Роберт Эйкман: The Late Breakfasters (Faber Finds)

‘Don’t mind my interrupting your bath,’ said a firm voice behind Griselda’s back.

Griselda rapidly rotated the tap in the opposite direction. It was difficult to see who had entered the room.

‘I’m Melanie Hatch. Just thought I’d say How d’you do?’ With a spasmodic crash of plumbing, the water stopped. It was as if it had been intercepted in the pipe.

‘How d’you do? I’ve heard so much about you from Mother.’

‘How is she?’

‘Still suffering rather a lot, I’m afraid.’

‘Bad business about your father.’

‘Yes.’

Mrs Hatch was a woman of middle height, considerably more than broad in proportion, but very healthy and active. Her chestnut hair was excellently dyed; but it had never been very beautiful hair. She was the kind of woman whose appearance, for better or for worse, changes surprisingly little with the years. Her expression indicated that a deficiency in imaginative understanding of the problems with which she had been faced, was so far as possible made good by conscious will to face them. She wore an extremely well-cut and expensive tweed coat and skirt; finely made woollen stockings; and a grey sweater with a polo collar enclosing her large neck.

‘Do go on with your bath.’

‘I wasn’t really having a bath. It was just curiosity.’

‘Well, have one now.’

‘I don’t think I want one. I might have one tonight.’ Griselda, as in the matter of her name, never lacked for spirit to resist attempts to order her doings.

‘I shan’t be here then to talk to you.’

‘I can’t talk and scrub at the same time,’ said Griselda smiling. ‘I’m a perfect simpleton by your standards.’

Mrs Hatch looked at her. ‘Do you mind if I sit down?’

‘Please do.’ Mrs Hatch seated herself in a large Parker-Knoll armchair at the foot of the bed, and watched Griselda putting away her stockings and underclothes in the ample drawers all lined with paper which smelt of a specially perfumed disinfectant.

‘You know your Mother fagged for me at Wollstonecroft?’

‘She has always told me how fond she was of you, I hope you’ll go and see her one day.’

‘Poor old Millie,’ said Mrs Hatch crossing her legs, ‘I easily might. In the meantime I expect to prefer your company.’

‘Thank you,’ said Griselda, hanging up her mackintosh. ‘It is very kind of you to ask me.’

‘Not really. I can always do with young girls about the house. The great men who visit me expect it. It helps them to relax. I’m very calculating.’

‘I see. I’ll try and do what is expected of me. It’s nice of you to ask me.’

‘I’ve got Austin Barnes here this weekend. In fact he should have come on your train. You must have met him in the car.’

‘I walked from the station. I couldn’t resist the weather.’

‘So you like walking?’

‘I love it. Particularly by myself.’

‘You must come for a walk with Austin and me. We’re both good for twenty or thirty miles still. Austin’s an old flame of mine, you know.’

‘I only know about his public life. And not very much about that. I didn’t know that Cabinet Ministers had any other kind of life nowadays.’

‘As far as I’m concerned, Austin hasn’t. Though he’s still game enough, I believe, when circumstances are more propitious. But let me see your dress. The one you’ve brought for tomorrow night.’

‘I haven’t brought any particular dress for tomorrow night. Should I have done?’

‘Didn’t your mother tell you?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘My dear. Millie must have told you about the All Party Dance tomorrow. It’s the main reason I asked you – asked you now, I mean.’

Griselda had not been told and the reason was clear. Griselda so detested dancing that, had she been told, she would have declined Mrs Hatch’s invitation altogether, thus possible alienating a friend from whom Mrs de Reptonville hoped for much.

‘I’m terribly sorry. I don’t dance.’

‘Why not? Are you crippled?’

Griselda felt disinclined to explain.

‘Shall I go home?’

Mrs Hatch considered the proposal for a moment. Clearly she was much disturbed. ‘No, no . . . No, of course not.’ Then, taking control of the situaltion, she returned to her previous demand: ‘Let me see your dress.’ She added: ‘I do think Millie might have warned me.’

With some reluctance Griselda took from the mechanized wardrobe one of the two evening dresses she had brought. ‘I must clearly tell you: I won’t dance.’ The dress was made of coffee coloured taffeta and very simple. She held it up.

Mrs Hatch seemed surprised. ‘It’s far too old for you, of course, but delightful. Where did you get it, if I may ask a plain question?’

‘Nothing very distinguished. A friend of mine works in a dress shop. I think she has very good taste.’

‘Improbably enough, she has. My friend Louise will help you put it on.’

‘Thank you very much, but I don’t need help.’

‘You don’t know how much Louise will do for you. I’ll send her along. Now then.’ Unexpectedly Mrs Hatch smiled.

‘Yes?’ said Griselda, unexpectedly smiling back.

‘Before tomorrow night you must learn to dance. Oh yes you must. I positively owe it to Millie. In the meantime I’m glad to have met you, Griselda, and tea will be ready when you are. In the Hall then.’

And suddenly she had left the room, leaving Griselda rehanging her dress.

II

The party in the Hall had grouped themselves round an electrical space-heater, which raised the temperature of the atmosphere without anybody becoming aware of the fact. Mrs Hatch was manipulating a vast and heavy teapot, apparently without effort. As Griselda descended the stairs, two men rose to their feet.

‘This is Griselda de Reptonville,’ said Mrs Hatch, recharging the teapot from a silver kettle which must have held at least a gallon. ‘Her mother used to be my greatest friend at school. Griselda, let me introduce you: Pamela Anslack, you two should be great friends; George Goss; Edwin Polegate-Hampden, he runs the St James’s News-Letter, which tells us what is really happening in the world; and Doris Ditton, who lives in Hodley. Now let me give you a crumpet. There’s room for you on the sofa next to Pamela. You two must make friends.’

Griselda was rather regretting she had not put on her cardigan, but Pamela was wearing a slight (though obviously exorbitant) afternoon model and seemed perfectly warm enough. A wide diamond bracelet encircled her left wrist; a diamond watch, her right. She was indeed about Griselda’s age, but her perfectly made-up face was singularly expressionless, her dark hair like a photograph in Vogue .

She said nothing at all: not even How do you do?; and Griselda biting into her crumpet, stared with furtive curiosity at George Goss. The famous painter looked much older than he did in the newspapers; but his hair and beard, though now more grey than black, were impressively unkempt, his face exceedingly rubicund, and his general bulk prodigious (though augmented by his unyielding green tweeds). He drank, not tea, Griselda noticed, but something in a glass; probably brandy and soda, she thought, as it sparkled energetically. He drank it noisily; and even more noisily devoured huge sections from a lump of rich cake which lay on the plate before him; while he stared back at Griselda, delighting massively in the thrill his presence gave her. He was like a very famous hippopotamus.

Edwin Polegate-Hampden was discoursing upon the inside politics of Morocco. He had paused to greet Griselda with significant courtesy, even, it seemed, cordiality. About thirty-five, and beautifully preserved for his age, he was dressed equally beautifully in a black jacket, cut rather fancifully after a bygone sporting original, yellow trousers, a mauve shirt, a silk tie with large spots, and a beautiful rose from Mr Cork’s smallest and private conservatory. His hair was treated with a preservative pomade from a shop in New York.