The Late Breakfasters and Other Strange Stories Read online

  “I like it,” said Griselda; and immediately ascended the steps.

  Inside, a seat ran the length of the curved back wall, broken only by a large door in the centre, which gave access to an inner apartment of the Temple. In the middle of the floor was a huge marble bench, wide and long, and curving up at both ends into Ionic flutings. On the Bench were a number of large cushions, looking darkly purple; over which was spread a huge black cloak.

  “Put it on,” said Louise. “Put it on and sit down.”

  Griselda again did as she was told. The cloak seemed the right length, and was a businesslike garment with simple black buttons, which Louise proceeded to fasten, shutting Griselda in. Griselda realized that she was now nearly invisible. For no clear reason she felt a sudden palpitating rush of excitement, bereaving her of all reasonable thoughts.

  “Now sit down.”

  Griselda’s normally strong legs were weak and she was glad to obey. Louise sat at the other end of the bench, her beautiful neck whiter in the smoky moonlight than her white shirt.

  “What about you?”

  “What about me?” Louise’s tone was warm but enigmatic.

  “You’ll be cold.”

  “Oh . . . No, I shan’t be cold. But we’d better speak softly.”

  “Why?” This question Griselda knew to be absurd, but her excitement was such that she had no difficulty in restraining a wild hilarity.

  “It’s better.” Louise paused, then again began to speak, very low. “I’ve kidnapped you and brought you here so that we can make some plans. It was necessary that we could be sure of being alone, and also this is the best place.”

  “The best place in which to plan?” enquired Griselda, equally softly. She had either to shout or to whisper. She felt she might easily faint.

  “Yes, Griselda. If you wish to plan. I don’t know whether you do or not. You said you did, but perhaps it was only the beauty of the night or a reaction from other people.”

  “Will it be difficult?” Griselda’s voice was barely audible.

  “It will be very difficult, Griselda. I love you.”

  Immediately Griselda felt completely calm; an entirely and absolutely different person. She would never be the same person again.

  “I love you, Louise,” she replied in a level voice, still pitched low.

  After a moment’s silence, Louise said, “It’s a pity that the world instead of being at our feet, has to be about our ears.”

  Griselda replied: “As I said in my bath, I know very little about the world.”

  “That, though a good thing,” said Louise, “is also a bad thing. It makes the next step difficult.”

  “No,” said Griselda. “I think it makes the next step easy. I’m so innocent that whatever the next step is, I’ll take it without a second thought.”

  “Will you live with me?”

  “I’ve decided to leave home. Where else should I go?”

  “We could share a loft.”

  “That would be rather expensive for us. I’ve very little money. At least until I get a job.”

  “What sort of job?”

  “Lord Roller offered me something.”

  “Are you going to take it?”

  “If it would enable us to share a loft.”

  Louise looked her in the face. Louise’s smile was full of tears and anguish; she took Griselda’s hand.

  “The air is, I am sure, full of nightingales,” she said, “if only we could hear them.”

  “This is their night,” said Griselda. “Tomorrow it’s going to rain.”

  “Does that stop them singing?”

  “Unless they are very imprudent nightingales.”

  “I can’t see your face,” said Louise. “It is entirely overshadowed by a column.”

  “Of course you can’t. Am I not totally invisible?”

  Griselda thought that when she said this Louise looked round the Temple in a way more anxious than she cared for. Then Louise said: “For my part I have no money at all. And not only that but I hate work of any kind. I hate not to be free.”

  “I’ve never yet had a real job,” replied Griselda. “I am not looking forward to that particular part of it at all.”

  “I wonder if Hugo would give us an allowance? He understands people like us.”

  But Griselda noticed something.

  “Look Louise. That door’s open. It was shut when we came in.”

  Louise started up. The black door interfered with the columnar pattern on the carpet of moonlight.

  “And there’s someone coming.”

  Louise’s perfume was suddenly heavy on the air. Louise stood quite upright, her back to the garden and the moon, her eyes on the open door. There were undoubtedly footsteps.

  But it became clear that the steps were outside the temple. A figure appeared between the columns.

  “What’s going on in there?”

  It was a policeman. He flashed his lamp, ineffective in the moonlight, upon Griselda’s dark figure.

  Louise wheeled round.

  “Officer,” she said, “please return to your fireside. No one is in need of help.”

