Роберт Эйкман - The Late Breakfasters (Faber Finds)

‘You’re good to me Griselda.’ She looked at the pile of Christmas cards. ‘Shall I stick on stamps?’

Griselda smiled and nodded. Soon Lena’s tongue was inflexible with mucilage.

‘May I stay in the shop?’

‘I can’t do without you.’

XXXIII

Griselda felt more than ever that marriage did not suit her. She supposed that she should have a plan to extricate herself; since resignation, the other possibility, had never suited her either. The trouble was that Kynaston was clearly coming to depend upon her more and more. Worse still, his marriage had enabled him to acquire and develop a variety of social and professional responsibilities and entanglements, which he would be wholly unable to sustain unaided. Griselda found difficulty in deciding how far these were expressions of Kynaston’s personality, previously kept latent by restricted conditions, and how far mere substitute outlets for energy diverted by marriage from true and individual aims. Things were not made easier by Lena’s normal defence mechanism of aggression turning against herself, and manifesting as acute guilty embarrassment, whenever she came into contact with Kynaston. This led to Lena absenting herself from the shop whenever she thought Kynaston might appear; and to Kynaston making sour remarks about Lena whenever opportunity offered. In the end he suggested that he himself might take Lena’s place.

‘I could begin by organizing a display of ballet books. Give the entire shop over to it, I mean.’

‘It wouldn’t be fair on Lena, darling. After all she’s done nothing wrong.’

One day in November Griselda received a letter from Lotus. It was on a large sheet of paper in a large envelope, possibly because Lotus’s handwriting was so large; but the contents were brief. It simply invited Griselda to luncheon at Prunier’s the same day. It was the first she had heard of Lotus since the postcard view of Sfax. Apparently she was now staying at the Grosvenor Hotel.

Lotus was very brown, a little plumper, and even better dressed than usual. But her big green eyes were deep rock pools.

She lightly touched Griselda’s hand, swiftly looked her over, and led the way without speaking to a reserved table.

‘Is it true?’ Her voice seemed to Griselda softer and more stirring than before she left England.

‘Which particular thing?’

‘That Geoffrey loves Lena, of course.’

‘In a way.’

‘The only way?’

The waiter brought Lotus a large menu. Lotus, without consulting Griselda, ordered at length for both of them in rapid convincing French. The waitor, who was a Swede, departed much impressed.

‘Saves misunderstanding,’ said Lotus. ‘But you haven’t answered me.’

‘Is it necessary? You seem to know.’

‘Of course I know. Of course it’s not necessary. Things like that are always true. I knew it inside me. But I wanted to hear you say it. I needed to touch bottom.’ Two very large small drinks arrived.

‘All the same how did you know? Does Geoffrey write to you?’

‘Write to me! He never even thinks of me! Never once since I went away.’

‘Have you been in Sfax all this time?’

‘Sfax failed me.’

‘Where else have you been?’

‘Twice round the world.’

Mussels arrived.

‘I wish I had been once round.’

‘The world’s become very crowded.’ She was consuming mussels with enviable grace and firmness. ‘I’ve been in Johannesburg for the last six weeks. Buying clothes and buying men. Then throwing them away again. I couldn’t go back to Sfax while the hot weather lasted.’

‘I thought Sfax was always hot.’

‘It’s still hotter during the hot weather. After what you’ve told me I leave again tonight. I’m living on Victoria Station, you know. I sit all day at my window watching the boat trains and wishing myself beneath their wheels.’

‘You mean you still love Geoffrey?’

‘He is my god. I know that now.’

‘Take him with you Lotus.’

‘Please don’t laugh at me.’

‘He’s yours. I don’t want him and nor does Lena. Take him.’

‘You offer to sacrifice your whole life to my great love? You are pure, Griselda. You will go to heaven.’

Coquilles arrived. Two each.

‘Of course, I’m not sure that he’ll go. He’s become a little set in his ways.’

‘What am I now? Tell me, Griselda, where should we go, he and I? If I accept your sacrifice, that is. I feel you know both our hearts. Tell us where we should be happy.’

‘I don’t think Geoffrey’s good at being happy. Men aren’t, do you think?’ The shells were rattling about on Griselda’s plate, making a noise like dead human hopes.

‘Then we’ll be splendidly, radiantly miserable. But where?’

Griselda considered the maps of the continents in her school atlas. Australia, of course, was out of the question.

‘I suggest the Isle of Wight. I’ve never been there, of course; but I believe it’s full of picturesquely wicked people.’

‘An island!’ cried Lotus. ‘Like George Sand. And Geoffrey like Chopin. He could play mazurkas to me. We could throw away our clothes and dance. And aren’t there coloured cliffs?’

‘And a Pier. It’s nearly a mile long.’

‘And great birds flying into the sun.’

‘And palm trees.’

‘There were palm trees at Sfax.’

Before the arrival of the bouillabaisse it was settled.

‘Where is Geoffrey?’ asked Lotus. ‘I must find him immediately. The Grosvenor’s gone and let my room to a parry of nuns.’

‘I’ll take you. He’s still with the Orinocans. There’s a reception this afternoon. The President’s in England.’

Lotus’s eyes were misty and mysterious. ‘No formality, Griselda,’ she said, clutching Griselda’s hand across the table. ‘Geoffrey and I will creep away like children; hand in hand into the dusk.’ Griselda was fascinated by the solid banks of emeralds in her bracelet. They were so nearly the colour of her eyes.

The Liberator’s birth-place was en fкte. All the windows were shut and fastened, and the lower ones additionally protected by closed iron shutters. There were swags and clusters of artificial flowers in the national colours; and a huge entirely new flag swirling in the November breeze which set the teeth of the spectators on edge with the chill foreboding of even worse weather inescapably ahead. Up the steps to the door was a red carpet showing even yet, and despite hard scubbing, marks left by the blood of an earlier notability. Above the line of the cornice could be detected the glint and reassurance of steel helmets. The shivering crowd was laced with detectives, chilled to the bone and waiting for trouble. One or two common constables stood grumbling about their pay and working conditions. They were conscious of being outnumbered and outclassed. Preliminary entertainment was provided by a small brass band which was accompanying His Excellency on his travels. As a compliment to England, they played the same tune again and again, being the only English tune they knew except only ‘The Holy City’, which they had learnt instead of ‘God Save the King.’ It was ‘Poor Wandering One’; and, what is more, no royalty was being paid to Mr D’Oyly Carte.

Lotus and Griselda arrived by taxi four and a half minutes before the climactic moment. Lotus ordered the taxi to wait, despite dissent from a section of the crowd which had been there since dawn and now found its view obstructed. Fortunately, however, the taxi-driver was very old and queer, and fell into a deep sleep every time his vehicle became inanimate. Lotus was shaking all over with nerves. Her face was so thickly veiled as to be quite invisible in the dim taxi; but her sable coat scented the stale cold air with wealth and the anticipation of desire fulfilled. The taximeter was defective and apppeared to be running downwards instead of upwards. Every now and then there was a little crisis, when a spring seemed to go; but each time the invincible machine recovered itself and recorded a sum smaller than ever. The watchers on the pavement went on complaining unpleasantly, but took no further action. Griselda found it impossible to withhold admiration for Lotus’s Johannesburg hat. Griselda herself wore a large black velvet beret, а La Bohиme.