“We’ve only just ceased the central heat,” remarked the footman over his shoulder as he trudged before Griselda down one of the passages which radiated from the gallery encircling the hall.
Griselda noticed the gilded pipes at frequent intervals.
“You’ve got the Newman Room, miss.” He opened the door.
“Why is it called that?”
“Cardinal Newman used to sleep here when he came to stay.”
“Was that often?”
“Often, they say. To write his books and that. Mr. Cork’s got many tales of him. He’s our Head Gardener. You must get him to tell you.”
“I’ll remember. Thank you.”
“Thank you, miss.” He withdrew.
The Newman Room was large, square, well-lighted by windows in two walls, well-heated by a coal fire in a modern grate of patented design. Neither beautiful nor particularly ugly, it had recently been entirely refurnished by a contractor. It had no atmosphere whatever; of its eminent former occupant, or of anybody or anything else.
Griselda began to unpack. The drawers slid on stainless steel runners; the innumerable hangers in the wardrobe rattled together like the bones of a dancing skeleton. In the corner of the room was a cabinet, which proved to contain a shower, with a bath adjoining. Griselda turned the tap: the water cascaded downwards with terrifying force, far exceeding the capacity of the wastepipe in the floor. It was difficult to imagine anyone standing beneath that cataract and emerging undrowned. The water began to flow out of the cabinet and soak the bedroom carpet in a rapidly expanding black blot. Griselda rotated the tap (it seemed to be geared very low, she thought); but all that happened was that the downpour suddenly became scalding hot. A great cloud of steam filled the bedroom, like a geyser suddenly blowing off.
“Don’t mind my interrupting your bath,” said a firm voice behind Griselda’s back.
Griselda rapidly rotated the tap in the opposite direction. It was difficult to see who had entered the room.
“I’m Melanie Hatch. Just thought I’d say How d’you do?” With a spasmodic crash of plumbing, the water stopped. It was as if it had been intercepted in the pipe.
“How d’you do? I’ve heard so much about you from Mother.”
“How is she?”
“Still suffering rather a lot, I’m afraid.”
“Bad business about your father.”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Hatch was a woman of middle height, considerably more than broad in proportion, but very healthy and active. Her chestnut hair was excellently dyed; but it had never been very beautiful hair. She was the kind of woman whose appearance, for better or for worse, changes surprisingly little with the years. Her expression indicated that a deficiency in imaginative understanding of the problems with which she had been faced, was so far as possible made good by conscious will to face them. She wore an extremely well-cut and expensive tweed coat and skirt; finely made woollen stockings; and a grey sweater with a polo collar enclosing her large neck.
“Do go on with your bath.”
“I wasn’t really having a bath. It was just curiosity.”
“Well, have one now.”
“I don’t think I want one. I might have one tonight.” Griselda, as in the matter of her name, never lacked for spirit to resist attempts to order her doings.
“I shan’t be here then to talk to you.”
“I can’t talk and scrub at the same time,” said Griselda smiling. “I’m a perfect simpleton by your standards.”
Mrs. Hatch looked at her. “Do you mind if I sit down?”
“Please do.” Mrs. Hatch seated herself in a large Parker-Knoll armchair at the foot of the bed, and watched Griselda putting away her stockings and underclothes in the ample drawers all lined with paper which smelt of a specially perfumed disinfectant.
“You know your Mother fagged for me at Wollstonecroft?”
“She has always told me how fond she was of you. I hope you’ll go and see her one day.”
“Poor old Millie,” said Mrs. Hatch crossing her legs. “I easily might. In the meantime I expect to prefer your company.”
“Thank you,” said Griselda, hanging up her mackintosh. “It is very kind of you to ask me.”
“Not really. I can always do with young girls about the house. The great men who visit me expect it. It helps them to relax. I’m very calculating.”
“I see. I’ll try and do what is expected of me. It’s nice of you to ask me.”
“I’ve got Austin Barnes here this weekend. In fact he should have come on your train. You must have met him in the car.”
“I walked from the station. I couldn’t resist the weather.”
