The Late Breakfasters and Other Strange Stories

by Robert Aickman

  She lightly touched Griselda’s hand, swiftly looked her over, and led the way without speaking to a reserved table.

  “Is it true?” Her voice seemed to Griselda softer and more stirring than before she left England.

  “Which particular thing?”

  “That Geoffrey loves Lena, of course.”

  “In a way.”

  “The only way?”

  The waiter brought Lotus a large menu. Lotus, without consulting Griselda, ordered at length for both of them in rapid convincing French. The waiter, who was a Swede, departed much impressed.

  “Saves misunderstanding,” said Lotus. “But you haven’t answered me.”

  “Is it necessary? You seem to know.”

  “Of course I know. Of course it’s not necessary. Things like that are always true. I knew it inside me. But I wanted to hear you say it. I needed to touch bottom.” Two very large small drinks arrived.

  “All the same how did you know? Does Geoffrey write to you?”

  “Write to me! He never even thinks of me! Never once since I went away.”

  “Have you been in Sfax all this time?”

  “Sfax failed me.”

  “Where else have you been?”

  “Twice round the world.”

  Mussels arrived.

  “I wish I had been once round.”

  “The world’s become very crowded.” She was consuming mussels with enviable grace and firmness. “I’ve been in Johannesburg for the last six weeks. Buying clothes and buying men. Then throwing them away again. I couldn’t go back to Sfax while the hot weather lasted.”

  “I thought Sfax was always hot.”

  “It’s still hotter during the hot weather. After what you’ve told me I leave again tonight. I’m living on Victoria Station, you know. I sit all day at my window watching the boat trains and wishing myself beneath their wheels.”

  “You mean you still love Geoffrey?”

  “He is my god. I know that now.”

  “Take him with you Lotus.”

  “Please don’t laugh at me.”

  “He’s yours. I don’t want him and nor does Lena. Take him.”

  “You offer to sacrifice your whole life to my great love? You are pure, Griselda. You will go to heaven.”

  Coquilles arrived. Two each.

  “Of course, I’m not sure that he’ll go. He’s become a little set in his ways.”

  “What am I now? Tell me, Griselda, where should we go, he and I? If I accept your sacrifice, that is. I feel you know both our hearts. Tell us where we should be happy.”

  “I don’t think Geoffrey’s good at being happy. Men aren’t, do you think?” The shells were rattling about on Griselda’s plate, making a noise like dead human hopes.

  “Then we’ll be splendidly, radiantly miserable. But where?”

  Griselda considered the maps of the continents in her school atlas. Australia, of course, was out of the question.

  “I suggest the Isle of Wight. I’ve never been there, of course; but I believe it’s full of picturesquely wicked people.”

  “An island!” cried Lotus. “Like George Sand. And Geoffrey likes Chopin. He could play mazurkas to me. We could throw away our clothes and dance. And aren’t there coloured cliffs?”

  “And a Pier. It’s nearly a mile long.”

  “And great birds flying into the sun.”

  “And palm trees.”

  “There were palm trees at Sfax.”

  Before the arrival of the bouillabaisse it was settled.

  “Where is Geoffrey?” asked Lotus. “I must find him immediately. The Grosvenor’s gone and let my room to a party of nuns.”

  “I’ll take you. He’s still with the Orinocans. There’s a reception this afternoon. The President’s in England.”

  Lotus’s eyes were misty and mysterious. “No formality, Griselda,” she said, clutching Griselda’s hand across the table. “Geoffrey and I will creep away like children; hand in hand into the dusk.” Griselda was fascinated by the solid banks of emeralds in her bracelet. They were so nearly the colour of her eyes.

