Pamela took the opportunity to retire upstairs. The Ellensteins, George Goss, and Mrs. Hatch were engaged in animated conversation about experiences they had shared in the past. Their memories seemed excellent; their relish for detail almost unlimited. No reason was apparent why they should not continue for days or weeks; and then start again at the beginning like a film programme. Necessarily, little attempt could be made to include Griselda. Though she did not much care for George Goss, she noticed even that he had ceased to look at her and was gazing instead at the Duchess’s fat but still not ill-proportioned legs. (He resembled, she thought, an inquisitive elephant.)
After about an hour and a half of it, Edwin returned and said that he had been having a really valuable talk with the Prime Minister upon the Indo-Chinese problem; and that Mr. Leech had made his tea of a biscuit or two he had brought from his pocket. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Hatch,” concluded Edwin. “I just couldn’t persuade him to leave his beloved roses.”
There were a number of cold dead crumpets on the occasional table in their midst, and some dregs of tea in the cups; but, Griselda noticed, the Ellensteins and George Goss had eaten the entire famous fruit cake among them.
“Thank you, Edwin,” said Mrs. Hatch. “I quite understand. You’d better go back and pump the old man until dinner time. We’re perfectly happy without you.”
“I’m sure you’re divinely happy every single hour of the day, Mrs. Hatch,” replied Edwin. “But I must admit I should be glad to have the true story of the railway strike. I have a great responsibility to my readers. They do trust me so completely.”
He was gone.
“Is there a railway strike?” asked Griselda. “I didn’t notice it.”
But the Duchess was recalling the night the four of them (and several others) started a bonfire in Leicester Square.
“Do you remember?” said the Duchess. “It was Austin Barnes’s idea.”
CHAPTER III
Dinner was not until 8.30; but Pamela gave the impression of having spent the entire interminable interim changing for it. Griselda, plainly debarred for tonight from the coffee-coloured taffeta, had put on her other dress, of pinkish organdie and very nice too; only for Pamela to make it immediately though silently obvious to her that the proper style for the occasion was that followed by herself, a blouse and long skirt. Mrs. Hatch, when she appeared was similarly dressed; as, to Griselda’s complete dejection, was the Duchess, who came down last, skilfully made-up, with the Duke in a beautifully fitting dinner jacket. Edwin’s dinner jacket was of very dark red velvet; and his rose had been changed by Mr. Cork for an even larger one in a more suitable colour. Mr. Leech looked rather nondescript by comparison.
“Where is Mr. Barnes?” asked Mrs. Hatch when they were seated.
“Mr. Barnes asks me to present his compliments,” replied Monk, “and to say that he is so fatigued that he has thought it best to retire completely to bed. I am to bring him a boiled egg later.”
“There is nothing the matter with Mr. Barnes, I hope?” asked the Duke anxiously.
“I understand nothing, your Highness. Mr. Barnes did mention to me that his present condition was nothing out of the ordinary. Shall I request Mr. Brundrit, ma’am, to serve Dinner?”
“Please do,” said Mrs. Hatch; and under the superintendence of a tall, wasted-looking butler, Monk and a pretty parlourmaid called Stainer served the most portentous meal Griselda had ever attended. There was paté; there were truffles; there was a sorbet. There was a blanc-mange-like pudding with angelica and an undertone of rum insufficient to offset the otherwise total lack of flavour; which in turn was followed by a savoury (called Tails in the Air), and a choice of stilton cheese or dessert, or both for those (like the Duke and Duchess and George Goss) who wished. There had been no alcoholic preliminary, but, accompanying the food, four successive wines and a liqueur with the wonderful strong coffee. Mr. Leech ate very little, but at the end brightened up enough to express a preference for brandy if any was available, and Mrs. Hatch joined him. Pamela found tongue enough to indicate her various gustatory preferences; though even then appearing to force out words like stones from her mouth, and as if each single word was a disgusting thing to be shunned when uttered. Griselda did the best she could, seated between the Duke, who occasionally said something paternal to her, and Mr. Leech, who showed little sign of the taste for young girls which Mrs. Hatch had plainly implied to be his; but by the end she felt a little sick.
