The Late Breakfasters and Other Strange Stories

by Robert Aickman

  “Where are my shoes?”

  “Sit down and let’s talk it over. I’ll get you a drink.”

  Griselda crossed barefoot to the door.

  “You can’t very well go without your shoes.”

  “I’d rather not. I’ll have to explain what happened in order to borrow a pair.”

  “Anne Musselwhite, you’ve got things all wrong.” He was recharging his big brandy glass.

  There was a knock at the door. Griselda opened it. It was Gioiosa.­

  “Ready to eat, signore.”

  Looking Griselda up and down, whom previously she had only seen seated, and discovering that she lacked shoes, Gioiosa went into extravagant foreign laughter.

  “Grazie, signorina. Non conobbi.”

  She was about to go, but Griselda caught her by the arm.

  “Lend me some shoes. Your feet are about the right size.”

  “You wear my shoes!” She was giggling like an imbecile.

  It seemed hopeless. Griselda dropped her arm and made for the front door. In a moment she was running down the passage, shoeless like Cinderella at midnight. The carpet in the passage was thick and patterned like a tiger-­skin. The walls bore large golden gulls in plastic relief. At the end, an under-­porter had been working all day on a defective radiator, and the pieces lay scattered about until he could resume the next day. Some of them had already been kicked quite long distances by passing tenants and visitors.

  As Griselda reached the corner where the stair-­well began, there was a clatter behind her. She thought that Hooper was in pursuit; then realised that it was only a pair of shoes. She paused and looked back.

  “I tell you, Anne Musselwhite, I think very little to you.”

  It occurred to Griselda that if she returned to pick up the shoes there might be further trouble.

  “If you think it’s fair,” went on Hooper, “to take a man’s drink and hospitality, and let him pay for you all round the place, and then give him nothing in return, I for one don’t.”

  Griselda turned her back.

  “Won’t you think again? We might go dancing somewhere.”

  Griselda’s back was negative.

  “Oh, go to hell,” said Hooper irritably and slammed the door.

  All the same, thought Griselda, it was odd how after weeks and months of only Peggy, she should make so many new friends in so short a time.

  Immediately she entered her room, Peggy knocked on her door.

  “Come in Peggy. Sit down. Do you mind if I undress?”

  “I have never thanked you for the picnic.”

  “No need to. I hope you enjoyed it?”

  “I found them interesting to observe.”

  “Lena said something of the same kind.”

  “I thought Lena was more than a little affected, I’m afraid.”

  “Who did you like?”

  “I haven’t known them long enough to like any of them.”

  In view of Barney’s attitude, and the lateness of Peggy’s return from the jollification, Griselda thought that disappointing.

  CHAPTER XXVII

  Promptly, and on writing-­paper which reminded her of Louise’s, Griselda received her reply: —

  Dear Miss de Reptonville,

  Of course I know Louise. But I don’t know where she is. I wish I did. I’m sorry.

  Very sincerely yours,

  Hugo Raunds.

  Kynaston, installed as custodian of the Liberator’s immortal memory, moved into an attic flat near his place of work. He had followed “Days of Delinquency” with “Nights of Negation”, but his publishers took the view that the receipts from the former work did not justify further adventures; and he was in a state of melancholy mania.

  “Why not try another publisher?”

  “They all work in together.”

  Although it was obvious that he was still seeing Lotus (on one occasion he appeared with a strange scar on the side of his neck), or she him, he became really industrious in paying court to Griselda. He would not come to the shop, for fear of Mr. Tamburlane; but they would meet at the northern end of the Burlington Arcade, and Griselda would take him to Greenwood Tree House for a good meal and in order to listen to his difficulties and advise him.

  “If I’m not a poet, Griselda, what am I? Am I any more than a current of hot air?”

  Unlike Mrs. Hatch, Griselda herself did not care for Kynaston’s poems. “You dance very well. Why don’t you try to develop that?”

  “I find it empty. As you dance so little yourself, it’s hard to explain to you.”

  “I suppose so. Have some more stew?”

  “Please.”