  The Liberator’s birth-­place was en fête. All the windows were shut and fastened, and the lower ones additionally protected by closed iron shutters. There were swags and clusters of artificial flowers in the national colours; and a huge entirely new flag swirling in the November breeze which set the teeth of the spectators on edge with the chill foreboding of even worse weather inescapably ahead. Up the steps to the door was a red carpet showing even yet, and despite hard scrubbing, marks left by the blood of an earlier notability. Above the line of the cornice could be detected the glint and reassurance of steel helmets. The shivering crowd was laced with detectives, chilled to the bone and waiting for trouble. One or two common constables stood grumbling about their pay and working conditions. They were conscious of being outnumbered and outclassed. Preliminary entertainment was provided by a small brass band which was accompanying His Excellency on his travels. As a compliment to England, they played the same tune again and again, being the only English tune they knew except only “The Holy City”, which they had learnt instead of “God Save the King.” It was “Poor Wandering One”; and, what is more, no royalty was being paid to Mr. D’Oyly Carte.

  Lotus and Griselda arrived by taxi four and a half minutes before the climactic moment. Lotus ordered the taxi to wait, despite dissent from a section of the crowd which had been there since dawn and now found its view obstructed. Fortunately, however, the taxi-­driver was very old and queer, and fell into a deep sleep every time his vehicle became inanimate. Lotus was shaking all over with nerves. Her face was so thickly veiled as to be quite invisible in the dim taxi; but her sable coat scented the stale cold air with wealth and the anticipation of desire fulfilled. The taximeter was defective and appeared to be running downwards instead of upwards. Every now and then there was a little crisis, when a spring seemed to go; but each time the invincible machine recovered itself and recorded a sum smaller than ever. The watchers on the pavement went on complaining unpleasantly, but took no further action. Griselda found it impossible to withhold admiration for Lotus’s Johannesburg hat. Griselda herself wore a large black velvet beret, à La Bohème.

  “Where is he?” asked Lotus in a low voice, further muffled by layers of expensive veiling. “When shall I see him?”

  “I expect he’s inside. They may have lighted a fire as the President’s coming.”

  “When he comes out, what do you advise me to do, Griselda? I trust you absolutely.”

  “Wait until the end of the ceremony. Geoffrey usually makes himself some toast before he leaves. You can help him with the sardines.”

  “Will it be long?” Lotus’s lovely voice was throbbing.

  “We’ll see. Here’s the procession.”

  The common constables had been active and were thrusting people back behind invisible lines. Soon Lotus’s taxi was isolated. Griselda found it rather exciting. She supposed that Lotus and she must be taken for persons of privilege. Doubtless Lotus’s veil was responsible. She resolved to acquire a veil herself as soon as Geoffrey was off her hands. The watchers on the pavement could be heard expressing further resentment as they were lined up behind a huge pantechnicon which, having missed the diversion notices, was waiting for the crowd to clear, while the driver looked for a public house. The constables were quipping and appealing obliquely to the crowd’s common humanity in order to reconcile them.

  Then from the other direction a scout from New Scotland Yard roared into being on his splendid motor bicycle; and some way behind him came a funeral Daimler, bearing a tiny silk pennant. Without a sound the Daimler ceased to move; the footman opened the door; and, as the crowd cheered half-­heartedly, eight men alighted, in various different kinds of overcoat. Simultaneously the front door of the house opened with a deep clanking, as of heavy chains falling on to a deck; and Colonel Costa-­Rica in a pale blue uniform and a feather at least two feet tall, descended the steps to gre
et the First Citizen of his homeland. After a moment’s confusion, the band rushed into “Sheep may safely graze” which had been adopted as the Orinocan national anthem. Their performance would have been better if they had not been so unaccustomed to prolonged damp cold.

  Then Lotus gave a suppressed cry. Behind the Colonel, Kynaston had appeared. He wore a frock coat, which Griselda supposed must be retained by the Embassy for such occasions; a discreet rose in his buttonhole; and pale grey spats. He carried a silk hat almost as tall as the Colonel’s feather; but could have done with a suitable overcoat. Griselda was surprised she had not before noticed that he was gathering weight. He looked anxious but determined, as at other turning points in his career at which she had been present. Lotus clung to Griselda’s hand. Rapture made her speechless.

