“I would rather beg my bread on the Victoria Embankment,” said Guillaume. He was in a passion of indignation. The guard of honour could be heard marching away. Soon the fog hushed them.
“Please go and enjoy yourselves,” said Griselda.
A motor-horn blared commandingly. Florence looked out into the murk. “That lawyer’s got in,” she reported.
Among the rest of them Guillaume’s opinion seemed to prevail. Even Freddy Fisher, though horribly disappointed by the turn of events, abided by an unconscious loyalty, to none could clearly say what.
After another minute or two the cars drove off; the Admiral in the first of them, with his only guest; the remainder empty.
Griselda felt still further cut off from the world which had been hers until she visited Beams; a feeling enhanced by Peggy coming up to her, thanking her for the wedding, wishing her happiness, and then departing, her new dress hardly displayed, clearly much upset. Doris, after quietly congratulating the bridal couple, departed with her.
CHAPTER XXX
They lunched at the Old Bell Restaurant, recommended by Barney, who now appeared. He had been delayed by the completion of a commission, his work being much in demand about Christmas time.
“You can depend on a Trust House for a sound middle of the road meal,” he said. “Besides there’s a dome of many coloured glass: the finest thing of its kind in London.”
In the Ladies’ Room, two things happened. Griselda found that she had already lost her overlarge ring (and Kynaston, of course, had been unable to afford an engagement ring: indeed there seemed, in retrospect, to have been no very clear period during which Griselda had been engaged). Then Lotus pinned her in a corner and said “Remember.” It was just like the ghost of Hamlet’s father. Griselda wondered what would come out of it all.
At luncheon (where Monica would eat nothing but salad) Barney enquired after Peggy; Lena, ostensibly for Barney’s information, told the story of the Admiral’s intervention; Kynaston kept feeling for Griselda’s hand; and Freddy Fisher became drunk with extraordinary rapidity. Lotus seemed increasingly out of it. Griselda wondered whether she was contemplating a final disappearance to a wealthier milieu; then supposed that she could not be, in view of her reminder in the Ladies’ Room. Lotus’s beauty and passion and sense of dress would make her rather a forlorn figure in any modern environment that Griselda could conceive. After a while, Lena, who, unlike Freddy, was drinking heavily, removed her polar outfit, and emerged in her usual shirt and trousers. As well as drinking, she was talking continuously, and without adapting her talk to the particular listener. Griselda looked at her a little doubtfully. Lena often seemed highly strung for a business partner.
Luncheon ended with Carlsbad plums in honey, halva, black coffee, and (at Lotus’s expense) Green Chartreuses all round. There was some disputation, more or less affable, as they allocated among themselves liability for their respective parts of the bill; during which one of the business men who constituted the main element among the customers, approached Griselda and insisted on presenting her with a large bunch, almost bouquet, of Christmas roses.
“You look so happy,” he said, “that I should like you to have it.” Since the beginning of their meal, he had spent his luncheon hour searching the cold streets and stuffy shops. Instantaneously and for an instant it almost made Griselda feel as happy as she looked.
Then Barney was making a speech, and all the waiters and some of the bar and kitchen staff, had entered the room to listen to it. Lotus sat sneering slightly, which only made her more seductive than ever; and indeed it was not the best speech which even Griselda had ever heard. The business men listened like professionals, and at suitable moments led the applause. The speech ended by Barney announcing that now they would leave the happy couple alone together; at which, despite the hour, there was a pleasant round of cheers. Barney then spoke to a waiter, who flashed away. In a moment he was back and speaking in Barney’s ear.
“I have ordered,” said Barney, “a taxi; and what is more, paid for it. It is yours to go anywhere not more than ten minutes away, or a mile and a half, whichever is the less.”
Everybody leaned from the windows of the Old Bell and cheered as the happy pair entered the taxi, which, having been decorated with white streamers at lightning speed by the driver, was already surrounded by a cluster of strange women, haggard as witches with Christmas shopping.
