The Late Breakfasters and Other Strange Stories

by Robert Aickman

  “What about poor Mr. Leech?” Edwin’s lack of concern seemed inconsistent with his usual attitude to Cabinet Ministers.

  “He’ll be better soon. One becomes used to these things in politics.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “They’re all to the good really. They bring the sediment to the surface so that it can be skimmed off instead of seeping all through society.”

  “How did they get in?”

  “In the B.B.C. van. This is going to take a long time.” The queue was advancing at a pace so irksome to the ravening guests that, here and there, some of them had to recall to others the conventions of behaviour. “If you’ll excuse me for just a single minute, I’ll see if something can be done.”

  With a precise movement Edwin replaced Griselda’s arm by her side, then disappeared out of the ballroom and into the passage, leaving her alone in the queue. Shortly afterwards he returned.

  “I’ve made arrangements.”

  Ignoring the queue, he took Griselda into a little book-­lined study, where the Duke and Duchess, together with a group of elegant people Griselda had not met, were eating and drinking in privacy. Everybody was speaking German, in which language Edwin immediately gave every appearance of being word-­perfect, though Griselda could not be sure. He conversed animatedly with her, every now and then throwing out a remark in German to the others; and looked after her needs with delightful punctiliousness. She was introduced to the strangers, who made her welcome in broken English, and complimented her upon her mask. The Duchess, radiant in her tight dress, kept a kindly eye upon her welfare. Though Griselda understood little of the general conversation (Edwin was discussing the year’s books with her), the atmosphere was friendly and delightful. Griselda had become very hungry in the night air. She ate happily, and drank luxuriously from a glass with a hollow stem.

  Suddenly the Duchess cried out in her attractive voice, “Shall we have a game?” She had been speaking German so much as a German does, and now spoke English so much as does an Englishwoman long married to a foreigner and resident abroad, that Griselda was at a loss to decide her nationality, whether English, German, or Ruritanian.

  Conversation ceased and there were guttural cries of assent. They all seated themselves round a large polished table and the Duchess explained to Griselda the rules of an extremely simple card game. They began to play. The game was neither dependant on chance nor exigent of skill: it demanded a degree of intelligence which Griselda, in the circumstances, found perfectly appropriate and delightful. The language difficulty seemed strangely to vanish once they were all immersed, giving Griselda a dreamy illusion of brilliant communicativeness. Small sums of money continually passed, the women every now and then turning out their gay evening handbags for change. Edwin continued to ply Griselda with champagne, nor were the other players backward in drinking. From time to time Griselda wondered what was becoming of the dance, but decided that if the others were unconcerned, she would be unconcerned also. It had been obvious that the main business of the evening was over by the time she had left the ballroom.

  No one had interrupted them, but, at the end of a round, suddenly one of the men, a fair youth, resembling Lohengrin, said something in German, and, rising, locked the door. Several of the women (whose ages were unusually disparate), thereupon embarked on motions apparently preliminary to removing their clothes.

  Griselda was a little drunk, but not too drunk to observe that her new friends seemed unanimously to turn to some new pursuit upon a word from one of them.

  The women were wearing little and the present process could not last long. Almost before it started, however, the Duchess realized that Griselda, as a stranger among them and of a different nation from the majority, might wish to leave. Probably the young man, in making his proposal, had forgotten about her. But at a word, he unlocked the door, they all ceremoniously bade her Good-­night, and Edwin escorted her into the hall. The door shut behind them.

  Outside the little room it was cool and quiet. Griselda found that all the other guests had apparently departed.

  “I expect,” said Edwin, “that you must be ready for bed. Or can I do anything further?”

  “Nothing, thank you,” said Griselda, drowsy with drink. “You have been really very kind to me. I enjoyed the Duchess’s card game.”

  “I think the others have gone up already.” Edwin and Griselda were drifting towards the staircase.

  “I am sure they have. Good night. And thank you again.”

  “Good night, Griselda.” It was obvious that, in the most considerate possible way, he wished to be rid of her. She ascended.

  Even at this distance the air was loaded with the smell of the banked carnations in the ballroom. It had long since overpowered the smell of cordite.

  CHAPTER XI

  Griselda did not again see or hear of Louise until the following evening. It was a desert of time; and a desert with few oases. However, she had happy thoughts and bright, vague prospects: things often preferable to the presence of the being who inspires them.

