“Hope to see you again soon, sir.”
“Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,” replied Mr. Tamburlane.
“Would you care to book a table now, sir? Like yesterday?”
“All our yesterdays,” said Mr. Tamburlane; and, suddenly remembering the customary usage, stood aside for Griselda to precede him into the warm summer air. There could be little doubt that he was the worse for drink.
There was the appalling question of who could pay for the hansom; including, Griselda supposed, an extra passenger. Only one answer being possible, Griselda attempted to recall the total sum in her handbag. Did hansom cabs charge at the same rates as taxis, she wondered; and would there soon be a scene like the one with the doorman?
“Mount,” said Mr. Tamburlane to Griselda.
The door of the cab hung back against the side, and Griselda put her foot on the little step and entered. She had never been in a hansom cab before. The vehicle, although astonishingly open to the air, somehow managed to retain a strong, utterly unknown smell.
“Mount,” said Mr. Tamburlane to Kynaston.
Kynaston ascended and seated himself. He looked somewhat dishevelled with wine, though less so than Mr. Tamburlane.
Mr. Tamburlane’s foot was on the step when the driver shouted down out of the sky “Two’s the legal limit.” He flourished his whip.
“Stuff,” replied Mr. Tamburlane.
“I’ll lose my licence.”
“I’ll buy you another one,” said Mr. Tamburlane.
“Mind you do,” said the driver. Mr. Tamburlane had looked like a tip of unprecedented size, and the driver was used to eccentrics who could pay for their indulgences. He flicked Mr. Tamburlane on the left ear.
Kynaston had moved close to Griselda, making a small amount of room for Mr. Tamburlane in the far corner. But Mr. Tamburlane ignored this provision and fell heavily into place between the two of them, sending Kynaston sliding away along the slippery leather.
“Permit me,” he said, putting an arm round each of them. “For warmth.”
Indeed it was surprisingly draughty for such a warm evening.
“Will you be cold?” said Griselda to Kynaston along the back of Mr. Tamburlane’s neck. She had completed her mental arithmetic and a last desperate hope entered her mind. “Perhaps we’d better go by tube?”
As she spoke she felt through Mr. Tamburlane’s body his other arm tightening on Kynaston.
“Thank you, Griselda,” said Kynaston gulping. “I’ll be warm enough. I loathe wrapping up.” But his tones were soft. They expressed pathetic gratitude for what he took to be Griselda’s first piece of solicitude for him, her first essay at managing his diffused and migrant life.
“Vile were it indeed,” said Mr. Tamburlane, muscling in still further, “for the Lachender Held young Siegfried to mask his manhood with draperies.”
There was a moment’s silence while Mr. Tamburlane consolidated his grip, and Griselda looked up at the stars.
“Well?”
The cabman had lifted the little hatch in the roof.
“Advance,” said Mr. Tamburlane.
“Once round the Park?” asked the cabman. “Or along the Victoria Embankment?”
“Juvenal Court,” said Kynaston. “Just off Tottenham Court Road.”
“It’s not usual,” said the cabman. “I don’t cater for regular fares. Can’t afford it. There’s taxis for that. I’ve got my living to earn.”
“We’ll see that you don’t lose by it,” said Mr. Tamburlane, his voice full of banknotes.
“Take care that I don’t.”
“Young love is on the wing tonight,” said Mr. Tamburlane.
“Honeymoon couple? O.K.”
He shut the trap and they drove off. At the moment of departure the doorman appeared: “Watch out,” he shrieked. “They’ll welsh you.”
“Lie down and cool off,” rejoined the cabman ungratefully.
It was pleasant, though squashed. Griselda remembered Lord Beaconsfield’s phrase “The gondola of London.” To journey from one gilded hall to another by hansom cab alone with the person one truly loved must indeed have been heaven. As soon as the present journey started, however, Griselda realised the origin of the unusual smell. It came from the horse. The vehicle, moreover, lacked a jingling bell: that essential appurtenance for romance.
