The Late Breakfasters and Other Strange Stories

by Robert Aickman

  “Thank you, Lord Roller,” replied Griselda, “but I don’t smoke.”

  “An excellent thing. I wish my position allowed me to follow your example.” He sat back watching her; his fine head reflected in the many photographs above the fireplace of past Permanent Secretaries to the Treasury, all of them signed, and many with warm words of greeting added.

  “I have not actually got a job in the Secretariat of Sociology. I’ve merely been offered one. You very kindly advised me against taking it and said that you might be able to offer me something—something better, I think—yourself.”

  “I recall our conversation perfectly, I assure you, Miss de Reptonville. A good memory is unfortunately required by the nature of my work. I say ‘unfortunately’, because it is seldom that I have anything to remember which is so agreeable as was our little talk.”

  “That is charming of you, but I understood you to say just now that you were unable to help me? I gathered that you must have found me a pest, after all.”

  “Not in the least, Miss de Reptonville. I found you a most engaging young woman. I still find you a most engaging young woman.” Lord Roller rotated his swivel chair and took a large cigar from a silver box on a table behind him. “Nor must you suppose, not for one moment, that I am passing any kind of judgment whatever. Not in the very least: I know much too little of the world to attempt any such thing.” He took a match from a little ivory box on his desk, struck it, and drew heavily but gracefully on his cigar.

  “But the offer of a job is closed?”

  “It would be quite inconsistent with the obligations I have accepted. I know you will appreciate that. I do not have to say that the matter is entirely impersonal. I am subject to various duties, which take many decisions out of my hands. Very narrow lines of conduct are laid down. For better or worse. I frequently think for worse. But now let us say nothing more about these particular matters. I am sure you will agree. Let us discuss something else. I have no other engagement, I am delighted to say, for the next ten minutes.” Lord Roller consulted his watch, a fine inherited repeater, and added: “Indeed, eleven minutes.”

  Griselda hesitated. Could her love for Louise be already such common knowledge? Had Lord Roller gone over to the side of her Mother? Was there a cabalistic communion, based presumably upon telepathy, between such all eminent personages as Mrs. Hatch and Lord Roller? Miss Guthers had seemed ignorant of anything amiss. Or was it because of knowledge that she had been so pleasant and agreeable? In any case a good private secretary was supposed to differentiate in her reception of the Recording Angel and of the man to read the gas meter, in degree only, and not in kind. Griselda began seriously to worry about her inexperience of Uncle Bear’s “real life”. But then her love for Louise seemed much more “real” than her obligation to Lord Roller. Repelling another onset of tears, Griselda reflected that unless she had a reasonable job by the end of the week, she would go to jail for debt, which would put society still more against her.

  “Lord Roller,” she said bravely, “I need a job. Suddenly I need a job badly. I have no right to bother you, but since we still have eleven minutes, or perhaps ten by now, I wonder if you can suggest anything? Or must it be the Secretariat?” Griselda thought of living in a loft with Louise. Tears, tears. Almost she wished that she smoked. Lord Roller had already made the room like a luxuriously aromatic engine house. The reek of his mammoth cigar deadened the nerves of even non-­smokers.

  “It will not be easy,” he said. His tone implied that his magnanimity in offering to say no more about Griselda’s offence (if that was what he was offering to say no more about), was meeting with insufficient acknowledgement. But even now it was uncertain whether his present remark alluded to more than the depressed state of trade, so alarmingly revealed in the Report; was more than an accepted and standard observation to job­hunters. “You may have to enter the Secretariat after all.” It was as if Griselda had to enter a convent for a course of spiritual rectification; even that being, all things considered, a lucky escape.

  “I should so much rather not.”

  “Naturally. But it is not in every case possible to choose. Often our present is decided for us by our past. I do not wish there to be any misunderstanding, however; any doubt that I am anxious to do everything possible. Though I should so much prefer to talk about the daffodils I noticed growing in the Green Park this morning, or the newest novel which I lack time to read, and can only read about.” He smiled: then expelled a cloud of smoke so dense and unexpected as to make Griselda cough.