  “Sorry miss,” the policeman replied. “I thought you might be reds.”

  “You can see at a glance,” said Louise, “that we’re not.”

  “Yes miss,” said the policeman.

  “I don’t know so much,” cried Griselda, rising to her feet. “Look at me.” Cloaked and masked, she was the perfect operatic conspirator.

  “I can see you’re nothing you shouldn’t be, miss,” replied the officer. “Just like the lady said. Still we have to be careful. The whole house and garden’s surrounded.”

  “Surrounded by what?” asked Griselda.

  “By the force, miss. We have our orders. There’ve been half a dozen of us on duty all the evening not a quarter of a mile from this outhouse. Spread about of course. Well, I must be getting back to them. Good night, ladies.”

  At this moment the door of the inner apartment of the Temple banged shut as unaccountably as it had opened. The policeman jumped.

  “I’d better have a look round.” The beam of his lamp made a dim circle on the heavy painted woodwork of the door.

  “There’s no one there,” said Louise. “It often happens.”

  “If you say so, miss—” He thought for a moment, then looked at Louise searchingly. “Quite sure, miss?”

  “Quite sure, officer. I often come here at night.” Her tone was unbelievably patrician.

  “Very well.”

  Again he bade them Good-­night. They reciprocated; and this time he departed.

  “We must go back,” said Louise. “Soon they’ll be looking for you.”

  “Shall I leave my cloak?”

  “No. When we reach the house I’ll take it.”

  Silently they returned upon their tracks.

  They were only a few paces from the shore of the lake.

  Louise remarked, “I don’t know how Stephanie is going to behave about this. She is, after all, a Belgian.”

  Griselda shivered inside her warm cloak, but said nothing. They entered the Grove of the Hamamelids.

  “You know,” said Louise after a while, “you know that Stephanie was at the Temple?”

  “Yes,” said Griselda. “I know.”

  “It was a mistake. I didn’t expect her tonight. But I knew she was there even before we got there ourselves. Her scent is the same as mine. I fear she may go after revenge. Though that would be rather absurd of her.”

  “Revengeful people don’t think of that.”

  “Poor Stephanie! But, after all, Griselda, she is only a ghost.” Louise suddenly laughed very musically.

  “I don’t want at all to be gloomy, but do you think I shall be all right alone in the haunted room?”

  Immediately she had spoken, she jumped violently. They had crossed the wooden bridge. The figure of a man was visible among the trees. His back was towards the two women and he appeared much occup
ied at some labour.

  The women stopped for a moment; then Louise held Gri­selda’s hand very tightly and they advanced together. Not until they were right up to the man, did he learn of their presence.

  “Good evening, miss,” he said, seeing Griselda’s long cloak. “Didn’t expect any of the guests to walk this far from the house.” His voice was sombre.

  “Good evening,” said Griselda.

  He was leaning on a spade. He was elderly and enormous.

  “For her Highness’s dog.” He indicated a pit he had dug. “The best place for ’im on the ’ole property. And if you listen you can ’ear ’em knocking up the little chap’s coffin.”

  Through the still moonlight night came indeed a very distant hammering.

  “Poor little Fritzi,” said Griselda. Louise was lurking indistinctly among the foliage.

  “Dunno about that, miss,” said the Gravedigger. “Reckon ’e was ripe.” Lifting his spade he plunged it up to the haft into the soft black earth. Though hideous, he was still hale in the extreme.

  “Good night,” said Griselda, who found the subject distasteful.

  Louise drew further into the bushes.

  “Goodnight, miss. I must get on with things.” He was again digging rhythmically.

  Louise rejoined Griselda as if she had been her shadow. The coffin makers appeared to be working somewhere in the Grove itself.

  “The policeman began it,” said Louise. “Now the whole garden is polluted. Let’s get back as quickly as possible.” She walked faster.

  “But before they came,” said Griselda, “we were happy.” She remembered her unforgettable dream of the night before.

  Worse was upon them. As they left the Grove they saw that the vista up to the house was spotted with guests. Several of the long windows had been thrown open. Through them came a certain sound, not of music Griselda realized. The speeches were afoot and most of the guests had left the ballroom. It was incredible that it was not later and the speeches over. But then she had no idea how long they had been continuing, despite Mrs. Hatch’s injunction of brevity. After all, she recollected, it was a turning point in history, and enthusiasm might well have carried the orators much beyond the dictates of deference to their hostess.

