The Duke produced a fair-sized wad of paper from the pocket of his waterproof, and, at a sign from Mrs. Hatch, Monk raised an umbrella. Pamela, who disliked poetry, had seated herself upon a wheelbarrow, where she rocked backwards and forwards quietly moaning. George Goss simply walked off towards the house. Shortly they all heard him being sick among the bushes. The Duke took a step forward as from a line of Imperial Guards; Monk followed him with the umbrella; and the Duke began. Fortunately Mr. Leech had stopped sneezing, though he was beginning to look very wet.
Before the poem was far advanced, indeed during the first five minutes, the Duchess was weeping fluently; and by the time the final antistrophe was due, she was in an appalling state of dampness, though Griselda had been offering what comfort she could. Edwin, who clearly appreciated every word and nuance of the poem, listened throughout alertly, like one assessing its merits in a competition. Mrs. Hatch stood as to the National Anthem. The Duke read remarkably well, in full and expressive accents of passion and woe. Griselda wondered whether he too had been trained by Moissi. At the end there was an extremely long silence, though Pamela could be heard grunting miserably in the rear. The heavy rain was making the vapours rise from the newly strewn manure.
Now it was time for the committal. The Duke clicked his heels and passed the coffin to Edwin, who, his features distraught with fellow feeling, transferred it to Hammersmith. The hole was very much too big (it was impossible to resist the idea that Hammersmith had postulated some larger occupant); and had been filling for hours with surface water. Before Mrs. Hatch could stop him, however, Hammersmith had hurled the coffin into the grave, splashing and muddying the mourners from their hats to their shoes; and had raised his left arm, bare from the bole-like-elbow, towards the sky in a cosmic Niebelungenliedlike gesture. Instantly there was a thunderous salute, as a maroon, released at the signal by the garden boy (hidden behind some laurels for the purpose), tore apart the hopeless clouds until it vanished into the empyrean. Hammersmith’s face, neck, and shirt had been plastered with yellow subsoil from the grave, making him look more primeval than ever; but as Griselda averted her eyes, she saw that Mr. Leech had fainted. He was not so used to loud bangs as Edwin the night before had implied.
They returned to the house: Edwin carrying Pamela in his arms; and Mrs. Hatch and the Duke bearing Mr. Leech (fortunately a lightweight) between them, as Mrs. Hatch considered that Hammersmith had better fill in the vast grave before someone fell into it and damaged himself. The Duchess, distinctly more buoyant now that all was over, scattered the carnations in a wide circle round Fritzi’s resting place; to which Hammersmith returned a grimly abrupt acknowledgement, his rufous eyes rolling, his ropey muscles extending and contracting all over him as he shovelled.
“Now that little Fritzi has been laid to rest, can we not once more be gay?” enquired the Duchess in her curious interglossal accent. It was nearly 11.30. Edwin had carried Pamela upstairs; and Mr. Leech, his sensibilities revived by Monk, sat quietly in a corner drinking, at his own request, a tumbler of warm water laced with a dessertspoonful of brandy.
Mrs. Hatch was seen to hesitate.
“I usually tramp until dusk,” she said. “But today for your sake, Odile, I shall make an exception. I shall return for a late luncheon, if all of you are prepared to wait, and after luncheon we’ll play games. If that is agreed, perhaps, Odile, you’d be so good as to order luncheon for 2.15. Mr. Leech had better only have arrowroot. Come, Griselda; let us return to our elements.”
