling has had some trouble taken over it, plaster, lincrustre work, like downstairs smoke-darkened, but not so much, for some reason, do not speculate.                                    Turn, full mirrors the other end, see myself, St Bernard face, marching into my self, dark raincoat, briefcase and papers under arm, overweight, no, fat, look away, the staircase half-circles left, down, through these contented people, not a single one noticing my fatness, or me, good, one more Marsala, no, I'll fall asleep this afternoon, have some wine with lunch, though, yes, lunch, I'll have a look at this place.