“Best of luck,” screamed Freddy Fisher and threw a toy bomb which he had acquired next door at Gamage’s for the purpose. Considering its cost, it was surprisingly efficacious.
“Where to?” enquired the driver.
There seemed nowhere to suggest but back to the attic flat.
CHAPTER XXXI
Griselda wondered when the mysteries would begin.
It seemed not immediately. In the taxi, Kynaston concentrated upon his achievement in routing and evading his father (which had, indeed, impressed Griselda considerably); and in the flat, having changed his suit, he continued alluding to the same subject. He described the wretchedness of his childhood for more than an hour and a quarter, a topic with which Griselda was fairly sympathetic; then unexpectedly said “I think we’d better go to the pictures. I feel we should celebrate, and all the cinemas will be shut tomorrow.”
Griselda quickly made tea (neither were especially hungry after their platesful of venison at luncheon) and they found their way through the fog to a double-feature programme which did not come round again until past nine o’clock. Most of the time Griselda sat with Kynaston’s arm round her. She found it pleasant, but detrimental to concentration upon the films. However, it being the programme immediately before Christmas, the films were undemanding.
“Let’s go to Lyons,” said Kynaston. “You’ll have plenty of opportunity for home cooking in the years ahead.” He smiled at her affectionately. Griselda smiled back, though suddenly she had wondered what the food was like at the Carlton.
At Lyons, however, the big new Corner House at St. Giles’s Circus, the food was, as usual, unlike the food anywhere else, though the ornate building was full of fog, through which the alien waiters called to one another in little-known tongues above the tumult of the orchestra. Griselda and Kynaston ate Consommé Lenglen, turkey and Christmas pudding, followed by portions of walnuts; so that it was nearly eleven before they left.
When they emerged, their heads spinning with Viennese music, the fog was so thick that the busmen had gone on strike, leaving their vehicles standing about the streets and blocking most of the other traffic. In some of the buses passengers bearing holly and rocking-horses, were defining and proclaiming their rights; in some, mistletoe was being hoisted; and in some, tramps were beginning to bed down for the holiday. Every now and then a bus became dark, as its battery failed or miscarried. Over all could already be felt the spirit of Christmas.
“Let’s look for the tube.”
But when they found it, the Underground had ceased to run. Across the entry was a strong iron gate, bearing the notice “Special Christmas Service”, surrounded by little figures of Santa Claus.
“Let’s walk. Do you mind, Griselda?”
“Of course not, Geoffrey.”
“Fortunately I’m good at finding the way.”
“I can’t see my feet.”
Allowing for errors of direction, and the further time consumed in retracing their steps, the walk took until a quarter to one. By the time she reached their attic flat, Griselda’s legs were cold, her respiration clogged, and her spirits chastened.
Kynaston left her alone in their bedroom (where his single divan bed had been supplemented by its double) to undress. Almost at once she was in bed. Rather charmingly, Kynaston then appeared with a glass of hot milk and some bread and treacle.
“Would you like a hot water bottle?”
“It’s lovely of you, Geoffrey, to work so hard, but I don’t use them.”
“I do.”
“That’s all right.”
He crossed to Griselda’s bed, where she lay with her eyes shut.
“You look tired, darling. I suggest we just sleep. There’s all day tomorrow.”
Griselda opened her eyes. “Yes, darling, let’s just sleep.” He kissed her lips fondly.
All the same it was disappointing. Griselda could not resolve how disappointing.
Kynaston put out the light.
“I think we’d better keep to our own beds. For tonight. Else we might spoil things. Because I’m sure you must be cold and tired.”
“I agree.” But Griselda was now perfectly warm and, for some reason, much less tired.
She rolled round and round in her bed several times.
Then without warning in the darkness Kynaston said “Are you a virgin?”
And when Griselda had explained the position, he said “I expect we’ll be able to manage;” then sighed and began to snore.