“So you like walking?”
“I love it. Particularly by myself.”
“You must come for a walk with Austin and me. We’re both good for twenty or thirty miles still. Austin’s an old flame of mine, you know.”
“I only know about his public life. And not very much about that. I didn’t know that Cabinet Ministers had any other kind of life nowadays.”
“As far as I’m concerned, Austin hasn’t. Though he’s still game enough, I believe, when circumstances are more propitious. But let me see your dress. The one you’ve brought for tomorrow night.”
“I haven’t brought any particular dress for tomorrow night. Should I have done?”
“Didn’t your mother tell you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“My dear. Millie must have told you about the All Party Dance tomorrow. It’s the main reason I asked you—asked you now, I mean.”
Griselda had not been told and the reason was clear. Griselda so detested dancing that, had she been told, she would have declined Mrs. Hatch’s invitation altogether, thus possible alienating a friend from whom Mrs. de Reptonville hoped for much.
“I’m terribly sorry. I don’t dance.”
“Why not? Are you crippled?”
Griselda felt disinclined to explain.
“Shall I go home?”
Mrs. Hatch considered the proposal for a moment. Clearly she was much disturbed. “No, no . . . No, of course not.” Then, taking control of the situation, she returned to her previous demand: “Let me see your dress.” She added: “I do think Millie might have warned me.”
With some reluctance Griselda took from the mechanized wardrobe one of the two evening dresses she had brought. “I must clearly tell you: I won’t dance.” The dress was made of coffee coloured taffeta and very simple. She held it up.
Mrs. Hatch seemed surprised. “It’s far too old for you, of course, but delightful. Where did you get it, if I may ask a plain question?”
“Nothing very distinguished. A friend of mine works in a dress shop. I think she has very good taste.”
“Improbably enough, she has. My friend Louise will help you put it on.”
“Thank you very much, but I don’t need help.”
“You don’t know how much Louise will do for you. I’ll send her along. Now then.” Unexpectedly Mrs. Hatch smiled.
“Yes?” said Griselda, unexpectedly smiling back.
“Before tomorrow night you must learn to dance. Oh yes you must. I positively owe it to Millie. In the meantime I’m glad to have met you, Griselda, and tea will be ready when you are. In the Hall then.”
And suddenly she had left the room, leaving Griselda rehanging her dress.
CHAPTER II
The party in the Hall had grouped themselves round an electrical space-heater, which raised the temperature of the atmosphere without anybody becoming aware of the fact. Mrs. Hatch was manipulating a vast and heavy teapot, apparently without effort. As Griselda descended the stairs, two men rose to their feet.
“This is Griselda de Reptonville,” said Mrs. Hatch, recharging the teapot from a silver kettle which must have held at least a gallon. “Her mother used to be my greatest friend at school. Griselda, let me introduce you: Pamela Anslack, you two should be great friends; George
Goss; Edwin Polegate-Hampden, he runs the St. James’s News-Letter, which tells us what is really happening in the world; and Doris Ditton, who lives in Hodley. Now let me give you a crumpet. There’s room for you on the sofa next to Pamela. You two must make friends.”
Griselda was rather regretting she had not put on her cardigan, but Pamela was wearing a slight (though obviously exorbitant) afternoon model and seemed perfectly warm enough. A wide diamond bracelet encircled her left wrist; a diamond watch, her right. She was indeed about Griselda’s age, but her perfectly made-up face was singularly expressionless, her dark hair like a photograph in “Vogue.”
She said nothing at all: not even How do you do?; and Griselda biting into her crumpet, stared with furtive curiosity at George Goss. The famous painter looked much older than he did in the newspapers; but his hair and beard, though now more grey than black, were impressively unkempt, his face exceedingly rubicund, and his general bulk prodigious (though augmented by his unyielding green tweeds). He drank, not tea, Griselda noticed, but something in a glass; probably brandy and soda, she thought, as it sparkled energetically. He drank it noisily; and even more noisily devoured huge sections from a lump of rich cake which lay on the plate before him; while he stared back at Griselda, delighting massively in the thrill his presence gave her. He was like a very famous hippopotamus.