  “I am so sorry. Let me ring for a glass of water. And we might have the window a little open perhaps, just for a moment.”

  “Thank you. I’m perfectly all right.” It was almost the sensation of crying again.

  But Lord Roller had already rung. Miss Guthers appeared instantly.

  “Could you possibly fetch a glass of water, Hazel? I have nearly choked Miss de Reptonville.”

  “Certainly, Lord Roller.”

  Again in an instant, Miss Guthers was back with a tumbler filled to the brim with water. Despite the speed of the transaction, not a drop was spilt; an achievement which Griselda found difficult to sustain.

  “Could you open a window too?”

  “The noise is rather bad today, Lord Roller. Now that it’s almost summer, it’s difficult to have the windows open. All the roads are coming up and the traffic’s being diverted. You can hear the hooting.”

  “None the less, please open the window, Hazel. Miss de Reptonville requires air. The Ministry of Transport has no business to repair the roads anyway, with the country in the state it is. Write a letter to Leech pointing that out and I’ll sign it. See that it catches the midday post or it’ll never arrive with the posts as they are now. You might even send it to Number Ten by messenger.”

  “The messenger service isn’t at all what it used to be, you know. Perhaps I’d better telephone Downing Street and ask them to send a messenger to collect.”

  “Please don’t trouble,” interjected Griselda.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The window. Please don’t trouble, I’m perfectly all right.”

  “That’s splendid.” Miss Guthers smiled encouragingly. “What about some more water?”

  “No, thank you. I still have more than half a glass. I wonder if we could possibly finish what we were saying, Lord Roller?”

  “Of course we can. All right, Hazel. Just let me know when Sir George arrives.”

  “Yes, Lord Roller. Shall I take your glass?”

  “Thank you so much for the water.” It was probably wise to keep on the right side of Miss Guthers, especially as Griselda’s last remark might have been interpreted as a dismissal and as presumption.

  “Well, Miss de Reptonville, you want suitable employment.” Lord Roller took a sheet of paper from a satinwood stationery stand which stood on the table with his cigars. He began to write. “An opportunity has occurred to me. It might prove to be the very thing.” He scratched away. “You don’t mind working out of London?”

  “I should prefer London, but, obviously, I’m in no position to choose. How far away will this be?”

  “Not far, you’ll be pleased to hear. Not far at all. Just the other side of Seven Kings.” He signed the document: a swift, driving, single name; then folded it and put it in an envelope. “No. On second thoughts, you’d better read it.” He withdrew it from the envelope and passed it folded to Griselda.

  The paper bore two or three sentences in a hand, dashing and sloping eagerly to the right, but not one word of which could Griselda read.

  She stared at the indecipherable words while Lord Roller stood behind his desk watching her and waiting.

  “I’m terribly sorry. I’m bad at handwriting. I can’t read all of it.”

  “Doesn’t matter in the least, Miss de Reptonville. Hardly worth showing you. Conventionality, simply; but I hope it does the trick. My fist’s got worse and worse, I’m afraid, with increasing ye
ars of service. Give me the thing back and I’ll pack it up again.” Griselda gave it back. “Just find your way to this address and they’ll take care of you.” He was writing on the envelope. “I’ll do it in capitals.” He smiled again at Griselda.

  “I feel I’m rather a fool, Lord Roller.”

  “Hardly worth employing, I’m sure.” He said this with the kindliest of irony. “There.” He returned the letter.

  Miss Guthers was back in the room.

  “Sir George, Lord Roller.”

  “Show him in, Hazel. And bring a lot of whisky. Better open a new bottle.”

  “Yes, Lord Roller.”

  “Good-­bye, Miss de Reptonville. I do hope I’ve been of some small help. Your position is difficult.” He extended his hand. “But whatever you do . . . don’t worry.” It was the last word on the subject.

  “Thank you for giving me so much of your time.”