During dinner there were more reminiscences. Griselda noticed that the endless stories tended to begin admirably and to hold out real promise; but after a time it always became apparent that there was to be no climax, point, or even real conclusion. The stories were simply long rakes, designed to turn over as many memories as possible. There was little nostalgia, however, about the reminiscing quartet, Griselda observed with pleasure; they all in their different ways seemed as full of gusto as ever, especially the Duchess, in whom gaiety seemed positively a normal mood.
Replete, they migrated to the Drawing Room; an apartment of which the faultless and spotless comfort fell just short of elegance. There were a rosewood grand piano of German make; a white mantel some way after the Adam Brothers; and a number of French eighteenth century pictures, well and harmoniously selected. The general colouration was pink; which, as it happened, excellently set off Griselda’s dress. There was a real Aubusson carpet, like the cloths of heaven to walk upon. All that fell short was individuality, and perhaps vitality, however controlled.
Edwin at once suggested bridge. Mrs. Hatch agreed with appetite; and the Ellensteins also volunteered. Mr. Leech asked if anyone would mind his sitting quietly in a corner with an excellent book he had found in the library. He then half sank into an elaborate illustrated manual of horticulture, sitting semi-submerged for hours, every now and then turning the volume round and round on his knees the better to penetrate the botanical detail. Griselda noticed, however, that much of the time his mind seemed to be wandering and his expression strangely blank. He turned the pages much too infrequently and irregularly. Occasionally he could be heard sighing, almost groaning. It was remarkable how little any part of him moved: even the occasional blink of his eyelids seemed consciously decided upon and consciously executed.
The Duchess being occupied, George Goss seated himself on a sofa upholstered in couleur de rose flowered silk, beside Pamela. Pamela immediately moved to an armchair next to Griselda; whereupon George Goss making the best even of adversity, placed his feet on the sofa where Pamela had been seated, and lay bundled together like a giant chimpanzee in a dinner jacket. He continued smiling blandly before him, and soon, without asking Mrs. Hatch’s permission, fired and began to draw on a huge inefficient pipe which had recently been presented to him by an admiring young woman. Later, again without enquiry of his hostess, he managed to reach a bell with his long arm, thick as the branch of a tree; and, when Monk answered, ordered a bottle of brandy to be brought to him with a syphon. Having appeased his thirst, he fell asleep and began to snore. Bridge had gripped the players into its own distinctive delirium; so that none of them noticed George Goss, still less Griselda and Pamela.
To Griselda’s surprise, Pamela, upon escaping from George Goss, spoke to her.
“Are my eyes all right?”
Griselda looked at them with conscientious care. As well as being large, they were yellowy-green and ichthyological.
“I think so. They’re lovely.”
Irritated with the familiar compliment, Pamela replied: “The mascara, I mean. It’s new stuff. Daddy brought it back from B.A.”
Griselda looked again. “It looks all right to me.” A question seemed expected. “What was your Father doing in South America?”
“You know that Daddy’s Chairman of Argentine Utilities. We practically own the country. You don’t use mascara much, do you?”
“Not much,” said Griselda.
“I can tell by the look of the lashes. You’re p
robably very wise.” The tone of the last observation suggested that the speaker thought the opposite. “Mascara’s frightfully bad for the eyes.”
“Like staring too long at me,” said George Goss.
“Shall we look at this together?” said Pamela to Griselda, ignoring George Goss, who continued smiling all over his face.
It was the latest issue of “The Sketch.” Griselda was not particularly interested, but something had to be done to pass the time, and Mrs. Hatch had told her to make friends with Pamela. Moreover, Pamela was used to getting her way.
“Where do you live, by the way?” asked Pamela.
“About twenty miles outside London.”
“I thought I was the only one to do that. But perhaps you don’t mind?”
“I haven’t much choice really.”
“Daddy thinks the country air’s good for me and Mummy. It’s hell having to motor out after parties and having no friends.”
“It’s surely easier to make friends in the country than in London?”
“It depends what you mean by friends.”