  Back in her room she felt tired and contented, though her mask would not slip over the top of her head and the untying of the knot proved tedious. In the end, however, the labour was accomplished and the velvet strip lay on the dressing-­table before her, loading the air with the smell of Louise. Griselda sat resting her arms, looking at the mask, and thinking. How and when, she wondered, would the late guests return to their homes? How had Edwin, although still quite young, achieved welcome ingress into every single one of the world’s innumerable diverse sodalities? Was Mr. Leech alive or dead? What would become of her and Louise, once they had left Beams? Louise’s scent wafted strongly to her brain: more strongly than the faint vapours from the mask could account for. Either it was Stephanie; or it was Griselda’s first experience of a lover’s hallucination of the sense of smell. The memory of her ecstacy in the garden swept even fear from her.

  She put the mask in a drawer and soon she was in bed. Immediately she slept. There was no other sign of Stephanie; and the room and the night were quiet. Griselda dreamed of a posse of policemen dancing rapturously with the late guests.

  In the morning it was again raining. In the muddy light water slapped against the glass of the windows in frequent protracted spasms. Griselda looked at the wrist-­watch on the table beside her bed. Despite appearances, it was half-­past nine. There was no evidence that she had been called, but clearly it was time to rise. She lay for a moment remembering her happiness. She saw that there was a puddle on the carpet. The rain had been entering for hours through the window she had carefully opened the night before.

  She shut the window and dressed. She put on the clothes in which she had arrived, because she imagined that Louise would prefer them to the only other day clothes she had, those she had worn the day before. The silk blouse and linen skirt, though white and black respectively, which Griselda was sure would be taken as progress in the right direction, were far from warm. It was remarkable that such a morning could follow such a night. But the weather would surely deter Mrs. Hatch from the proposed walk of which Griselda retained an indistinct though menacing recollection. Griselda decided to put appearance before comfort for as long as the circulation of her blood permitted. She was sure that Louise would approve of this.

  Exactly as on the previous morning, Mrs. Hatch was seated at the breakfast table alone. She wore the same grey sweater. She was talking in an unusually low voice to Brundrit and Monk, both of whom were stooping towards her, one on each side of her chair.

  “Excellent,” said Mrs. Hatch, as Griselda entered. “You’re first again. Sit down and take some eggs.” She went on murmuring to her retainers. Griselda could catch only parts of sentences and thought it would be impolite to occupy her former breakfast seat next to her hostess. Taking two eggs, she proceeded towards the other end of the table.

  The conference ended with the retainers straightening up and walking away, one on each side of the lon
g table, looking remarkably gloomy, which came easily to Brundrit, but to Monk only with effort.

  “Whatever happens,” called Mrs. Hatch in her usual clear tones, “I cannot be kept hanging about in the house after half-­past-eleven. Everybody concerned must clearly realize that this is Sunday.” It was a fact Griselda had forgotten. Tomorrow she was to return.

  “I perfectly understand, madam,” said Brundrit, in his reverberating croak. “We shall see to it that everyone is apprised.”

  “Do,” said Mrs. Hatch. They departed. The room, for the first time in Griselda’s experience, was without a domestic to assist with the eating.

  “Good morning, Griselda,” continued Mrs. Hatch. “I should have said that before. Please forgive me and have some cocoa.”

  “Good morning, Mrs. Hatch.”

  “You are somewhat distant.”

  Griselda started; then realized that the allusion was spatial.

  “Shall I move?”

  “I think that would be better. Come and sit next to me, as you did yesterday, and tell me what you thought about the dance. Politics apart, I fancy everything went like a circus, do not you?” Griselda was transporting two eggs, one of them opened and liquid, a plate bearing a slice of bread and butter, and a heavy bowl of cocoa. Before she had time effectively to reply Mrs. Hatch continued: “You’re not very appropriately dressed. The clothes you were wearing yesterday would have been more suitable. You don’t mind my speaking practically? Your Mother wouldn’t be pleased with me if you were to go home with a streaming cold after our walk.”

  Griselda looked at the windows. A curtain of water cataracted down the glass, completely isolating the room from the grey world outside.

  “Are we walking in weather like this?”

  Seated next to her hostess, Griselda saw that today Mrs. Hatch was wearing a pair of waterproof trousers from Burberry’s and knew that the game was up.