They clattered along swiftly. Pedestrians, habituated to vehicles equipped with audible warnings, were several times all but slaughtered, to the accompaniment of dreadful language from the cabman. Walking-out couples, glad of something to do, and parties up from the country, stood on the pavements sentimentally staring. Police constables were irritable or facetious. An elementary school child threw a fire-cracker, which fortunately failed to discharge. At Cambridge Circus an elderly woman shouted several times to the driver “It’s unsafe. It’s unsafe. It’s unsafe”; at which the driver lifted the trap in the roof and bawled down “She’s dead right”, then went into roars of Mephistophilean laughter. Griselda wondered whether the fiery and erratic behaviour of the horse reflected some kind of incorrect feeding.
Juvenal Court appeared to be three adjoining mid-nineteenth century houses run together and converted into a rabbit warren. There were lights at every single window including one or two very small ones. A girl’s head was projecting from one of the upper windows.
“Barney,” she cried, “come to me.” Presumably she was addressing an intimate on a lower floor.
Instantly a man looked out. “I’m tired,” he shouted back in a cultivated accent. The street light showed that he had much smooth black hair and a large nose. The girl moaned and withdrew. Griselda had seen that she was wildly beautiful.
Kynaston had squeezed himself from Mr. Tamburlane’s grasp and began to stand about ineffectively on the pavement. He seemed worried.
Mr. Tamburlane, though his eyes were open, indeed unusually wide open, continued supine.
“Well?” enquired the driver.
Griselda opened her purse. “How much?”
“I leave that to the party concerned, miss.” The driver implied that the question was in curiously bad taste.
Griselda submitted two half-crowns. Instantly and wordlessly the driver hurled them on the granite setts of the gutter.
“It’s all I can spare.”
“Who’s asking you?”
Kynaston had ascended the steps to the surviving front door and stood lurking in the shadows. The other two front doors had been superseded by kitchenettes.
“Come on, Mr. Tamburlane. We’re there.” Griselda dragged at his arm, but it merely came away as if it had dropped off his shoulder. Mr. Tamburlane continued to stare at the horse’s tail out of unnaturally large white eyes.
The driver lifted his hatch. He addressed one word to his fare.
“Out.”
Mr. Tamburlane hardly moved, but the horse swished his tail and whinnied. Kynaston was fidgeting. He seemed distinctly upset.
“Please, Mr. Tamburlane,” cried Griselda weakly, but still, she thought, firmly.
Mr. Tamburlane turned a little away from her, groaned slightly, and addressed himself to the space formerly occupied by Kynaston. His voice was low and throbbing. “Γυγη. γυναιξί κόσμον ή σιγη φέρει,” said Mr. Tamburlane.
Griselda turned her back on him and called to Kynaston. “Can you come and help?”
“What do you suggest?” said Kynaston from the doorstep. He seemed almost shifty.
Griselda looked up at the cabman; who again lifted his little flap and in accents of deep distaste uttered another single word.
“Scram.”
The effect was surprising. The horse reared a little, neighed noisily, and clattered away down the street. The tumult of his shoes on the granite setts was considerable. As the vehicle disappeared from sight it seemed for some reason to be swaying from one wheel to the other. The driver looked to have lost his reins and, at undoubted peril, to be erect on his perch expostul
ating. Soon, however, all was quiet once more and Kynaston was holding back the heavy front door, covered with letter-box flaps each with several names, for Griselda to enter.
“Thank God that’s over,” said Kynaston.
“I don’t want Mr. Tamburlane to be hurt,” said Griselda.
“I expect a policeman will pull them up soon. The police are always doing things like that. Anything rather than have him back. It’s most unfortunate how strongly I attract that type of man. Young or old, it always happens. I regularly appeal to the wrong type in both sexes. I wish I attracted you, Griselda.” He stopped groping for the switch and began to grope for Griselda.
“Let me advise you to recover the cash.” A door had opened on to the dark hall and Barney was looking out. Kynaston saw the switch and turned on the light.
“Thank you very much,” said Griselda. “I will.” She had forgotten her two important half-crowns.