Though Mrs. Hatch walked very fast, Griselda, used to long lonely walks almost since childhood (for conditions at home had tended both to drive her afield and to compel her to solitude), was perfectly able to keep pace with her. Mrs. Hatch, moreover, had been right about walking in the rain. A proper costume made all the difference (just as Louise had said). Whatever else Griselda thought of her hostess, she would always owe to her the introduction to a new pleasure, which was more than was usually owed to anyone. As they walk through the lanes (some of them in process of development into the avenues of a new housing estate), Mrs. Hatch cross-examined Griselda about her life and Griselda schemed to find out more about Mrs. Hatch. Neither was particularly successful, but each returned home with increased respect for the other, and a glow of joyous struggle. Griselda re-entered the house warm and dry, hungry and happy; also muddy to the tops of her boots, and healthy to the roots of her hair. She felt equal to anything: to Louise’s love; or, contrariwise, even to an afternoon of organized playfulness.
On the doorstep they met George Goss, still wearing his horrid blanket and untidy bonnet, but green as a chameleon on a faded billiard-table.
“I say, Melanie, will there be a chemist in Hodley who’s open on Sunday?”
Mrs. Hatch, pushing out health and unbuttoning her tunic, took in the seedy figure of her distinguished guest.
“Nonsense, George, you don’t want a chemist. Six or seven mugs of cold water will flush you much more cleanly. Besides how are you going to reach Hodley? If you walk it, you won’t need any other remedy.”
George Goss shuddered all over. Then he said, “I was going in Leech’s car.”
“I didn’t know that Leech was leaving us?”
“Cabinet Meeting or something. As if I care. But his car’s due any minute.” He spoke quasi-sotto-voce.
Lurking about the hall were four strange doughty-looking men in ready-made tweeds. Mr. Leech, wearing an overcoat and hat of the type favoured by important public figures, was seated on a hard chair in their midst, his official despatch-case, his botanical vade-mecum, and a large Gladstone bag on the floor at his feet. As Mrs. Hatch entered, he rose and came towards her, looking his most imposing.
“It is as Mr. Goss says, Mrs. Hatch. My hand is immediately and unexpectedly needed on the rudder of state. Now that we are subject to a Coalition, such sudden calls must, I daresay, be expected of us all.”
“Who are these men?” asked Mrs. Hatch in a loud undertone.
“A foolish precaution deemed necessary by our new Home Secretary,” replied Mr. Leech. “One of Minnit’s people, as you will recall. For my own part I should not only have preferred to take my chance, but should have insisted upon doing so. But it is necessary to tread softly in these early days, so I have subdued my natural inclinations.” None the less, Griselda thought, the Prime Minister appeared distinctly to have gathered confidence from some source or other.
“What about lunch before you go? Your arrowroot? After your misadventure, it would hardly be prudent to travel underfed.”
“Thank you, Brundrit was good enough to lay me out some brawn,” replied the Prime Minister a little stiffly, “and I helped myself to a couple of Abernethy biscuits. I am too old a campaigner, you know, to require more.”
A large black car had driven up outside. It was visible through the open front door. A footman dismounted and stood in the doorway holding a camel-hair rug. Griselda noticed that he carried two pistols in holsters attached to his belt. The pistols were large and old-fashioned, and made him look like a pirate.
“I’m sorry you have to leave so suddenly,” said Mrs. Hatch, “but Griselda and I will see you off. As for you, George, you’d better go and lie down.”
“Lying down only makes me vomit,” said George. “I’d have you know I’ve a headache.”
“Griselda knows about those things and may be able to help you,” said Mrs. Hatch. “All in good time. Do you think you have everything, Mr. Leech?”
Griselda liked as little as ever the look on George Goss’s face; and she turned to bid the Prime Minister adieu. Mr. Leech had made for the door with an unusually determined step, almost amounting, indeed, to a stride. In many ways he seemed a changed man. His henchmen had taken up positions from which the entire scene could instantly be raked with gun-fire.
“Good-bye,” said Mr. Leech, smiling gravely. “And thank you. I know nowhere which offers such peace as the rose garden at Beams.”
“It is ever and again to the ample silent things of life that we return for renewal,” continued Mr. Leech, his eye searching the watery clouds from under the brim of his important-looking hat. “But too soon we are recalled by the reveille of duty.” A few big drops of rain fell from his hat on to the astrakhan of his lapels.