  “And more potato?”

  “Please.”

  “And more seakale?”

  “Please.”

  Griselda sat back. Fortunately Kynaston’s attacks of self-­doubt seldom upset his appetite.

  “A piece of currant bread?”

  “If you can spare it.”

  Later, when they were seated one on each side of the electric heater, and Kynaston had been describing the difficulties of his early manhood, and munching cream crackers, he said “This is what marriage would be like. I think it would be enchanting.”

  Griselda could not possibly go as far as that; but, after her recent loneliness and unhappiness, she admitted, though only to herself, that worse things might easily befall her. Kynaston was not very much of a man, but life, she felt, was not very much of a life.

  So before he went she let him kiss her on the eyes, and even neck, as well as on the mouth. It was one thing about him that he had never attempted to seduce her. She was quite uncertain whether he cared for her too much or too little.

  There were several fogs in November, a rare thing in London. On the foggiest morning Mr. Tamburlane arrived late at the shop, wheezing slightly but jubilant. He wore a thick scarf in the colours (a little too vivid, Griselda thought) of the Booksellers Association, and a black Astrakhan hat.

  “My waywardness has put you to the labour of taking down the shutters, Miss de Reptonville. I can but blame a higher power.” He indicated the fog. “But your magnificent zeal is to be repaid a thousandfold. Yes, indeed.” He sneezed.

  “There’s a new edition of the Apocrypha come in,” replied Griselda demurely. “Shall I arrange some copies in the window?”

  “Work,” cried Mr. Tamburlane, sneezing again, “can wait. There are tidings of joy.”

  “What can they be? Shall I make you a warm drink?”

  “A splendid and original device. Let us split a posset. There’s nutmeg in a mustard tin behind the Collected Letters of Horatio Bottomley.”

  Griselda set to work in the back room, while Mr. Tamburlane sat complimenting her, his legs stretched out to the large gas fire in the shop. Soon the brew was prepared, and Griselda pouring it into large hand-­thrown bowls, the colour of nearly cooked rhubarb.

  “Miss Otter has news.”

  Griselda nearly scalded her uvula.

  “Otototo„ Toto„,” exclaimed Mr. Tamburlane sympathetically. “Let us go further.” He swept across Griselda’s feet, and, unlocking a drawer, brought out a bottle. “We are warned against mixing our drinks, as the idiom is, but I think that on this occasion our common joy will absolve us. Here is finest coconut rum brought direct from the fever belt by one of my clients. It was all he had with which to meet his account, poor fellow. He described it as an antidote against cold feet.”

  “Thank you,” said Griselda, taking the glass Mr. Tamburlane extended to her. “What is Miss Otter’s news?”

  “That,” said Mr. Tamburlane swallowing his rum at a gulp, “I do not know. Miss Otter wrote to me that she will look in this morning to impart it in person. It must be something quite unconventional, because, as you know, this is not Miss Otter’s day.”

  “And that’s all you know?”

  “Enough is as good as a feast, Miss de Reptonville. I counsel you to watch and pray. Although unswervingly antagonistic to an
anthropomorphic theogony, I often find purgatation in the precepts of the primitives.”

  “Some more posset, Mr. Tamburlane?”

  “Thank you, no. Warmth is already reanimating the various segments of my trunk. Nor, I conceive, should we continue imbibing stimulants until incapacity overtakes us. We should recollect that the hour for toil has but just now chimed; and summon forth our full self-­mastery. Or do you differ?” He sat anxiously interrogative, with the bottle clasped motionless in the air between them.

  “Far from it, Mr. Tamburlane. I agree entirely.”

  “What a reassurance that is to me. My inner demon has in it that which could so easily sweep all resistance away like chaff—which indeed on more than one occasion has swept it away like chaff—that I fear constantly the thickness of my own right arm.” The bottle still hung in the air.

  “I think we have a customer.”

  “Then let all be apple pie and shipshape.”

  Griselda drained her glass. She did not care for the coconut rum, because it tasted of coconut.