  “I should so much have preferred to talk of the daffodils in the Park.”

  “Perhaps on another occasion.”

  He glanced at her.

  “I hope so.”

  Miss Guthers had rather to rush Griselda’s departure from the office, as Sir George could be distinctly overheard stamping like a thoroughbred in a loose box.

  CHAPTER XV

  Mr. Shooter, to whom Lord Roller’s letter was addressed, hardly even attempted charm; nor did The Bedrock Accessories Supply Company, her prospective place of employment, impress Griselda much more favourably. Even when with the assistance of Messrs. Arkwright and Silverstein’s outside porter, she had located Seven Kings, it seemed to take several hours to reach the place by train from Liverpool Street, so that on arrival she at least expected spring buds on the trees and skipping lambs. But Seven Kings seemed little different from the less attractive parts of London. It was now lunchtime but Griselda did not dare to eat; nor did there seem facilities, even had she dared.

  Mr. Shooter worked in an untidy office entirely walled with a special kind of glass. Outside, a press of some sort was noisily making accessories. Every thirty seconds it stamped something out; so loudly that conversation above the concussions was difficult, and hardly easier between them. Grinding and rolling mills made up a background evocative of the nation’s industrial effort. Mr. Shooter possibly found the general atmosphere of toil, stimulating; but as he was entirely bald, and rather yellow, it was not easy to say. The plywood door of his office bore the legend “Personnel Manager. Do not Disturb” in ugly modern lettering. Above his electric heater was a large framed reproduction of de Laszlo’s portrait of Lord Roller in the robes of a Baron.

  Griselda was shown in by a sniffing child, fresh from some Essex hamlet.

  “Maudie,” screamed Mr. Shooter, as the infant was about to depart, “I want some real tea, not this stinking slops. Get busy, will you, and don’t forget next time.”

  Maudie shuffled away.

  “Take the tray with you.”

  Maudie returned for the tray. As she bore it towards the door, she winked at Griselda. It was impossible for Griselda to wink back, even if she felt so inclined. The office door rasped along the floor every time it was opened or shut.

  “Well?”

  Griselda handed Mr. Shooter the letter. Mr. Shooter really did not seem an easy man to talk to.

  “May I sit down?”

  “If you think it worth while. Bring that chair over from the window. You can put the box of samples on the floor under the dictaphone.”

  “Thank you.” The box of samples was difficult to lift and tended to burst open.

  “Sorry. Can’t read this. What’s it say?” Mr. Shooter tossed the letter back in the direction of Griselda, but it fell off his desk on to the floor. “Sorry. You read it.”

  “I can’t read it.” Griselda had succeeded in towing up the rickety little chair. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s from the great white chief isn’t it?”

  “From Lord Roller, yes. Is this his factory? I didn’t know.”

  “One of his factories. He’s got twelve in Canada alone. This one’s only a sideline.”

  “What do you make?” enquired Griselda politely. “I’m afraid I’m very ignorant.”

  “Nothing but accessories,” replied Mr. Shooter. The fact seemed to pain him; but it was as if the pain were something he had learned to bear. “Let’s stick to you. What’s it all about?”

  “I understand from Lord Roller that you might be able to offer me a job. If you think I’m worth it, that is.” Griselda was far from sure that, even desperate as she was, she wanted to devote herself to making merely accessories.

  “You got that from the chief personally?” Mr. Shooter stared hard at Griselda. His eyes were like guns mounted behind slits in the yellow pillbox of his face.

  “Certainly,” said Griselda with hauteur.

  “Well, there’s one thing.”

  “What is it?”

  “Welfare.” Mr. Shooter’s eyes were keeping Griselda covered more ruthlessly than ever.

  “I might be able to help with that.” Griselda saw herself dressed as a hospital sister and wondered whether she could call upon the required amount of saintliness. At once she doubted whether she could.

  “Our last four welfare officers have had to leave us rather suddenly. Oh, personal reasons in each case. Quite sufficient. But now the job’s going once more.” He stared again at Lord Roller’s letter, which Griselda had replaced upon his desk.