  “You won’t take any harm if you wrap up, and if you’ve never walked in the rain you should take this opportunity of making a start. It’s enjoyable. But naturally you must not come if you would prefer not to.” Mrs. Hatch said this perfectly kindly, and without any intent to shame; and Griselda responded accordingly. She never had walked in the rain except reluctantly, uncomfortably, and under the stress of need; but at Beams she had already liked a number of things which she had not thought to like or had never liked before.

  “I’ll come if I can borrow some suitable clothes. When do we start?”

  “I usually start at half-­past ten. But today we’re burying Odile’s dog first. I’ve just been settling the arrangements with Brundrit and Monk. I don’t think we’ll get away much before an hour after the proper time. Still we must think of Odile’s feelings. We don’t usually call our guests on Sunday. As I’m not prepared to stay at home and entertain them, I think it’s only fair to let them sleep if they can. But today everyone’s coming to the ceremony. Except, unfortunately, Austin Barnes, who has been really not at all himself after last night’s incident. I have reluctantly come to the conclusion that Austin is no longer the man he was. It’s a pity, because otherwise he’d be coming with us. Many’s the hard tramp I’ve taken with Austin Barnes during the last thirty years. I cannot believe he’ll be much further use to the country if he’s really leaving me to go alone.” Mrs. Hatch seemed genuinely upset by the Cabinet Minister’s defection.

  “I expect he’s run down,” said Griselda sympathetically. “Perhaps he’s been in office too long.”

  “I’m very fond of Austin,” replied Mrs. Hatch after a moment’s thought, and gulping a draught of cocoa. “I’ve always been his inspiration, I believe; and through him I’ve inspired the course of events from time to time. Otherwise I prefer the company of women, in the main. They both feel more and have more common sense. So you gain both ways.”

  Yet again Griselda felt herself blushing; this time darkly and hatefully.

  “Though it’s rarely enough I find myself having anything much in common with anybody. Another egg?”

  “No thank you. I’ve had enough.” But suddenly Mrs. Hatch’s character had been enlightened to Griselda, far beyond anything Mrs. Hatch had actually said; and Griselda, to her surprise, did not dislike what she saw. It had been the same with some others at Beams, she realized. The dreadfulness of people was possibly a product not only of their isolation, but also of their community and likeness to one another. Griselda, while pitying and even liking Mrs. Hatch, felt curiously superior to her.

  No one else appeared for breakfast.

  “I’ll lend you a waterproof. A proper one,” said Mrs. Hatch, as she wiped her mouth. “I’ll send Mullet. The funeral’s arranged for eleven. In the shrubbery down by the large pond. Among the fruit trees. You’d better meet me in the hall, and we’ll go together.”

  It was sad to miss a possible chance of seeing Louise. But in a short time Mullet appeared in Griselda’s room with an enormous mackintosh and a pair of dark brown boots lacing to the knee.

  “Mrs. Hatch says will you try these for size.”

  Griselda inserted her feet.

  “Mrs. Hatch keeps all sizes for her Sunday walkers. But she’s good at guessing people’s feet.”

  “They fit perfectly.”

  “Will I help you lace them?”

  “I’ll be lacing all day if you don’t.”

  The boots were wonderfully warm. They supported Griselda’s calves in a manner which was new and unbelievably comfortable. She donned the vast mackintosh and drew the hood over her head.

  Mrs. Hatch awaited her in the hall, wearing a tunic and beret matching her trousers. Most of the other guests were also assembled, unbreakfasted and varyingly ill-­prepared against the climate. George Goss, who apparently had a really dangerous hangover, wore a shaggy dingy ulster, the bottom edge of which varied greatly in its distance from the ground. Pamela wore an allegedly protective garment more calculated to seduce the eye than to resist the rainfall. Even Mr. Leech was there, looking little worse than usual. There was a group of servants attired like refugees, and no more enlivened by the project before them than anybody else. Only the Duke and Duchess were missing.

  “Shall I go up and offer a word of encouragement?” asked Edwin.

  But as he spoke the bereaved couple appeared at the head of the staircase, contained in elegant waterproofs of Continental cut. The Duchess wore a small black velvet hat with a large black feather, a purple silk mackintosh and black Russian boots. A veil was drawn tightly across her face and knotted behind her head. Through it her features appeared completely white and her eyes very large. Altogether she looked most striking. Griselda recalled her very different aspect on the last occasion she had seen her. Clearly the Duchess responded with a whole heart to all life’s different occasions, however contrarily they might succeed one another. The Duke carried a cherrywood box under his left arm, presumably containing the deceased.