  A young man had been standing outside the shop, looking in the window and hesitating. At first Griselda feared it might be Dennis Hooper, come with persuasive protestations of repentance; but it proved to be a young man looking for a chart of the Blackwater Estuary. From his demeanour outside and inside, it was clear that, like many of the customers, he seldom entered a bookshop.

  “Charts, Mr. Tamburlane?”

  Mr. Tamburlane ran both hands through his upstanding white hair. “Try in there, Miss de Reptonville.” Griselda suspected that he had decided entirely by intuition.

  “Nothing but almanacs,” said Griselda rummaging.

  “I always like to keep a stock of almanacs for past years,” said Mr. Tamburlane to the customer in a spirit of affable salesmanship. “I am, I believe, the only London bookshop to do so.”

  The young man simply nodded. He was in a subdued frenzy for a chart of the Blackwater Estuary.

  “It’s ideas such as that, I always like to think, which set one apart from one’s competitors.”

  “I want some idea where she dries out,” said the young man anxiously. His eyes followed Griselda round the shop. It was clearly a matter of immense moment.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Griselda. “I’m afraid we’ve sold out that particular one just at the moment. Shall I order it for you?”

  “My dear boy,” said Mr. Tamburlane, laying his hands on the customer’s arm. “For a sailor who has youth, there are always the stars.”

  Miss Otter failed to arrive.

  Griselda, although she had never, except at the very beginning, dared to take that particular ridiculous business in the least seriously, found by midday that she was taking it seriously enough to feel sick.

  She had nothing for lunch but bananas and cream, and a cup of black coffee. When she returned through the fog to the shop, she was even more alarmed to perceive that Mr. Tamburlane seemed really upset.

  “Miss Otter is invariably the very figurehead of punctilio. You could, if I may employ a daring concept at such an anxious moment, use her as a regulator for a clock.”

  “Did Miss Otter not mention any time?”

  “Tomorrow morning,” said Mr. Tamburlane. “Yesterday, you understand.”

  “What about telephoning?”

  “Out of the question. Miss Otter will have nothing electrical in the house.”

  “Perhaps she dislikes fog and has stayed at home.”

  Mr. Tamburlane’s face lighted up. “Miss de Reptonville!” he cried. “I believe you have hit it.”

  At a quarter past four, when it was quite dark, a stranger entered the shop and asked to speak to Mr. Tamburlane. Griselda showed him into the back room and went on dealing with the arrears of orders sent by post.

  About half an hour later, Mr. Tamburlane emerged, wearing his overcoat and scarf and looking altogether distraught. “All is over,” he exclaimed. “Kindly put up the shutters immediately. Miss Otter has been run over by a postal van. I am informed that it was behind schedule owing to adverse weather.”

  “Then,” cried Griselda, “shall I never know—?”

  Mr. Tamburlane raised his hand. “Please say no more, Miss de Reptonville, lest it be taken down and used in evidence against me.”

  “Come along, please,” said the visitor.

  Griselda looked at his feet, which she had once read was the right thing to do; but could see nothing unusual. “What is the charge?” she asked.

  “That has been under discussion with this gentleman for the last half-­hour,” said Mr. Tamburlane. “It appears that the authorities have visited Miss Otter’s house and drawn their own conclusions. Entirely false ones, I am sure I need not add.”

  “Come along, please,” said the visitor.

  “Cut is the bough that might have grown full straight.” Mr. Tamburlane extended both his hands.

  “What can I do to help? Please tell me?”

  Mr. Tamburlane suddenly became transfigured with an idea. “Officer,” he said, “may I write a letter?”

  “Time we was on our way.”

  “Only one line.” Mr. Tamburlane looked exactly like half-­a-crown.

  “Make it short.”

  It was very short.

  “Miss de Reptonville this is what you shall do. You shall not read this until five minutes after I am gone. Five minutes by any timepiece you choose.” He had rolled the letter into a spill. Griselda took it. The visitor was looking vainly for his half-­crown. “Promise.”

  “I promise.”

  “Get going,” said the visitor sourly. “We don’t go for your class of offence, you know.”

