“I’ll fetch Peggy. She’d better hear the news.”
“Peggy frightens me, Griselda.”
“I expect we shall both find it difficult with the other’s friends, but Peggy’s got a right to know.”
If Kynaston had asked what right, Griselda would have found it hard to specify. But he merely said “I’d better put my shoes on.”
Peggy, however, proved to be already in bed.
“Everyone at the Ministry has got a cold. I don’t want to take an unnecessary risk.”
“Peggy! I’m going to marry Geoffrey Kynaston.” Griselda came very near to the tone in which such announcements are made.
“You said you weren’t the marrying kind.”
“I’ve changed.”
“Not at all. I never believed you. Remember? I hope you’ll be very happy, Griselda.”
“Thank you, Peggy dear.”
“I hope you’ll find in him all you wish.”
“Of course I shall. He’s in my room now. I hoped you’d be able to join us.”
Peggy smiled with irritating scepticism. “You can do without me. Just pass me down the bottle of Formamints before you go back to him, would you please, Griselda?”
“Is there anything else I can get you?”
“No thank you. I don’t know how you’re placed, but I could borrow my sister’s wedding-dress if you’d like it. She was just about your size when she married and I know she’s kept it for my nieces.”
There was something about Peggy, fond though Griselda was of her, which tempted to the outrageous.
“Thank you. I doubt whether white would be appropriate.”
But Peggy only smiled and said “That’s for you to say.”
CHAPTER XXIX
A special licence proved unnecessary, but there were difficulties of domicile, and it seemed that for the ceremony the only day convenient to all parties (but especially to the Registrar) would be Christmas Eve. Questioned as to his religion, Kynaston stated that he was loosely attached to the Baha’i Movement; and though Griselda belonged to the Church of England, she had small inclination for the chilliness of so many empty churches on a December morning. The Registry Office, though perhaps little warmer, offered a briefer ceremony, and one free from that undertone of morality still characteristic of so many churches.
As the day drew near, Griselda felt quite resigned. After Beams, her life had subsided into very nearly its former uneventfulness; so that for the present a change of any kind made an unconscious appeal. The only marked modification in her behaviour, however, was that she ceased to buy so many clothes. Also she spent two evenings a week trying to clean and decorate Kynaston’s attic flat, which was to be her home until something more suitable could be both found and afforded. Lena assisted: clad in a dun coloured boiler suit, and after a busy day at the shop, she distempered the ceilings in pink and blue, and made water come out of the tap, before returning to Juvenal Court to resume work on her new novel, “Legacy Grass”. Kynaston came to approve of her more and more until Griselda felt that she ought to feel jealous. Griselda, though good at walking, and good at the design part of interior decoration (she suggested they should try to instal some means of heating the water, even if obtained second-hand), was less good than Lena at implementing her suggestions. Kynaston had become radiantly happy, and restive about his terms of employment.
“After we’re married, and now you two have got the shop,” he said to Lena, who was laying a carpet which had been found rolled up behind some old stock in Mr. Tamburlane’s former office, “I shall try again with my plastic poses. I often think they’re the only thing I’ve gone in for which has community value. After marriage one must think of that.”
Lena stopped hammering. “Think of what?”
“Community value. After marriage I mean to be less of a parasite.”
“It’s much more important for you to keep Griselda’s body happy. Concentrate on that.”
“Ça va sans dire.”
“No man’s quite a parasite who can do that for a woman. It’s your only hope, Geoffrey.”
“Hadn’t we better change the subject? It’s in poor taste in Griselda’s own home.”
“Griselda’s opening a tin. Go and help her.” Lena resumed hammering. The carpet was difficult to penetrate and smelt dreadfully of the East.
As a matter of fact, moreover, Lena was wrong for once. Griselda had heard every word.
She eyed Kynaston across the tin of pilchards. She supposed there might be some joy in the relationship which so many sought for and hoped for and worked for and suffered for. It certainly could not compensate for the loss of Louise, but it might be not wholly barren. Griselda shuddered slightly. It was attractive and Kynaston kissed her.