She returned to the gutter but the coins were not to be seen.
“Can’t you find them?” It was Kynaston, once more at the top of the steps.
“Come and help to look for them.”
He remained in the shadow. “I’m better at losing than finding.”
“Let me look.” It was Barney. He wore a check shirt and brown trousers. He descended to his hands and knees, and crawled along, striking matches.
“Please don’t trouble.”
“How much was it?”
“Five shillings.”
“No trouble.”
Kynaston was clearly bored. He still seemed uneasy.
“It’s very good of you.”
“Five shillings is five shillings.” Barney groped along like a small brown bear taught to let off a train of tiny fireworks.
“Please stop now. It really doesn’t matter.”
Barney resumed the human posture. “The scum of the earth live round here. They wouldn’t miss a chance like that.” The street seemed deserted. “Would you allow me to reduce the loss? I imagine Geoffrey’s in his usual condition.” He put his hand in his trousers pocket and offered Griselda half-a-crown.
“Certainly not. I mean thank you very much; but No thank you. It really doesn’t matter at all,” Griselda added extenuatingly.
“Please yourself.”
“I do mean thank you all the same.”
“So long as you know what you mean.”
Kynaston was looking embarrassed. He changed the subject.
“Is Dykes in?”
“I suppose so. Why?”
“We want to look at the empty flat.”
“Empty what?”
“Empty room.”
“We?”
“I’m going to marry Griselda. Griselda de Reptonville. Barney Lazarus.”
Griselda had heard of him. Paintings by Barney Lazarus were sometimes mentioned by the Art Critics of “The Times”. She had understood that he painted mostly Mothers.
“How do you do?” said Barney. They shook hands on the pavement. “I cannot possibly congratulate you.”
“It’s the man you congratulate,” said Kynaston.
“That remains to be seen,” said Barney, looking Griselda up and down. “I’ve known Geoffrey for years,” he remarked to her, “and I would rather marry King Kong.”
“I don’t know King Kong,” remarked Griselda, smiling sweetly.
CHAPTER XXI
Dykes, who lived entirely in what had once been the larder of the house (the other rooms in the basement being let to tenants), proved to be wholly drunk. Roused by Kynaston, he stumbled up the battered stair singing snatches of old songs. His memory being ruined by the bottle, however, he was unable to recall which room was to let. Furthermore, having forgotten all he had ever learnt at school (if not more), he was incapable of distinguishing between the numbers on the different doors. The three of them bounced and crashed from amorous routines to solidary drudgeries until Kynaston asserted “I am sure Monica said Number Thirteen.”
He and Griselda climbed another flight; but Dykes said his heart would carry him no higher. “We may not need a key,” said Kynaston. “I daresay it’s lost.”
Across the landing before them, a dark brown door was inscribed 13. Kynaston turned the elaborate brass handle and entered without obstacle (the key being on the inside); then sagged back, standing upon Griselda’s toe.
“Good God, Lotus,” he said faintly and peevishly, “this is really too much.”
The room was medium sized, middlingly furnished in a style unexpectedly like Greenwood Tree House, painted in the same dark brown as the door, and with hideous paper leaving the walls and ceiling. Standing on the dust coloured carpet was the girl who had shouted from the upper window. At closer quarters, she was still wildly beautiful, with well kept golden-red hair, bright green eyes, a prominent somewhat Iberian nose, a large but well-shaped mouth, and a perfect skin. She wore crêpe-de-chine pyjamas, intended for parties. She was rather plump, though well-proportioned; and appeared to be expensively corsetted. Griselda found her age unusually difficult to guess.
She glared at Kynaston for a moment; then at Griselda.
“If you must be unfaithful to me, Geoffrey,” she said in a voice as beautiful as her face, “then you need not insult me as well by always seducing an ingénue. There are other mondaine women in London.”
Kynaston stood his ground remarkably well. “Lotus, I’m going to marry Griselda. Griselda de Reptonville. Mrs. Lamb.”
“Are you insane, Geoffrey?”
