On Saturday there was chaos. One of the Irish printers had somehow managed to mix up my private and registered addresses, and despatched an entire consignment of Range Round-Up to Number 36. They were dumped on us shortly after breakfast, parcel after parcel filling the hall and overflowing into Helen’s room and even up the stairs towards Olivia’s cubby-hole. Piers came up from breakfast to find me blundering helplessly amongst them. He sat down on a convenient pile, smiling.
‘Delaney’s a bloody fool,’ I said. ‘I told him particularly over the ’phone that he could send telegrams and letters here for urgency, but the magazines must go to Shaftesbury Avenue. Look at this!’
He said: ‘It doesn’t matter. Saves a few hours, anyway. I’ll ’phone Griggs and have him bring the van round.’
I was still angry, and a little frightened. ‘When a sub-post office gets a pile like this for a private address, it’s noticed. We don’t want to advertise the scheme.’
He said: ‘I shouldn’t worry. You’re not doing anything illegal, yet. Are you?’