  Among the men getting out of the car Griselda recognized the Under Secretary for Foreign Affairs, a raw youth whom she had met at the All Party Dance. She remembered him as suffering from a conclusive impediment in his speech. Now he was followed by a tottering figure from his Department, and by the Orinocan Ambassador, who looked as pleased and as unchallengeable as if he had just captured the national meat-­packing contract (as was quite possibly the case). The Ambassador was accompanied by a Chargé d’Affaires, indistinguishable from Mr. Jack Buchanan, and by the Military Attaché, who, though a small man, based his style on Field-­Marshal Göring, thus being entrusted with as many personal confidences as professional. Behind this brilliant figure, appeared the chef de cabinet and the President’s aide-­de-­camp, the former somewhat younger than the latter, which was opportune as the two looked so South American as to make distinction between them otherwise difficult. Griselda would have expected the President to appear first, but, in fact, he appeared last; possibly in consequence of having been the first to enter the well filled vehicle. He was a commonplace stocky man, in movement staccato from years of watchfulness, and with a head like a small round cannon-­ball. His sharp nasal voice could be clearly heard, carried on the chill moist air as he addressed his entourage. He seemed dissatisfied with something. Griselda knew from Kynaston that he was of Irish extraction, a fact which he concealed under the name of Cassido.

  Despite the autumnal weather, Griselda enjoyed looking on from the sanctuary of the cab. Indeed she found many of the conditions perfect for witnessing a spectacle of the kind. It was almost cosy. Lotus, however, had begun to pant slightly, filling the enclosed space with delicate vapour filtered by her veil. Quickly, as Colonel Costa-­Rica was saluting, she lowered the window of the cab and, putting out half her body, ecstatically waved her handkerchief, executed for her by Worth’s South African branch. The draught in the cab was really appalling; and Griselda, more­over, was reduced to looking out through the unsatisfactory little panel at the rear.

  The cab being, like most of its kind, old and almost in pieces, the sudden frenzied lowering of one of its windows was audible above “Sheep may safely graze” and the fury of the President. The distinguished visitor still stood with his back to the saluting Colonel, so that Kynaston, waiting to be presented, permitted his attention to be drawn by the obtrusive clatter. Through her tiny window Griselda saw him go very white and drop his silk hat.

  Lotus uttered a cooing cry of reunion. The President, his round Irish face black with passion, had begun to wave both arms above his head and to jump up and down on the pavement. Then there was a shot. The Military Attaché, secure in his diplomatic immunity, was effecting a coup d’état.

  Griselda saw the President jump higher than ever. Clearly as yet he was little, if any, the worse. Kynaston was stooping for his hat, which had rolled down the red carpet. Then there was a second shot and Kynaston disappeared. By this time one of the common constables, who a second before had seemed to be standing a long way off, had covered the ground and, disregarding international law, thrown his arms round the Attaché’s middle. Colonel Costa-Rica, supposing all to be over with the Father of his People, continued at the salute. Then, looking much mortified, he lowered his arm as unobtrusively as possible. The President was intact, though in a worse mood than ever.

  History, or such of it as was under proper direction, related that a young foreigner privileged to work at the shrine of the Liberator, had had the honour of offering his life to save the life of President Cassido. Even a gringo, indicated history, was thus exalted after only a single meeting with the Liberator’s great successor.­

  Occasionally Griselda wondered, not without remorse and self-questioning, whether Kynaston had not preferred death to Lotus; but on the whole she was convinced that his end had been sadly but entirely accidental.

  To Colonel Costa-­Rica it is to be feared that the incident presented itself mainly in the light of another contest with an obstructive charwoman upon the subject of once more cleaning up that unlucky carpet.

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER XXXIV

  One day between Christmas and Near Year Griselda and Lena were dusting some of the stock. The shop had just opened. They worked along the upper shelves taking out the books one at a time, dusting their top edges, and replacing them. Every now and then there was a long pause while one or other of them investigated a volume entirely new to her.

  The door opened and a tall man entered in a Gibus hat and a black cloak covered with snow.

  “Good morning,” said Griselda from the top of her ladder. She had just been dipping into Pears’ Cyclopedia.