“Too soon, indeed,” replied Mrs. Hatch. She began to rebutton her tunic. There seemed no knowing how long this might continue.
Griselda realized that she had greatly grown since she had first set eyes on Mr. Leech two days before.
“Good-bye,” said Mr. Leech again, suddenly pulling himself together and smartly returning the chauffeur’s salute. “Good-bye, Miss de Reptonville.” Griselda remembered that success in public life is dependant upon remembering people’s names.
“Good-bye, Mr. Leech.”
The Prime Minister set aside the proffered camel-hair rug.
“Thank you, no. Not on this occasion.” The atmosphere was heavy with the crisis and the coalition as well as with the damp.
Mr. Leech took his place beside the musket; the footman beside the driver. There was a moment’s uncertain silence as the four bodyguards whispered among themselves, in the manner of Becket’s murderers. Then one of them without a word opened the car door and, seating himself next to Mr. Leech, manned the lethal object. He fiddled about with the mechanism like a wood-wind player tuning his instrument. The weapon still pointed directly at Griselda.
In the moment the car started Mrs. Hatch cried out, “What shall I do about Austin Barnes?”
It was no good. Already the Prime Minister’s eyelids were drooping into slumber. Mr. Leech had been having a strenuous time of it.
“It’s all very well, but what am I to do about Austin?” Mrs. Hatch seemed seriously to be seeking Griselda’s advice.
“Everything’s in order, Mrs. Hatch,” said Edwin’s voice in the doorway. “I deeply regret to say that Austin Barnes has felt it his duty to offer the Prime Minister his resignation.” The moist air wafted the distinctive perfume of Pamela, heavy on Edwin’s black suit, the very essence of fashionable mourning.
“Resigned?” It was a cry from Mrs. Hatch’s heart.
“Quite resigned.”
“I must go to him.”
“I think that would be best. The Prime Minister asked me to tell you after he had gone; and to apologize on his behalf for his inability to tell you himself. He was sure you would understand that the emotion involved was too much for him at the present time.”
Without a word, Mrs. Hatch had re-entered the house.
“Permit me to escort you.” Edwin, who had not risked getting wet a second time in the same morning, also disappeared into the gloom within. The three surviving murderers had previously likewise vanished, their grim countenances set for food from Mrs. Hatch’s groaning granaries.
Griselda was left by herself waiting for luncheon in the rain she had learnt to love. Before going in, she put back her hood and raised her face towards the discouraging heavens. She was startled to see the head and shoulders of Louise projecting from an upstairs window. She was wearing a perfectly white mackintosh. There was no knowing how long she had been there. She threw Griselda a kiss with one hand and a letter with the other. Then she withdrew indoors, shutting the sash window with a marked slam.
Overwhelmed, Griselda looked at the letter. On a thick sheet of deckle-edged hand-made writing paper, it had been folded and sealed, in the fashion of the days before Sir Rowland Hill, with a big medallion of bright yellow wax. It was superscribed simply “Griselda” in black ink and a large well-proportioned hand artistically simplified. Letting the heavy rain uncurl her hair, Griselda split the seal and unfolded the letter. In such a hand there was not room for many words upon a single side of a sheet of handmade paper.
“Never forget, dear dove, that the sky into which you soar is full of falcons and that falcons fly higher than doves. As I listen, your heart is softening towards the falcons. Beware of the falcons! They not only kill: they disfigure. Their nests are matted with blood. The streets and fields are filled with bodies whose vitals the falcons have eaten. The falcons eat only the hearts, the brains, and the livers of their prey; whom, bored, they then return, like bottles, Empty. The Empties clutter our lives: they break easily, and becoming worthless become also dangerous.”
The letter ended with a single tender sentence which made Griselda very happy. Though dated it was unsigned. Raindrops, like tears, were beginning to spoil it. Griselda put it into a pocket of her borrowed mackintosh.