On Christmas Day Griselda became quite fond of Kynaston. He performed unending small services, and seemed to be filled with happiness every time she smiled. He spent the morning writing a sonnet, while Griselda made a steak-and-kidney pudding. In the afternoon he attempted to codify some new plastic poses, while Griselda mended his clothes. At about the time of the King’s broadcast, however, Griselda became aware of an undefined, unacknowledged strain. At dinner it seemed to have affected Kynaston’s appetite: a very unusual circumstance. Griselda herself continued more cheerful than she had expected. Kynaston’s slight nerviness seemed to make him more attentive than ever, almost anxiously so; and the immediate future aroused interest and curiosity.
After dinner, Kynaston began to read “The Faery Queen” aloud. Fortunately he did this very well. Every now and then he broke off while Griselda made some more coffee in a laboratorial vessel of glass and chromium which Lotus had given them as a wedding present. On one of these occasions Griselda noticed that Kynaston’s hand shook so much that he spilled the coffee into the saucer.
“Is anything wrong, darling? You’re shaking like a leaf.”
“I’m not used to so much happiness.”
“Does happiness make you tremble?”
“Of course. Now I’ll go on reading.”
His explanation was convincing but unsatisfying. Griselda felt that happiness precluded while it lasted the thought of its own fleetingness. Kynaston, moreover, every now and then between stanzas, flashed a look at her which was positively panic-stricken.
After several hours of reading, and several rounds of coffee in the pretty shepherdess cups which had been Peggy’s wedding present, Kynaston reached the lines:
“ ‘Or rather would, O! would it be so chanced,
That you, most noble sir, had present been
When that lewd ribald, with vile lust advanced,
Laid first his filthy hands on virgin clean,
To spoil her dainty corps, so fair and sheen
As on the earth, great mother of us all,
With living eye more fair was never seen
Of chastity and honour virginal:
Witness, ye heavens, whom she in vain to help did call!’ ”
At this Kynaston broke off, thought for a moment, while Griselda continued mending a sock, then, with glassy eyes said “Darling. Would you care to take off your sweater and skirt?”
“Of course, darling. If you wish.” Griselda laid aside the sock and complied with Kynaston’s suggestion.
He looked at her doubtfully, his eyes still glassy. “You won’t be cold?”
“That depends.”
“You mean on how much longer we go on reading?”
This seemed not to require an answer, so Griselda simply smiled.
“I’ll finish the canto.”
Griselda sank to the floor and sat close to the heater. Lena had given her a quantity (much greater than Lena could afford) of attractive underclothes as a wedding present, and she felt that she looked appealing as long as she could keep warm. Kynaston resumed:—
“ ‘ “How may it be,” said then the knight half wroth,
“The knight should knighthood ever so have spent?”
“None but that saw,” quoth he, “would ween for troth,
How shamefully that maid he did torment:
Her looser golden locks he rudely rent,
And drew her on the ground; and his sharp sword
Against her snowy breast he fiercely bent,
And threatened death with many a bloody word;
Tongue hates to tell the rest that eyes to see abhorred.” ’ ”
At the end of the canto, Kynaston looked at the floor and said: “Magical, isn’t it? And so modern.”
“How much more is there?” asked Griselda. She liked “The Faery Queen”, but was increasingly troubled by the draught along the floor.
“We’re less than a third through. There are six books. Spenser actually hoped to write twelve. Each is concerned with a different moral virtue. We’ve only just begun Book Two. On Temperance.”
“I remember,” said Griselda. “What’s Book Three about?”
“Chastity.”
Griselda’s bare arms were beginning to make goose-flesh.
“Shall we go to bed, darling? It’s past midnight.”
Kynaston nodded. Griselda put away her pile of socks. Kynaston crossed the room like a man heavily preoccupied, and replaced “The Faery Queen” on her shelf. Then, pulling himself together, he said “Shall I bring you some hot milk? To make you sleep?”
“I don’t know, darling. Should you?”
Kynaston turned, if possible, a little paler.