Pamela began to explain the scandalous circumstances and backgrounds of the various people whose photographs appeared in “The Sketch.” The explanations were rendered lengthy by Pamela’s lack of vocabulary; and complex by her lack of all standards of references beyond her own changing impulses. Griselda noticed however, that Pamela was as much interested in the financial as in the sexual history of her friends, and as well informed upon it; also that she appeared as strongly to disapprove of homosexuality as if she had been an elderly pillar of some Watch Committee.
When they had finished “The Sketch,” Pamela produced “The Tatler” from the same heap; and before she had finished explaining “The Tatler” (her opinions of various current plays and films being now involved, and of certain recent Rugby football matches at Twickenham), George Goss had ordered his bottle and fallen into a slumber, and the bridge players had entered upon their inevitable row. It seemed to be mainly Mrs. Hatch setting upon the Duchess (her partner). The Duke (though, of course, on the other side) loyally backed his wife (to whom, indeed, he seemed utterly devoted in every way), wheezing with exasperation and becoming much more Teutonic in delivery. Edwin was trying very hard indeed to smooth things over, so that the game could be resumed. When one expedient or line of argument was obviously unavailing, he never failed to produce another, surprisingly different. Griselda had noticed for some time that the partnership of which Edwin was one, seemed usually to win. The combatants stabbed their fingers at selected cards among the litter on the green topped walnut table.
Absorbed in an account of how well she knew Gladys Cooper, Pamela ignored the row as long as possible. When it became necessary almost to shout above the raised voices, she switched to details of the similar scenes which commonly attended the frequent bridge parties organised by her parents. “I can’t be bothered with the game myself,” said Pamela, “though I’ve quite broken Daddy’s heart by not playing with him.” An achievement of some sort seemed implicit in her words; a triumph of righteousness in some inner conflict. George Goss’s mouth had fallen wide open, but he was snoring less loudly in consequence.
Griselda looked at her wrist-watch.
Suddenly with a high-pitched squeal, the Duke had overturned the card-table, the top of which struck Mrs. Hatch sharply on the ankle. “We are misbehaving ourselves,” cried the Duke, “let us kiss and once more be friends. I appeal to your warm heart, Melanie.”
“I really think that would be better.” It was Mr. Leech who spoke. “Of course I take no sides in the matter under dispute. But I do warmly endorse the Duke’s appeal.” His finger remained fixed to a point in a large diagram of corolla structure.
Mrs. Hatch had lifted her long skirt above her knees, and was rubbing her ankle while the blood rushed to her head. “I think you’ve broken a bone, Gottfried,” was all she said. She certainly seemed more chastened than aggressive.
Griselda hurried forward. “Perhaps I can help. I’ve had a little first-aid training.”
The Duchess, absolved from offering succour beyond her competence, smiled gratefully at Griselda, and began carefully to attend to her heavy make-up. Edwin rushed to bring a cushion to support Mrs. Hatch’s back.
Griselda began to take charge. “May I remove your stocking?”
“Please do.”
Griselda undid the suspenders and rolled off the stocking.
“Nothing’s broken. But it’s an exceedingly nasty bruise.” The swollen place was already turning the colour of cuttlefish ink.
“If that’s all, I’ll say no more about it,” said Mrs. Hatch.
“Melanie, you are magnanimous,” exclaimed the Duke. “I knew you had a great heart.”
“You’d better put your leg up, and not take much exercise for a day or two.” Griselda placed the injured foot on the chair vacated by Edwin, who immediately ran to fetch another cushion, to place beneath the foot.
“My dear Griselda, what about the dance? What about the preparations for the dance?”
Griselda felt most strongly tempted to reply that the dance might have to be cancelled, when George Goss, whom she had not seen wake up, cried out:
“Melanie won’t miss the dance. Melanie won’t miss a dance when she’s in her grave.”
In some ways it seems uncharacteristic that Mrs. Hatch should be so fond of dancing; but all the evidence seemed to suggest that such was the case.
“I’ll be there, George,” said Mrs. Hatch. “Gottfried has failed to break my leg.”
“The idea!” said the Duke tearfully. “It was only a gesture for peace between us. My very dear friend.” He placed a plump hand on the shoulder of Mrs. Hatch’s evening blouse.