  “Could you tell me a little more about it?”

  “Knowledge of people, that’s the main thing. Knowledge of the common people. The welfare officer must be guide, philosopher, and friend to every worker in the place. She must be able to get inside their minds. If she can do that, special qualifications are less important. There’s a bit of simple nursing, of course, and first aid, naturally. Have you a first aid certificate?”

  “Actually, yes.”

  “You have?” Mr. Shooter seemed surprised and impressed. He took a writing pad from the drawer of his desk and made a note.

  “Then there’s librarianship. Do you read?”

  “It’s my favourite thing.”

  “We don’t want a bookworm, you know,” replied Mr. Shooter, glowering. “Only the lighter stuff. Religious guidance is another side of the work; for those who want it. Mostly the young girls. You do that in co-­operation with Mr. Cheddar, the priest-­in-­charge. What else is there? Oh yes, help with games of all sorts, and advice upon the food in the canteen. Mrs. Rufioli superintends the actual cooking, gives the kitchen girls hell and all that; but the welfare officer has to see to it that the canteen expenditure doesn’t exceed the firm’s financial provision. I suppose you can keep simple accounts?”

  The figure of Mrs. Hatch and her terrible ledger recurred in Griselda’s imagination. “I think I can,” she said faintly.

  “The main thing is that the welfare officer must be on her toes morning, noon, and night. If she keeps on her toes all the time—and I mean all the time—the job’s not difficult to hold down.”

  Griselda looked at her toes. Whatever Louise might imply, she thought her shoes were rather attractive. She wondered at what point the applicant introduced the matter of remuneration. Mr. Shooter, his oration finished, had produced a rectangle of madeira cake on a plate from another drawer in his desk, and now sat crumbling it into debris, and stuffing untidy briquettes of the debris into his small round mouth. It seemed to Griselda an inefficient way of eating madeira cake. Meanwhile, Mr. Shooter said nothing further.

  “How much,” enquired Griselda tentatively——

  But Mr. Shooter cut her short. “The usual Rawnsley Committee rates,” he said with his mouth full. There was little difference in hue, Griselda observed, between the cake and Mr. Shooter’s complexion.

  “And hours?”

  “I think we’re adopting the Giddens Council recommendations, but the whole subject’s still in the melting-­pot. You’ve nothing to worry about, though. This is a modern factor
y, based on efficient time and motion study.” The banging press outside underlined his words. “Besides which, we go all out for welfare.”

  The door rasped and Maudie reappeared with her pale green plastic tray. The teapot was smeary; the cup, saucer, and milk jug discrepant. The sugar basin, however, was of the sanitary variety. Maudie had evidently resolved to seek re-­entry to Mr. Shooter’s favour by augmenting her allure: she had shaded her eyelids, cast off her cardigan, and assumed a mode of speech modelled upon that of Miss Myrna Loy.

  “Your tea, Mr. Shooter,” said Maudie, still sniffing. “Nice and strong.”

  Mr. Shooter looked up at her. “Thanks, Maudie,” he said, in almost cowboy tones. “Sorry I was short with you.”

  “That’s quite O.K., Mr. Shooter. We all know how hard you work.” It was difficult to believe that Maudie would long continue an accessory. In two years time, when she would be fifteen or so, she would be conquering new and wider fields. Griselda suspected that Maudie was precisely the type which brought welfare workers into existence and rendered their existence un­availing.

  “Now I must go into rather a lot of details,” said Mr. Shooter, imbibing strong tea, to Griselda. “Some of them are pretty personal, but there’s another lady present to see fair play.” Maudie had seated herself on a stack of unopened parcels. They appeared to contain Government circulars upon questions of personnel management.

  Griselda rose to her feet. “Please do not trouble,” she said. “I don’t think the position is quite what I am looking for.” She felt entirely regal as she swept from the room; the regality being modified only temporarily by Maudie emitting a long squelching sound through her incorrectly painted lips.