Edwin Polegate-Hampden was discoursing upon the inside politics of Morocco. He had paused to greet Griselda with significant courtesy, even, it seemed, cordiality. About thirty-five, and beautifully preserved for his age, he was dressed equally beautifully in a black jacket, cut rather fancifully after a bygone sporting original, yellow trousers, a mauve shirt, a silk tie with large spots, and a beautiful rose from Mr. Cork’s smallest and private conservatory. His hair was treated with a preservative pomade from a shop in New York.
He resumed.
“But all I have been saying is of secondary importance. Quite secondary. What really matters is that the Atlas Mountains are entirely made of tin. You appreciate what that means in the modern world?”
George Goss nodded heavily, as painters do when interesting themselves in politics or sociology. Griselda looked bright and interested. Mrs. Hatch looked from Pamela to Griselda, and back to Pamela. Doris Ditton continued looking into her empty teacup. Possibly she was reading her life’s pattern in the leaves.
“The Sultan himself told me the inside story of the concessionaires. I won’t tell you the full details, but it comes down to a fight between Meyer Preyserling of Wall Street and a London firm of bankers whose name I can’t pass on. I’ve known Meyer for years, of course, and when I heard that he was interested, I at once flew over and had a talk with him. As a matter of fact, I stayed with him a week. To cut a long story short, he told me that Washington is behind him—secretly, of course, but up to the hilt; so that he has all the gold in Fort Knox to play with. Naturally the London people can’t compete with that. So you can take it that all the tin will go to America, as they can exchange it for gold. And that will mean new labour troubles in Bolivia, possibly even a revolution.”
George Goss nodded again. Mrs. Hatch was lighting a cigarette. Pamela, Griselda noticed, was one of those girls whose mouth is seldom entirely closed.
“So if you have any Bolivian investments, you’d better think carefully what to do. Of course, it may all blow over. The output from the Bolivian tin mines largely goes to Germany anyway, and I think the market may hold up for some time yet. But we must find out what the French are going to do about it all.”
“Why the French?” asked George Goss. His voice reminded Griselda of a porpoise.
“Morocco.”
“Oh yes,” said George Goss like an undergraduate convicted of inattention. Noticing that his glass was empty, Mrs. Hatch passed him a bottle, and added soda from a syphon behind him.
“I’ve an engagement to talk matters over with Derrière in Paris next week.” Edwin’s French accent was incredibly good. “Derrière is the one man who really counts in France at the moment, and, after all, the Moroccan business may easily end in a world war.” He subsided affably.
“Have some of our fruit cake, Griselda?” said Mrs. Hatch. “It’s one of our traditions. No other cake for tea but our very special fruit cake.”
“Thank you very much.”
“Have some more tea, Pamela?”
Pamela merely shook her head.
“You’re not sulking are you?”
Pamela shook her head again.
“What about you, Doris?”
“Thanks, Mrs. Hatch.” Pamela looked at Doris scornfully; Griselda with some curiosity. Edwin handed her cup with precise courtesy.
“You’ve had five cups already.”
“I’m afraid I’d lost count, Mrs. Hatch.” Doris was a pale little creature, with intermediate hair and wearing a cotton frock, obviously her best but somewhat crumpled.
“I just thought I’d tell you.” Mrs. Hatch had refilled the cup and Edwin returned it to Doris with pale hands.
“The arranging must have made me thirsty.”
“Doris has been helping with the preparations for tomorrow night,” explained Mrs. Hatch to Griselda. “The balloons haven’t been used for some time and a lot of dust had been allowed to collect. And that,” she continued firmly, “reminds me.”
“Must I?” asked Griselda, rather charmingly, as she thought.
“Would you believe it, Edwin? Griselda thought we could do without her at the dance.”
Pamela’s mouth opened another half-inch.
Edwin replied: “I do hope not.”
“I can’t dance,” cried Griselda a little desperately.
Pamela’s large eyes opened to their utmost.