  A woman entered the shop. “I want a copy of ‘Reader’s Digest’ for my little boy.”

  Mr. Tamburlane put on his astrakhan hat and cleared his throat. “Tell me,” he said to his companion, “did you find time to visit Sing-­sing this summer?”

  When the five minutes were spent, Griselda uncurled the letter. Mr. Tamburlane had spoken the exact truth. Apart from his signature it consisted of a single line.

  “I hereby give my shop and all its contents to Bearer.”

  CHAPTER XXIII

  Griselda made diligent enquiries, partly in the forlornest possible hope that she might extract some news of Louise, partly out of gratitude to Mr. Tamburlane. But she found all channels blocked; largely, it seemed, at the particular direction of the accused. In the end she realized that in his own way Mr. Tamburlane had disappeared from her life as conclusively as Louise.

  Often, however, as she served in the shop, her thoughts turned to him. She was advised in the particular circumstances to adopt another name for the business as soon as possible; and through much of a cold December week, the versatile Lena, clad in motorcycling costume, painted out “Tamburlane” and substituted “Drelincourt”. This was because Griselda had invited Lena to go into partnership with her, and had no particular conviction that her own was a suitable name to place above a London shop. Already, after only a fortnight, Lena’s knowledge of literature had proved as valuable as her capacity for odd but essential jobs. Griselda had insisted on placing in the window ten copies of ‘Inhumation’ (ordered without Lena’s knowledge) on the very first day; and, oddly enough, by the end of the second day all were sold, and another ten had been ordered, to the conspicuous vindication of Griselda’s commercial judgement and acquired experience of the trade.

  The proposal of Kynaston’s which Griselda accepted, was made one snowy night on the Central London Railway, between Oxford Circus and Marble Arch. Kynaston proposed immediately they entered the train, as indeed the shortness of the journey rendered necessary.

  “I shall go to Canada, if you refuse,” he concluded. “The Mounted Police are starting a ballet, and I’ve been asked to be régisseur.”

  There was a tired desperation about him which was very convincing.

  “You don’t mind that I love someone else?”

  “Of course I mind. It’s
bloody for me.”

  “But you’re willing to risk it?”

  “I don’t expect everything.”

  Griselda sank her head on his shoulder. But it was Bond Street Station, and she raised it again. It would be pleasant not to have to conduct so much of her emotional life on and near the Underground. She waited for the train to restart. Her heart felt quite dead; like a dry sponge, or a cauliflower run to seed.

  “All right, Geoffrey, I’ll marry you if you want it so much.”

  He said nothing at all and Griselda continued to stare before her.

  “Let’s make it soon,” she said.

  Kynaston still said nothing. From the corner of her eye, Griselda saw that he was quietly and motionlessly weeping. She laid her hand on his. He had attractive hands.

  “Thank you, Griselda,” he said at last. “Could you lend me your handkerchief?”

  They had reached Marble Arch. Ascending on the escalator, Griselda reflected that there were said to be wonderful mysteries attendant on marriage. Long before the top, a freezing atmosphere enveloped her from the world outside.

  In the Edgware Road it was as if all the air held particles of snow in suspension. None the less, before they reached Greenwood Tree House, they had decided to marry before Christmas. It would, Kynaston believed, require a special licence, which would involve extra expense; but now that Griselda had the shop, extra expense might be less of an obstacle.

  At the outer door, Kynaston showed no particular inclination to accompany Griselda upstairs.

  “My wretched shoes leak. I must buy some new ones before we marry. This snow could lead to chilblains.”

  But Griselda had no wish to be left with her thoughts.

  “You can take them off in my room. It’s just the sort of thing you’ve always wanted.”

  He did so. His socks were saturated with snow, and his feet were blue. They were, however, as male feet go, attractively shaped, Griselda was relieved to note.

  “I can’t lend you any socks because I don’t wear trousers.”

  “I expect they’ll dry.” He hung them on the bars of a bedroom chair and pushed the chair in front of the electric heater. At once the socks began to steam profusely and also to fill the room with a faint but individual stench.