Роберт Эйкман - The Late Breakfasters (Faber Finds)

‘How?’

‘Very simply. They were trapped, killed, and eaten by men of more progressive outlook.’

‘I think there is a lot in what Lord Beaconsfield said.’

‘Of course there is,’ said Gullaume unexpectedly. ‘But did he put it into practice?’

Griselda was far from sure. But almost certainly Guillaume was thinking of some other remark of the sage’s. In any case, he resumed speaking immediately.

‘Though who am I to throw the first stone?’ he enquired. ‘William Cook, the failure. You didn’t even know that my real name was William?’

‘It would never have occurred to me. I suppose you disliked being called Bill? I know I should.’

‘In those days no one would have ventured. I was a man of spirit then. I knew Hubert Bland quite well: and Hyndman too. No. I chanced my name, Mrs Kynaston, solely in order to appear to advantage with women.’

‘I’m sure you did impress them.’

‘Not one. I might have saved myself the cost. Never has one woman truly opened her heart to me, although my heart finds room for the whole human race.’ He looked into Griselda’s eyes and coughed back into his mouth a crкme-de-menthe which had involved itself with the lump in his throat.

‘You have Florence. She’s devoted to you.’

‘A mere Ahaviel. A simple handmaiden,’ he replied irritably. ‘If I could have made my own, utterly my own, a woman of spiritual power, comparable with mine, mountains would have moved.’

For some reason this remark annoyed Griselda. ‘I think Florence is one of the nicest people I’ve ever met.’

‘Nice is the just word,’ he replied bitterly. ‘But you speak to a prophet. My responsibility is wide. I seek the divine flame, not soapsuds.’

‘I won’t have this,’ said Griselda quietly and putting on her shoes. ‘I am fond of Florence. You’re lucky to have her.’

‘Florence is Florence. Naturally no one estimates her more justly than I do.’

‘She is beautiful and intelligent and devoted and faithful and kind. Kind people are rare. As a prophet you ought to know that.’

Guillaume eyed her through the gathering October dusk. ‘I understand why you set store by at least one of those qualities.’

‘I set store by all of them.’ Griselda suspected another attempted seduction.

‘We need not pretend. Your business partner still lives at Juvenal Court, you know. Florence has known Lena for years.’

Griselda thought quickly and clearly before deciding what to say next. Then she decided.

‘I’m sorry I can’t offer you tea. I’ve arranged to join Geoffrey.’

‘Like everybody else, you under-estimate me. Had you been taking tea with Kynaston, I should not have chosen today to visit you.’

Griselda had not expected that either. But for reasons she had not yet had time to determine, Guillaume’s surprising remarks had the effect of clearing rather than unsettling her mind.

‘I’m afraid I must ask you to go. Please give my love to Florence.’

‘I am quite used to eviction and condemnation, as to many other unpleasant things. I should be a poor creature if by now I had not my philosophy, strong as iron.’ Laboriously he rose from his cache of cushions, like the nook of an animal about to hibernate. Still sucking and spitting, he crawled across to the window and stared into the encroaching night. Griselda stood by the open door, waiting.

‘I was absorbing the peace of the lamplighter at work,’ said Guillaume after a while, ‘like a glowworm. Or, perhaps more nearly, a firefly.’

‘I often watch him,’ said Griselda, who had never previously noticed him.

‘“Like a good deed in a naughty world.” You are sensitive to the beauty of words?’

‘Of course. I own a bookshop.’

‘It would be pleasant to live so high up.’ Guillaume sighed and looked about in the twilight for his hat.

‘Here.’ Griselda extended the object. It was a close replica of that worn by Mazzini when in disguise.

‘Good-bye,’ said Guillaume, assimilating and retaining her hand. ‘I grieve for you.’

‘Quite unnecessary,’ replied Griselda, struggling slightly.

‘You mustn’t deny me that single luxury.’ He kissed her heavily and adhesively upon the brow and went away, reeking of charity and peppermint.

Griselda drew the curtains, turned on the lights, and prepared for herself a satisfying, solitary tea, including cucumber sandwiches, and custard creams, new and crisp. For the first time since before Christmas, she felt able to regard herself and find all her faculties present and functioning. Before long she wondered whether it was not even more than that: whether she was not in process of restoration against the consequences of losing Louise. It might be that her marriage to Kynaston had been required to achieve that.

The only awful thought was that Guillaume’s hints, bearing in mind Guillaume’s nature, might have been untrue.

XXXII

Griselda thereafter took particular trouble to be kind and understanding to Lena, despite provocations which steadily increased.

One morning, as the anniversary of her wedding drew near, Griselda sat in the little office after the shop had closed. She was writing and addressing Christmas Cards, designed by herself. Lena had been supposed to be keeping an appointment of some kind, but at the last moment had decided not to go. She was wandering about the shop examining the stock with dissatisfaction.

Just as Griselda decided that she was not called upon to send a specially designed Christmas Card to Mrs Hatch, Lena called out ‘Griselda. May I talk to you? Or do I interrupt?’ She was seated on top of one of the shop ladders.

‘Of course you don’t interrupt. I’ve hardly spoken to you alone for weeks.’

‘I think our books are frightful. There’s an entire shelf of Warwick Deeping.’

‘It’s right up under the ceiling. No one can see it.’

‘And under it Jeffrey Farnol.’

‘That’s just old stock.’

‘And under that J. B. Priestley.’

‘We’ve got to live.’

‘I’d rather live honestly.’

‘Come down and talk about it.’

Lena descended and entered the office. She had taken to wearing dresses; which did not suit her personality. Griselda reflected with interest upon the deterioration in her own clothes since marriage.

‘I want to hand back my partnership. With thanks, of course, Griselda.’

‘I can’t do without you.’

Lena upturned the wastepaper basket, and sat upon it. The floor was now covered with the transactions of the day.

‘I’m going to live abroad.’

‘Where?’

‘Somewhere warm.’

‘North Africa?’

‘Possibly.’

‘Dear Lena. Of course, it’s a man?’

‘The feeling when you haven’t got one is exceeded only by the quite different feeling when you have. But you don’t know about that.’

‘You don’t like it?’

‘Not this particular example of it.’

‘Then why leave the shop?’

‘I told you. I don’t like the books we stock. The books we have to stock. I admit that. I still don’t like them.’

‘Is it that he still chases you?’

‘Mind your own business, Griselda.’ Then she added ‘You’ll be much better without me.’ Griselda had never seen or even imagined her so distressed. She spoke very gently.

‘It’s Geoffrey, I think.’

Lena shook her head.

‘I recognized him from your description.’

‘It’s over, Griselda. At least for me. I’m not sure about him, I’m afraid. I feel a pig, pig, pig.’

‘You needn’t. I believe I’m grateful to you. Anyway I know very much how you feel. I feel some of it myself. Please don’t feel it any more. It’s quite unnecessary. I do know.’