“Why pilchards, Geoffrey? Why not squille?”
“Because pilchards are cheap.”
“They seem very oily.”
“The fish themselves are quite dry.”
There was no doubt he had a well-shaped body and much patient persistence in pursuit. It was necessary to hope.
On Christmas Eve it was foggier than on the day Miss Otter died and Griselda inherited the shop. Griselda and Peggy took forty minutes to find the Registry Office from Holborn Station; but fortunately (at Peggy’s suggestion) they had started very early. Of the two Peggy looked much more like a bride: at extravagant expenditure she had acquired a magenta woollen dress with a salmon-coloured belt. The gesture testified all the more to her warmth of feeling, because, as she explained to Griselda in the Underground, it would be out of the question for her to wear the garment to the office.
The occasion had attracted an excellent attendance from among the friends of both bride and bridegroom (whose friends, as it happened, were largely held in common), and from the people of the surrounding district. Among the latter was even a barrister, on his way from Gray’s Inn to Lincoln’s Inn, whose large black hat and resonant professional diction enormously raised the tone and spirits of all present. When Griselda arrived, he was explaining that he had just been consulting his solicitor on a normal routine matter and had since been lost in the fog. The contingent from Juvenal Court had shared the cost of a taxi (which the barrister explained was a breach of statute) and stood grouped together protecting the bridegroom. They all wore sapphire coloured orchids paid for by Lotus, who, dressed in black chiffon and a Persian lamb coat, and pale to the lips and ears, was a centre of speculation among all who did not know her. Guillaume wore a fashionable suit hired from a reputable but humble competitor of Messrs. Moss Brothers; Florence a pale grey coat and skirt, home-made but none the less well made, and dark stockings sent as a Christmas present from Paris by an old admirer who had fled despairing her marmoreal devotion to another. Monica Paget-Barlow crotcheted away behind the Registry Office font. Freddy Fisher was interviewing the press, who took him for the bridegroom because he looked young and innocent and wore morning dress.
Kynaston entirely resembled Prince Charming in a midnight-blue suit he had salved from an unsuccessful production of a play by Maeterlinck.
As Griselda handed her raincoat to Peggy (she had followed Mrs. Hatch’s precept and acquired a substantial one), Kynaston stepped forward from his ring of supporters, extended both his hands, and said “My love! This is our day. Let us not flinch.”
“All right,” said Griselda. “Shall we start?”
The Registrar’s wife ceased her voluntary, and the Registrar himself loomed through the fog which filled the precincts. He was an impressive figure with a cold and wearing a frock coat, at which Griselda stared with interest. It was exactly like that worn by Joseph Chamberlain in Herkomer’s portrait, a fine engraving of which hung above the sideboard in her Mother’s dining room. Griselda supposed that her Mother might have forgiven her as it was her wedding-day. On the whole, she was glad that the chance did not offer.
The sacristan, a sleek young man in a pepper-and-salt suit reminiscent of Kempton Park, arranged the bride and b
ridegroom into a procession. At that moment, Griselda’s eye fell upon Lena, for whom she had been searching. Lena, in a semi-polar outfit (she was much the most suitably dressed person present), sat in a corner of the Registry Office, obviously trying to comfort someone in distress, whose face was entirely concealed by Lena’s handkerchief. The distressed one’s clothes at once spoke for themselves, however. Before Griselda lighted up the entire half-forgotten panorama of society at Beams. Horror! It was Doris Ditton.
Now Griselda began herself to weep. The picture of Louise had projected itself with the rest in the so far greater intensity that memory offers than life.
Kynaston held out a twilight blue artificial silk handkerchief which went with the suit.
“Be strong, Griselda,” he said. “Soon we shall be alone together, and I shall be needing you.” Lena waved to her slightly, affectionately. Kynaston had presumably not yet identified Doris. Or perhaps she was there by his invitation? Griselda could not see how else she had learned of the event; and had always understood that the bridegroom’s guests at weddings consist predominantly of his past passions. Then she realized the answer: Lotus.