  “Please don’t come down,” said the visitor. “I’ll look round, if I may.” He removed his hat. He had curling black hair, parted down the middle.

  “Certainly,” said Griselda. “Won’t you take off your cloak?”

  “Thank you.” He looked up at her. He was very pale; with large but well-­shaped bones, and black eyes.

  “There’s a stand in the corner. Under the bust of Menander.”

  “I didn’t know there was a bust of Menander.”

  “It’s conjectural.”

  “Like so much else.” Griselda thought he almost smiled.

  He removed his cloak. He was wearing evening dress with a white waistcoat; and across his breast ran the bright silk ribbon of a foreign order.

  He hung up his coat and hat, and began to examine the books. He went along the shelves steadily and methodically, noting every title and frequently extracting a book for similarly exact scrutiny of its contents. Some of the books he bore away to Griselda’s desk, where he had soon built a substantial cairn. Griselda and Lena descended alternately to serve other customers. Many of them seemed surprised by the distinction of the stranger’s appearance.

  Before his circuit of the shop was three-­quarters completed, he came to rest by the desk. “Alas, I must go. You see: I am awaited.” He extended his hand towards the wintry morning outside the shop window. The snow clouds were so heavy that it hardly seemed day; but as Griselda followed his gesture, she saw that the dim and dirty light was further diminished by some large obstruction.

  “I’ll make out a bill and then pack up the books in parcels.”

  “Please don’t trouble. My coachman and footman will load them into the carriage.”

  He went to the door and spoke briefly to someone outside.

  A man of about thirty, with very long side whiskers, entered, and began to bear away armfuls of books. He wore a beaver hat, a long dark green topcoat with a cape, and high boots. Clearly he had been sitting on his box in the snow while his master shopped.

  “Don’t take them before Miss de Reptonville has accounted for them.”

  Griselda put some shillings in the pounds column and Lena slightly damaged the dust-­jacket of “The Light of Asia”; but both took care to display no surprise.

  “Ask Staggers to help you, if you wish.”

  “No necessity, sir. One more trip and I’ll finish. Staggers needs to hold the umbrella between the door and the carriage.”

  “Of course. Most proper.”

  Griselda, being unproficient at arithmetic, could only h
ope that the grand total could be substantiated. It was certainly the grandest total since she had entered the shop.

  The customer produced an unusually large cheque book from a pocket inside his cloak and wrote out the cheque in black ink. Griselda saw that the cheque, which was on a small private Bank previously unknown to her, bore the drawer’s coat of arms and crest. One glance at this last and she had no need to look at the signature.

  The customer was regarding her. “I received your Christmas Card. Thank you.”

  “I was grateful for your letter.”

  “Nothing would have pleased me more than to have been able to help you.” He spoke with much sincerity.

  An invisible hand lightly squeezed at Griselda’s throat.

  “I must give you a receipt.”

  She was unable even to stick on the stamp symmetrically.

  “Please introduce me to your friend.”

  “Of course. Please forgive me. Both of you. Lena Drelincourt. Sir Hugo Raunds.”

  Lena descended. She looked a little startled. Their visitor removed a white kid glove, more than slightly discoloured with his recent work, and put out an elegant and well kept hand.

  “I like your shop. I used to know Mr. Tamburlane quite well. I shall hope to visit you again. May I?” It was if he were a caller rather than a customer.

  “As soon as possible,” said Lena.

  “Lena writes.”

  “Of course. Her three books are by my bed, and I admire them more at every reading.”

  Lena went slightly pink and looked charming.

  “Good-­bye then, Miss de Reptonville.”

  Griselda took his hand. It was firm and dry and cool.

  She looked him in the eyes. “There’s no news?”

  “No news.” He still held her hand. “I hope I need not say I should have told you?”

  “No . . . I couldn’t help asking.”

  He said nothing for a moment; then silently released her hand. All the while he was returning her gaze. Lena was looking on flushed and fascinated.

  “All packed up, sir,” said the footman from the exactly right distance between the group of them and the shop door.