“Or should we both have a stiff drink?”
“Would that be a good thing?”
“I’d like you to have what you want.”
“I want bed. I’m frozen.”
“I’m terribly sorry. Really I am.”
“I didn’t mean that at all.”
The sudden turning on of the light emphasized the quantity of fog which had entered the little bedroom. Griselda realized that it was the only day for many months on which she had taken no exercise. With shaking hand, she cleaned her teeth, and fell into bed exactly as she was. She lay in the foggy freezing room (for the heater had not yet begun to take effect) with the light on, waiting for Kynaston.
He took much longer to appear than on the previous night. When he entered his face was set in a way which recalled to Griselda his repudiation of Lotus and his defiance of his father. Without a word he turned off the light and the heater, and climbed into his bed. He had not even bidden Griselda good night, or kissed her.
In the foggy darkness there was silence for a while. Then Kynaston said “Shall I turn on the heater again? We might leave it on.”
“We can’t afford it, darling.”
“Of course I’d rather not get up, but I don’t want you to be cold in bed, darling.”
“I don’t want to be either.”
This time there was a really long silence. Griselda, who was positively rigid with wakefulness, wondered if Kynaston had fallen asleep. Then she recalled that when asleep, he snored. Suddenly he spoke. “Griselda.”
“What is it darling? I was thinking about ‘The Faery Queen’.”
“On the subject of any physical relationship between us.”
“Living together as man and wife?” Griselda elucidated helpfully.
“I imagine all that’s of secondary importance to you.”
“Why?”
“Because you have always said you don’t love me.”
It was odd, Griselda reflected, how few people seemed to know the condition of being to which she would refer that word. She supposed she knew, and would always know, something that few knew, or would ever know. She felt to Kynaston as she had once felt to Mrs. Hatch: very superior. Though
she had lost, she had loved. All the same it was difficult to explain to Kynaston that lack of love as she understood the word, did not necessarily imply precisely proportionate lack of love as Kynaston understood it.
“I married you.”
“Yes.” He sounded as if it was a case of forebodings being fulfilled.
“I knew what I was doing, Geoffrey darling.”
“Of course, darling . . . I’d better go on with what I was saying.”
“I’m sorry not to be more helpful.”
“No, it’s I who am sorry. You’re utterly in control.”
“Go on, darling. What do you want to say?”
He gulped; and sucked at the bedclothes. “First, it’s marriage. At least I think it is. You know how it is with men?”
“Not very well, darling, I’m afraid.”
“A man sees marriage in terms of affection, domesticity, and inspiration.”
“I understand that.”
“With me it’s particularly true. I need a woman—a woman of character, like you, Griselda—to mould my life.”
“I remember your saying so.”
“You’ve seen Lotus. You understand that there’s been something between us?”
“I guessed there had.”
“You don’t mind?” It was as if he hoped she did.
“You say you love me.”
“Passion’s possible with Lotus, great drowning seas of it, but none of the other things.”
“Whereas with me——” A hard shell was beginning to enclose Griselda’s entire body; beginning with her still cold feet.
“With you the situation is further complicated by what you said last night. Whatever Lotus is like in other ways, she is good at making things easy. I hope you’ll let me put it clearly. Because I love you so much.”
“Do you mean, darling, that you married me just because I don’t love you?”
“Of course not, darling. I’m utterly determined to make you love me. I don’t think it would help for us to begin with a physical misunderstanding.”
That, however, was what they did begin with. Griselda, her new shell hardening and tightening all the time, had supposed that now for certain she would be spending the night alone, and an uncertain number of future nights, until (she surmised) she broke down in health or espoused a good cause. But, instead, Kynaston almost immediately entered her bed and gave her ample and unnecessary proof that his hints of unease and inadequacy to the circumstances were firmly grounded. Things were not made better by a continuous undertow of implication that it was all to please Griselda. At the end, there was very little mystery left, and less wonder.
The Late Breakfasters and Other Strange Stories Page 25