“You can’t look after me, Lotus. I thought you could, but I was wrong. I really believe Griselda can. And without bullying me, as you do. As well as being sensible, she is sweet and sympathetic. Besides you yourself refuse to marry me——”
“I am above such a thought!” she interrupted. Suddenly she extended her hand to Griselda. “Ignore my remark. It was intended only to hurt Geoffrey not you. As you love Geoffrey, you must forgive me for that also.”
“I don’t love Geoffrey,” replied Griselda, smiling and shaking Lotus’s hand.
“Perfect. That’s the only possible basis for marriage.”
“I’m not going to marry.”
“Monica told me you’d gone away,” said Kynaston interrupting.
“I’ve come back. I’m living with Barney now.”
“I suppose that also is intended to hurt me.”
“Certainly. And it’s quite true.”
“You’ve been quick enough.”
“And you? Or is this merely another Doris Ditton?” Turning to Griselda she added: “Please don’t think I mean anything personal.”
“I’m going to marry Griselda.”
“She says not.”
“She’ll be sorry for me in the end.”
Lotus sat on the edge of the divan. “You know, Geoffrey,” she said, “I’ll take you back. This instant, if you like.”
“I can’t understand what you see in me, Lotus. I’m not your kind of man at all.”
“What are you going to live on without me?”
“I’ve got a job. Anyway you’ve never supported me.”
“Paid your debts. It’s much the same. What sort of a job have you got?” She seemed genuinely to wonder; and remarked to Griselda: “Geoffrey’s incapable of work of any kind.” It was a simple statement of fact.
“I think we’d better face reality,” replied Geoffrey.
“I inspired all his poetry too,” continued Lotus to Griselda.
Suddenly she fell sideways on the divan and began to sob. She sobbed beautifully. Kynaston looked distracted.
“Good night,” said Griselda.
“For God’s sake,” cried Kynaston clutching both her elbows and holding on.
“It’s late. I really should go.”
“I beg you,” cried Kynaston. “You can see how utterly wrong for me she is and always has been.”
“She’s very beautiful,” said Griselda falling into the new convention of speaking as if the person spoken
about were not present.
“You’re beautiful too, Griselda.”
“Not in the same class.”
Lotus looked up. “You are. You are. You know you are.” Huge separate tears streamed down her lovely skin. “I love you Griselda. I need you. Please don’t leave me now.” He was still desperately gripping one of her elbows.
Lotus dropped off the bed and knelt on the floor crying her heart out. “When you’ve married him, will you let me see him? Ever?”
But the door had opened and Barney entered. He spoke very quietly.
“I thought I heard Lotus crying. Silence, Kynaston, while I break every bone in your body.” Barney was a painter of the traditional school. Griselda had never before seen anyone in so dreadful a rage.
His first blow laid Kynaston on the floor, where Barney began systematically to maul him.
Deeming explanation useless, Griselda began to drag at Barney’s shoulders from behind. This was equally unavailing.
“Could you please help?” she said to the tear-stained Lotus. Even Lotus’s pyjamas were becoming dark and saturated. Her beautiful tears were particularly wet.
Lotus rose from the floor and with a single kick from one of her attractive shoes, mastered the situation. Barney stopped half-murdering Kynaston, and looked up at her, all rage evaporated.
“I thought——”
“You thought wrong. Get out.” She kicked him again, unexpectedly and maliciously.
“I wanted——”
“Go to bed, Barney. You said you were tired.”
Once more his expression changed. “You’d made me desperate. I’m not a pekinese.”
“You foul the air.”
Barney flushed; rose to his feet; and took Lotus in his arms. Quite calmly, as it appeared, she bit deeply into his left cheek. Barney’s blood on her big well-shaped mouth made her look like a beautiful vampire.
Barney felt in his trousers pocket for a handkerchief, but he was unprovided. Remembering the half-crown, Griselda extended her own handkerchief. He began to dab at his streaming cheek. Griselda’s handkerchief was much too small.
The Late Breakfasters and Other Strange Stories Page 18