“Please permit me to teach you,” said Edwin. “It would be delightful.”
“Thank you. But, as I’ve explained to Mrs. Hatch, I don’t really like dancing.”
“Let me teach you,” suddenly roared George Goss. “You’d like it well enough then.”
“Neither of you will teach Griselda,” said Mrs. Hatch. “It’s much too important a thing to be left to amateurs. You’d be certain to start her on entirely the wrong lines. She’s a job for Kynaston.”
“Who’s Kynaston?” asked Griselda fearfully.
“He’s a somewhat neurotic young man who none the less dances like a faun. He makes a living teaching dancing in Hodley.”
“Only until he establishes himself as a poet,” unexpectedly interjected Doris.
“Doris is in love with Mr. Kynaston,” explained Mrs. Hatch. “But it’s quite true that he writes poetry as well. Very good poetry too. If you spend the whole day with him tomorrow you should pass muster as a dancer by the evening.”
The project appalled Griselda, but to continue in her refusal seemed somehow gauche, and not only in the eyes of her hostess.
“Doris will speak to Mr. Kynaston tonight and you can go down in the car at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“And I very much hope,” added Edwin as epilogue, “that when the time comes you will give your first dance to me.”
Griselda smiled at him rather uncertainly.
“I wish Leech would come in. The tea’s cold.”
“Let me go and look for him, Mrs. Hatch.” Edwin had sprung to his feet and was making for the door.
Pamela was staring at Griselda’s uncoloured finger nails.
“And where’s Austin and the Ellensteins?”
Griselda supposed these to be the terrifying figures whose company she had evaded in the car from the station.
“Send Monk upstairs,” said George Goss. “Don’t look at me.”
“Doris,” said Mrs. Hatch, “would you mind ringing for Monk?”
Doris rose and rang. The footman appeared who had shown Griselda to her room. Mrs. Hatch despatched him to enquire after the missing guests. Soon he was back.
“Mr. Barnes asks you to excuse him, ma’am. He is lying down in his room. Their Highnesses are c
oming directly.”
“Thank you. We’d better have some more hot water. I don’t imagine their Highnesses will require crumpets, or Mr. Leech either. Though you never know.”
“No ma’am.” Monk departed with the vast kettle.
A fat elderly man was descending the stairs, followed by an equally fat woman of similar age. Both were immaculate; she in a dress younger than her years, in which, oddly enough, she looked much more attractive than she would have done in a more appropriate garment.
“This is Griselda de Reptonville,” said Mrs. Hatch. “The Duke and Duchess of Ellenstein.”
The Duke clicked his heels and kissed Griselda’s hand; the Duchess, even more to her surprise, kissed her lips.
“You two are late,” said George Goss. “Tea’s over.”
“For some time now it is during the afternoon that I make Odile mine,” explained the Duke, in a high gentle voice with only the slightest of accents, and that adding greatly to his charm. “We both of us find it best at nights to sleep.”
“I’ll look in tonight and see if Odile will change her mind.”
“We make love while the sun shines, George,” said the Duchess.
“Only during the wretched war have we missed a single day,” said the Duke, putting a piece of cake on his wife’s plate, and then taking a larger piece himself.
Monk returned with the recharged kettle, sustaining with difficulty his dignity and its weight.
“Bring Miss Ditton’s bicycle round to the front door, will you, Monk?” said Mrs. Hatch. “Now Doris, don’t forget. Mr. Kynaston is to set aside the whole of tomorrow for Miss de Reptonville’s tuition.”
“Tuition?” said the Duchess. “In what, my dear?”
“Griselda is learning to dance, Odile.”
“But that is impossible in England. I learned for years when I was a girl and not till I met Gottfried was I anything but a carthorse. Believe me, my dear, I was mad to dance, just like you, but you cannot dance until you love.”
Monk’s liveried figure passed the window pushing Doris’s rattling bicycle. She slipped away.
“It would be a weight off all our minds if Doris married Geoffrey Kynaston,” observed Mrs. Hatch.
The Late Breakfasters and Other Strange Stories Page 2