Pamela was reading about Longchamps in “The Bystander.”
George Goss lumbered round to look at the bruise. “It’s like the night Austin Barnes gave Margot two black eyes.” They laughed. George Goss subsided on a Pompeian red pouffe and sat leering at Mrs. Hatch’s expensive underclothes still visible inside her lifted skirt.
“Have you any liniment?” enquired Griselda.
“You shall apply it in my bedroom,” said Mrs. Hatch, rising to her feet and letting her skirt drop. She staggered and Edwin supported her. “You and Pamela shall help me to undress. The rest of you can stay here if you want to. Monk has gone to bed, but you’re at liberty to forage if you wish, so long as you conceal the traces from Brundrit and Cook, and don’t leave messes about for the mice. Come along, Pamela, you can’t read all night.” Reluctantly Pamela let “The Bystander” fall upon the floor. George Goss remained seated, but the others grouped themselves solicitously. “Good night,” said Mrs. Hatch.
The Duke clicked his heels. Edwin said: “There must be something I can get for you.” Mr. Leech said: “I am so relieved that things are not worse.” The Duchess kissed Mrs. Hatch on the mouth; then said to Griselda and Pamela: “I suppose I shan’t be seeing you two again tonight either,” and kissed them also. At the moment of Mrs. Hatch’s departure, George Goss floundered vaguely upwards; but his intentions had not been made clear before she had left the room with one arm round Griselda’s neck, and the other round Pamela’s. Edwin went before them and opened the door of Mrs. Hatch’s bedroom.
“Good night, Edwin,” said Mrs. Hatch, and he retired downstairs, having said Good-night to the girls in a tone which at once commended their charitable helpfulness and conveyed his own deep regard for them.
The bedroom was stuffed with clothes and lined with photographs, many of them signed ones of celebrities, with pleasant words of gratitude adjoined. A real fire burned in the grate, making the room close (the Dining Room and Drawing Room had been impalpably warmed by further space heaters). The single bed was white and simple. In the corner of the room was a large green safe.
Pamela’s assistance proved fairly useless. Not only had she become silent once more, but she more than once knocked something over, and even tore Mrs. H
atch’s slip while trying to extricate her from the garment. Not unreasonably, Pamela seemed to fear the effect of the heat upon her complexion, and carefully kept away from the large fire. Griselda could have wished for the presence of Louise, that expert in putting on clothes: but in the end, and despite Pamela, inserted Mrs. Hatch, masterful to the last, into her pyjamas, and was rubbing her leg as she lay sprawled on the bed. Pamela was now yawning ostentatiously.
Griselda rubbed diligently for what seemed at least ten minutes.
“That’ll do,” suddenly said Mrs. Hatch, and began to roll down her pyjama leg. But I may want you to do it again tomorrow.”
“I shall be dancing,” said Griselda, almost maliciously. The exertion and the rubbing against the bed had not improved her beautiful fragile dress.
“So you will. But I expect you’ll be back for tea. People usually are. Tea at Beams is a daily event, you know. You can massage me, if necessary, between tea and dinner. I usually lie down before a dance anyway.”
“I’m not really a masseuse, you know. It’s quite easy to do the wrong thing, I believe.”
“You won’t do the wrong thing. Would you please give me my book? Over there on the banker.”
In the corner of the room was a big cabinet, with long shallow drawers.
Griselda brought the book. It was entitled “Warlock on Comparative Agriculture.” Mrs. Hatch was hanging from the other side of the bed and opening the door of the commode, apparently to confirm the presence of its contents. It was a distance to stretch and Mrs. Hatch, at the very end of her reach, had to shut the door with a slam.
“Thank you, my dear Griselda, for all your help.”
Griselda smiled.
Mrs. Hatch opened the book at page 601. Griselda was about to say good-night and depart, when Mrs. Hatch looked up.
“Pamela is very pretty isn’t she?”
Griselda started. It was an extraordinary thing but she had not noticed Pamela’s departure.
“Where is Pamela?” Griselda felt she must be very tired to be so unobservant.
The Late Breakfasters and Other Strange Stories Page 3