“We are waiting.”
Mrs. Hatch had reappeared in the doorway. Some time must have passed, for she had changed into a skirt. Griselda, though extremely hungry after her walk, had forgotten about luncheon. There was no knowing how long Mrs. Hatch had been standing there.
“I’m so sorry. You’ve taught me to enjoy rain. I’ve been enjoying it.”
She thought that Mrs. Hatch’s expression was equivocal and, for some reason, not very likeable.
“You need to take proper precautions.” Griselda raised her hand to her head and realized that her hair had become very wet. “If you don’t mind us starting to eat without you, I think you’d better go upstairs and dry yourself.”
Griselda entered the house. She opened the collar of her mackintosh. “How is Mr. Barnes?”
Mrs. Hatch glanced at her sharply. “I’m finished with Austin Barnes.” Something was obviously wrong with her: and presumably this was it.
Griselda wondered what to say.
“One of your oldest friends? Surely not?”
“Old and new, the world’s much of a piece,” replied Mrs. Hatch with intense bitterness. She turned from Griselda and entered the dining-room.
Upstairs, Griselda removed the heavy mackintosh and suspended it in the bathroom to drip and dry. After hours of it, she felt so underclad without it that she more clearly understood how little related to any consideration of utility is the quantity of clothes people wear. She towelled her short curly hair into a bewitching disarray. She put on a red pullover. She would have liked to remove her boots, but time pressed.
She descended to an extremely late luncheon. From inside George Goss’s bedroom came an intermittent soft mooing as of a cow in her last labour before retirement from maternity. Griselda realized that her period of communion with the rainfall had among other things spared her from having to hold George Goss’s sick head and necessary basin.
The party for luncheon was indeed depleted, in spirit more than in number. George Goss and Mr. Leech were absent; and Pamela should have been, for she had contrived to contract a most unpleasant cold. Despite this malady and the inappropriate weather, she had refused in any way to wrap up, but sat sniffing and sneezing in a delicate eau-de-nil crepe-de-chine blouse, sleeveless and conspicuously open at the throat. It was noticeable that Mrs. Hatch had apparently now washed her hands of all responsibility for Pamela’s welfare and happiness. Even Edwin had seated himself as far as possible from the source of infection, where he was discoursing, as Griselda entered, upon the subject of the main item in the next St. James’s News-Letter.
“We all found ourselves in complete agreement,” said Edwin, “that an attempt must be made—on a world scale, needless to say—to vitalize the inner life of the working man. Happily the means came at once to hand. That very same evening I spoke of the need to the wife of a certain Polish Prince, a woman having great wealth of her own—invested outside Poland, of course: who at once suggested that the answer was a film, but of an entirely new type, not a specifically religious film, you understand, but a film aiming in the same general direction though stated in contemporary terms, a film that would really penetrate through the top-dressing of propaganda and take root in the wholesome soil beneath.”
; “So to speak, a non-religious religious film?” suggested the Duchess helpfully.
Mrs. Hatch, Griselda noticed, was really looking very sour indeed: almost baleful.
“You might, I suppose, put it like that,” said Edwin rather doubtfully. “At least in sophisticated society such as this. Anyway, the Princess (I am sorry I cannot tell you her name, but she particularly wishes to remain entirely nameless in this matter, which she conceives in the light of a high spiritual duty), the Princess is not only prepared to arrange finance for the whole project, but actually has access to an entirely suitable director for the film, a man who treats the cinema almost as if it were a true medium for art. The Princess has assisted in the birth of many of his past productions, and has often been very close to him in a number of different ways. She told me that the two of them together could do things that neither of them could do apart. It is true that the man’s a Galician Jew, but the Princess says he has more of the real thing in him than any other Christian she’s ever met. And, after all, it’s her money,” concluded Edwin, descending to the world of fact.
The Late Breakfasters and Other Strange Stories Page 11