  “It will be a shorter walk in the rain for those of us who dislike getting wet, if we go through the ballroom,” said Mrs. Hatch in a loud firm voice before the Duke and Duchess had reached the bottom of the staircase. Possibly she wished to save her guests from having to grope for further unconvincing commiserations. She began to marshall the cortège.

  “Griselda and I will lead the way. Edwin and Pamela had better come next. Then will you, Mr. Leech, follow with George? Then Gottfried and Odile. The rest of you can follow after. Would you like Monk to carry Fritzi?”

  “Thank you, Melanie. He is light as feathers.”

  “Very well. Then I think we had better go at once.”

  They set off down the passage to the ballroom, their mackintoshes rustling in the silence, otherwise broken only by George Goss’s heavy breathing. Griselda noticed that the Prime Minister was carrying a club-­like walking stick. In the ballroom, which now looked depressing in the extreme, the Duchess, who was bearing up wonderfully, broke step and, crossing to the platform occupied the night before by the band, bore back a vast
armful of carnations, not as fresh as they had been but still far from dead, which she proceeded to carry in the little procession like a prima donna, her head sunk among the petals. Mrs. Hatch had opened one of the french windows, and the party entered the garden.

  It was indeed a dispiriting day: one on which it was equally difficult to believe that things had ever been otherwise or that they would ever be otherwise again. The party advanced up the soaking wet lawn and entered the group of trees. Griselda was surprised that the distance was not greater before they reached a large hole, surrounded with adhesive black earth rapidly turning to mud, beside which stood her elderly gravedigger of the night before, leaning on his enormous spade.

  “Is everything prepared, Hammersmith?” enquired Mrs. Hatch.

  “Ready it is, mum,” replied Hammersmith. “Ready since midnight it’s been. Ready and waitin’ for yer.”

  “Never mind about that now. Though it’s always best to do things in good time, of course.” She addressed the others. “There’s going to be a short ceremony. Will you all please gather round the grave? You too, Hammersmith. Don’t you go.”

  Griselda, encased against the elements, glanced round her fellow guests. Pamela’s teeth were chattering rather audibly. George Goss, who had augmented his horrible ulster with an antique cloth cap, resembled a dyspeptic bison. Mr. Leech wore an expression of extreme resignation. Edwin looked as if his mind were on other things. Mrs. Hatch, impervious to the rain and efficient as ever, looked trim and attractive by contrast with the rest. The aspect of the Duke and Duchess, as chief mourners, was such as to touch the heart of any statue. The aspect of Hammersmith, his vast muscles outlined by his soaking shirt, his red-­brown eyes glaring at the coffin, was likely to unman any young woman less resolute than Griselda in her new boots.

  “Proceed,” said Mrs. Hatch. Griselda, whose Mother went regularly to church, gravely doubted the canonicity of the whole affair.

  The Duke pulled his wide-­brimmed homburg hat further over his eyes and made a short speech. On his wife’s behalf he thanked them all for their attendance and even for their existence. When setting out for a weekend of joy with a lady beloved by all of them, their dear Melanie, they were unlikely to have foreseen an occasion to tragic as the present, and made so much worse by the weather. (At this point Mr. Leech was seized with a spasm of sneezing, which continued to the end of the Duke’s remarks. He sneezed inefficiently; giving on each occasion the effect of unsuccessfully attempted suppression leading to rising inner dementia.) Though only a dog the one they mourned was as dear to those who loved him as any prodigal son. He had been with them eleven years and now he was gone away. (Here Griselda heard the terrifying Hammersmith vigorously expectorate.) Where he had gone or whether dogs had souls like the rest of them, it was useless to speculate. In gratitude to them all for their sympathy, however, in particular to their dear Melanie for her gift of so sentimental a resting place, he had prepared a poem, such being the custom of his country, which he would like to read to them. He had to apologize for the poem being in German, but his Muse, not very ready even in her native tongue, was dumb in another. He hoped that most of them would have enough German at least to follow the general theme; and that the rest would appreciate that he was speaking from the heart. Here was the poem.