“Bride and bridegroom stand. All the rest sit,” bawled the sacristan, his voice filled with the wind off Newmarket Heath.
Kynaston, in the hope of checking her tears, introduced Griselda to a small smooth man in a morning suit made splendid with orders and decorations.
“Colonel Costa-Rica, darling,” he said. “The Orinocan Commercial Attaché.”
Griselda transferred her handkerchief and extended the appropriate hand. The Colonel fell upon it with his lips. His movement was like that of a closing knife. His cold eyes looked straight through Griselda’s handkerchief and into her shivering soul.
“Enchanté mademoiselle. Et très bonne chance.” When he spoke, his lips scarcely moved.
“English is the only European language the attaché doesn’t speak,” explained Kynaston.
“Excusez-moi?”
“Yes, certainly. Mais oui,” replied Griselda in reasurrance. The Colonel sat down and began to brood upon the state of trade.
“All set,” roared the sacristan. The bride and bridegroom were propelled forward to where the Registrar stood waiting, his book of runes in one hand, a small flask of eucalyptus in the other; there was a sound of military orders in the fog outside, and of rifle butts crashing on paving stones; and the greatest moment in Griselda’s life had begun.
For one presumably experienced in his work, the Registrar seemed strangely dependant upon his little book. That being so, moreover, it was difficult to understand why he had never acquired a larger volume with better print. As it was, the limited natural visibility and archaic lighting (by gas produced from coal) clearly caused him much distress. He peered at the minute screed, varying its distance from his eyes, and every now and then looking upwards at the burner above his head with a demeanour which in another would have passed for distaste. Sometimes he stopped for several seconds in the middle of a passage or sentence. Punctuation, indeed seemed a complete stumbling-block. In consequence of all this, however, the literal dreadful meaning of the words merged happily into a synthesis properly evocative of a half-forgotten rite. Behind the Registrar the east wall of the building was crudely painted with admonitions headed ‘Rules and Regulations Touching the State and Condition of Holy Matrimony,’ varied by long closely printed notices signed on behalf of the Home Secretary. The stained glass window above the Registrar’s head depicted a bygone Chairman of the London County Council kneeling before the goddess of fertility, represented traditionally. Doris’s intermittent sobs offered an emotional continuo. Every now and then the heating system rumbled towards animation. The Registrar forged ahead, his mind on higher things. Regarding the grave mysterious figure, all goodness and wisdom, and his richly significant background, Griselda remembered that this was something she must never forget, even though she had great-grandchildren. Again she shuddered slightly. The congregation sympathetically attributed it to the weather.
Suddenly there was an interruption. The great pitch-pine doors parted and someone entered with firm, stamping tread. Griselda could not but look over her shoulder. It was a fine figure of a man in naval uniform. Before seating himself in the back row of chairs (next to Lotus), he caught Griselda’s eye and waved breezily. Griselda stiffly inclined her head; then returned her attention to the service. Could this officer be responsible for the martial clatter outside? Possibly he was the next bridegroom, though he seemed elderly.
In the end the Registrar, with a final ejaculation of disgust, decided to abbreviate the liturgy; Kynaston produced the ring in excellent order (he had been wearing it on his forefinger); Griselda made a rash and foolish promise; and all was over. The ring was much too big for Griselda’s particularly slender finger: it might have been made for a giantess, indeed probably had been.
“Sign please,” said the sacristan producing a mouldering book from under the front row of chairs.
“Have your witnesses managed to get here?” enquired the Registrar.
“They’re all our witnesses,” exclaimed Kynaston full of the beauty of the ceremony and gesticulating expansively. Instantly he was deflated. “Dad!” he cried and looked quickly round him. The naval officer was thrusting forwards through the congratulatory crowd.
“Bravo, my boy,” he cried. “I never thought you had it in you.” His hand was extended. He was examining Griselda closely and added “Indeed I never thought it.”
“Hullo, Dad,” said Kynaston. In his blue suit, he looked quite green.
