There were quite a few notes about Conrad jotted about, though you’d have had to know your stuff to spot some of them. ‘The Violin of the Captain of the Otago’, for instance. The Otago was Conrad’s first command, and its previous skipper used to play the violin to himself mournfully all over the high seas. Conrad was haunted by ghostly water music. The old skipper was mad. Then there were quite a few notes about Victory, which Stephen must have been reading. Such as ‘Query: Portrait of hotel manager libellous?’ I should think so. Conrad had to print an apology, saying that of course he knew not all Germans were quite as ghastly as the appalling Schomberg. Not that I was all that interested in whether Conrad or Stephen had libelled a hotel or a hotel manager. I was much more keen to find out whether he’d libelled me, and if so, to destroy the evidence. I was sure I’d seen my own name jump out of the pages as I flipped through it under Liz’s nose. As one would expect one’s own name to do, if it were there. But when I looked more closely I was damned if I could find it. Had I gone and brought the wrong memo book, I wondered? Was Liz Headleand even now amusing herself with a description of my naked tits, while I was stuck with naked oysters? Maybe I’d imagined it, in a paranoid sort of way.

There was a lot of stuff about a character called Miss Porntip. She seemed to be some kind of erotic fantasy of poor old Stephen’s. Nothing very consecutive, just notes and scribbles. Jottings about her clothes and sayings. The wit, wisdom and wardrobe of Miss Porntip. To tell the truth, I don’t think Stephen ever got much further than fantasy. I think he was one of those men who put sex in a compartment and never let it get out. Not that I blame him. When it does get out, it is a menace. To tell the truth, I don’t think Stephen liked women, as such. I think they nauseated him. In the flesh. I’m only guessing, mind you, from putting two and two together from clues in his books. It’s funny really, because he was always a good friend to women. People like Marjorie and Molly adored him. And he was a good friend to me. I wonder if I nauseated him?

I don’t see why people shouldn’t be celibate if they want. It would certainly make life easier. I wish I did want. But oh alas I go on wanting the other thing.

I got quite excited when my eye lit on something that looked as though it might connect up with me. There were my initials, HO, written several times over, in red ball-point, and underneath them were the names of several London hotels and restaurants adorned by queries. The Carlton, Claridge’s, the Dorchester, the Ritz, the Troc and the Cri, Stephen inquired of himself. Then he had written DICKENS? NEW ZEALAND HOUSE? And again, HO?