"Telling the tale and, with it, inviting the reader to share the experience of a English/Welsh schoolboy, a medical student, a traveler, an aspiring Lothario, a husband, father, pathologist, investor and author sums up the charm and the particular appeal of While Memory Serves."
--Ralph Woodward,
National Association of
Independent Publishers Representatives.

EXCERPT FROM DR. HUMPHREY E.D. LLOYD'S WHILE MEMORY SERVES

CHAPTER NINE: A WELCOME BREAK

One memorable day in early September, I had gone to shop at Harrods. This department store in Knightsbridge sold only the highest quality merchandise, with prices reflecting its status as the premier place to shop in London. I was looking for a briefcase, something to hold my lecture notes. I was pleased to find a beauty in tan leather that I could afford.

It was with a sense of accomplishment, that I joined what was quite a long queue, to wait for the number 74 bus, which would take me on the first leg of my journey back to Roehampton. During the war we all got into the habit of lining up, queuing, for just about everything, sometimes in single file, or as at a bus stop, side-by-side. I found the end of the queue, and was joined almost immediately by a woman who looked like a fashion model. She was wearing a beautifully-cut light brown jacket, with matching long skirt slit up the side, to just above the knee. Her red shoes had long and spiky heels. She had obviously just returned from somewhere sunny, but the most striking thing about her was the colour of the hair, which was white, almost snowy with just a hint of palest blue in it. Against her young and bronzed skin, the effect was most dramatic.

"Holy Mother!" I said to myself, "this is going to require all the skill I can muster."

I have always enjoyed talking to strangers, and have never found it difficult to strike up a conversation. This situation was clearly special, as the woman next to me could have inhabited any man's fantasies with distinction. I decided on a low-key approach. I should explain that a number of different bus routes used this particular stop outside Harrods, and that the number 74 bus was just one of them. Other buses arrived with members of the queue leaving to board them.

The mystery woman next to me kept her place.

I decided to take a chance: "Well the 74 is certainly taking its own sweet time," I said.

I knew if she were not waiting for this bus, then all was lost. On the other hand, by identifying the bus I was to take, I had established a good reason for boarding it with her, should it prove to be her bus also.

She turned to look at me. Her eyes were light blue with long lashes, and her voice was low and throaty. She spoke deliberately: "I will be glad when petrol rationing is over."

"It won't make much difference to me," I said "as my father won't let me take his car out on my own."

A smile flicked across her face. "Do you live around here?" she asked.

"Fortunately not, as I would spend too much money at Harrods if I did."

I was telling her about Roehampton, when a number 74 appeared. I was still talking to her as we boarded, so it seemed quite natural to sit beside her. She was carrying some small parcels, one with a Harrods label. "It really is a great department store," I said nodding at this package. I told her about my purchase and asked her if she had found anything exciting.

Her reply surprised me: "I bought a copy of The Unquiet Grave by Palinurus. It was recommended to me by a friend."

"Frankly I would have expected you to be more interested in something related to fashion. Haven't I have seen your picture in Vogue?"

"My, my," she said, "are you sure or was that a lucky guess?"

"So you are model," I stated.

"Yes, and my stop is coming up next."

"May I help you with your parcels?"

She had three of them, small and quite unburdensome. She looked at me with a full smile. "Won't you be late getting home?"

"My time is at your disposal," I replied.

I would have liked to have made a sweeping gesture as I said this, but there wasn't enough room to do so on the bus. She told me, as we walked, that she lived in a block of flats, Cheyne Court. I carried the minuscule burden of her parcels with a light heart. Her name was Paula Breese. She was a freelance model.

"I'll make you a cup of tea," said as we approached Cheyne Court.

As we happened to be passing an off-licence, I replied: "Tea is fine, but on an occasion like this, I think a little champagne would be appropriate."

"My, my" she repeated.

Her flat was a small, but comfortable bed-sitter. It overlooked some gardens. There was a picture of a woman on her bureau, which I guessed to be her mother, but there was no evidence of any man anywhere. After some champagne, I felt emboldened to ask her about this.

"I'm just recovering from a disastrous love affair, and I want to avoid any further entanglement."

"This has both positive and negative aspects," I said to myself.

I was most happy to have met her, to have been invited to her flat, and indeed to have obtained her telephone number. I told her that I would really like to see her again, during the few days that remained before I returned to Cambridge. I wasn't sure that she would agree, but wonderful to relate, she told me that she had just returned from a modeling session in Monte Carlo, and that she had not got any work lined up for the next few days. I felt like pinching myself. I arrived home grinning like a Cheshire cat. Olive, of course, knew that something was up, and extracted the news from me without difficulty.

"All right, young man," she said; she so addressed me when wishing to establish her authority "I insist on meeting this Breese woman."

"But I've only just met her."

"No matter. I know you and I can tell you have fallen for her."

If Olive said so, I must have, though her opinion seemed a bit premature, to describe my fascination with Paula.

I had been correct that the picture I had seen was of Paula's mother, someone she adored, so when I told her that my mother wished to meet her, she accepted the invitation to tea readily. I was rather surprised, but travelled to Cheyne Court to escort her home, finally introducing her to Olive, who after one look at Paula, had that "Oh, my God" expression on her face.

Paula was twenty three, a beautiful fashion model, obviously a woman of experience, just right I thought for breaking my duck. Olive was a remarkable woman, and very protective of my relationships. She could demolish a girlfriend, of whom she did not approve, before my very eyes. In Paula's case, she decided to join forces with her, and started chatting about subjects of little interest to me, indeed I felt rather left out of the conversation. Olive took Paula with her to show her the rest of the house, while I stayed in the living room wondering how much of a mistake it would turn out to be to allow these women to meet each other.

After quite awhile they returned, bosom friends it seemed. On the way back, Paula sang Olive's praises, leaving me to wonder at the ways of womankind. When we got back to her flat I closed the door, took her in my arms, and with a continuum of movement kissed her, catching her by surprise.

"Steady tiger," she said, as she disengaged herself "easy does it."

"All right," I said "here's an easy kiss"

Very gently I explored her lips.

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