“Take your Father’s hand and say no more. Remember I’m waiting to kiss the bride.” He wrenched his son’s hand.
“You must introduce me, Geoffrey,” said Griselda hastily.
“My Father. Admiral Sir Collingwood Kynaston. This is Griselda, Dad.”
“Delighted to meet my daughter.” He kissed her overwhelmingly. “My boy and I have fought like tigers ever since he was born, but that’s all over and you mustn’t believe a thing he says about me.”
Griselda thought it might be discourteous to say that Kynaston had never mentioned him (as was the case); and all the witnesses were waiting to sign.
“A good hard cudgelling on both sides hurts neither,” affirmed the Admiral, scrawling his name ahead of the rest. “And the old man’s made full amends. Wait for them. Just wait.”
Freddy Fisher took the opportunity to ask for the Admiral’s autograph. “I only collect leaders of the services,” he said.
“Lucky to find one who can write,” replied the Admiral jovially. “Is that one of your bridesmaids, my dear?” he enquired of Griselda, indicating Lotus.
In the end everyone had signed and the Registrar had come forward with his account.
“Leave it me,” said the Admiral. “It’s only once in a man’s life that his boy gets himself spliced and he must expect to pay the piper. Though that reminds me,” he continued, while the Registrar stood respectfully in the background, “what about you, my dear? Are you an orphan?”
“My Father died of Spanish influenza,” replied Griselda. “I never knew him. From my Mother I have long been estranged.”
“Lone wolf, eh? See yourself in the same galley with Geoffrey. Never mind. You’ll grow. Being a widower I’m always persuasive with women of my own generation.” He made a handsome settlement on the Registrar, who became profuse with improbable felicitations before retiring into his vestry.
“Now then,” said the Admiral. “Just you see.”
The sacristan threw back the big shining doors and Griselda saw. Outside, drawn up in the fog, were two lines of bluejackets. As the doors opened, an order rang out, and they crossed carbines.
“I really must protest,” said Guillaume, his face grey with inner conflict, “at the use of force. Surely the occasion is sacramental?”
The Admiral only beamed at him. Then he glared at Kynaston.
“Well, my boy, get on with it. Give
her your arm, like a man. If you don’t, I shall.”
The reconciliation between father and son seemed already strained.
Kynaston was white to the finger-nails. For a moment there was silence, broken by one of the bluejackets uttering.
“No, Dad,” cried Kynaston. “I refuse.” He gathered strength. “Come on Griselda. Let’s find another way out of this place.”
“Oh, well done,” said Guillaume under his breath. Florence drew closer to him.
The admiral seemed unexpectedly taken aback. “You can’t refuse,” he cried in a shrill voice. “I’ve ordered luncheon for everyone at the Carlton.”
“Sorry, Father,” replied Kynaston. “Griselda and I have another engagement.”
Peggy had drawn back some time ago, embarrassed by the Admiral’s display of emotion, and had somehow got into what seemed mutually satisfying intercourse with Doris, who was regarding Kynaston’s heroism with soft wondering tear-soaked eyes. By this time all the strangers had withdrawn to form a crowd outside.
The Admiral looked with some anxiety at the guard of honour. Clearly he felt that the situation could not be much longer continued without becoming legendary on both lower and upper decks for years to come.
He glared at his son. “Boy,” he said sotto voce, “I have only one thing to say. Be a man.”
“That’s just it, Father. I am a man.”
“Oh I say,” interposed Freddy Fisher, who had lost sympathy with Kynaston. “Surely you can compromise?”
Outside, the Petty Officer cleared his throat. The men were tiring under the strain of the crossed carbines.
The admiral wheeled. “Dismiss your men.” Then amid the necessary bellowing and stamping, he cried to the party “Those who wish for luncheon may follow me. There are cars outside;” and, ignoring the newly married couple, he left the building.
There was another pause.
“Go on,” said Kynaston. “Have lunch. Griselda and I will see you later.” Lena’s eyes were moving round the group. The sacristan was waiting to lock up.
The Late Breakfasters and Other Strange Stories Page 24