  A man in evening dress seemed in hopeful spirit to be approaching the two lone women.

  “The cloak,” said Louise brusquely. “I shall need it to get away in.” Unbuttoning it, she had it off Griselda’s and about her own shoulders before Griselda could utter the enquiry of all lovers.

  “When shall I see you?”

  The man in evening dress was near.

  “I’ll contrive. Bless you.” On the words, Louise was gone. Her black figure flitted for a second in the moonlight and had vanished.

  “Good evening,” said the man. “You look very romantic. Can we go further away from the sound of the human voice?” He tried to take Griselda’s arm.

  “Thank you,” said Griselda. “But I want to hear the speech.”

  “Then what are you doing out here?” Frustration made his tone didactic and patronizing.

  “I felt faint and needed some air.” No excuse could be too conventional for the commonplace creature.

  “Minnit’s hour-­long pronouncement of his own righteousness had that effect upon many of us. His objective, you know, was to cut Leech out of his broadcasting time.” Presumably the man now hoped to gain his end through general conversation. “Pretty low trick, don’t you think? Or are you perchance one of Minnit’s supporters?” He smiled; and his tone again reminded Griselda of Stephenson’s remark that foremost in the character of every man is the schoolmaster.

  “No,” said Griselda. “I have no politics. Will you please excuse me? I must go back to the house.”

  He was so startled by the failure of his charms that, writing Griselda off as in some way peculiar, he did not even propose to escort her. Griselda could not feel that his observations boded well for the new coalition government. But possibly he was unrepresentative. Soon she would see. She crept in at the window through which she had joined Louise in the garden.

  The scene was transformed. Most of the gilt chairs were ranged in irregular rows across the dance floor in front of the speakers’ platform. Though by no means all the chairs were occupied, many of the remaining audience were drooping packed together on their feet behind the backmost row. The emptiness of the chairs and the crowd standing behind them combined to make an effect of desolation. Many of the women looked bored. Many of the men looked aggressive. It was plain why Mrs. Hatch had demanded brevity. Amplifiers had been lowered from the ceiling and every now and then emitted a resonant croak as the technicians dismantled the broadcasting apparatus, the end of the time allotted to the feature being long past. Each time the amplifiers croaked, Mr. Leech stopped short in his flow of words and glowered momentarily upwards before resuming. Often this resulted in his losing the place in his notes.

  Even without foreknowledge, it would have been obvious that the Prime Minister had been speaking for some time. His sparse colourless hair stood straight on end, his face was the colour of cheese, and he was thumping continuously when he had a hand free, in the effort to awake from slumber the long defunct interest of his auditory. “Time presses,” he cried, “and the festivities offered by our splendid hostess will soon once more be calling us. We have already addressed you for far too long.” Mr. Leech, while one eye roamed from table-­top to audience, glared momentarily with the other at Mr. Minnit, who sat slumped forward upon the green baize, his head upon his arms. As with Lady Macbeth, it was impossible to deduce from Mr. Minnit’s eyes whether he slept or waked. He was, Griselda realized, a man of very unusual appearance. “But,” continued Mr. Leech, “it would be improper indeed were I, for any reason whatever, to bring these remarks to an end before coming to the dire and daunting circumstances which have prompted me to begin them.” This time Mr. Leech did not thump, but it made little difference.

  “I have spoken,” he continued, “of our great traditions, our unique heritage, of literature, art, and science, of our public school system, our mercantile genius, our sportsmanship, our village hostelries, our ancient monuments, Magna Carta, the noble City of London, the late terrible world conflict, our aircraft and balloons, our love of animals, and the faith we repose in our young folk. Shining through and igniting the whole splendidly coloured picture is one theme peculiar to our people alone: the theme of initial failure transmuted into ultimate success, immediate disaster into final victory.” There was an unexpected burst of cheering. Not even the prevailing need for food could wholly deaden so conditioned a reflex.

  “And what has been the philosopher’s stone which has wrought the miracle? Always it has been one thing only: our readiness for sacrifice.” Some of the older people nodded their agreement. “I venture to say before you all, that no other people has so often had demanded of it so many sacrifices. As page follows page of history we read the same story: the story of final ruin averted by ruinous sacrifice. And on too many of those pages we see that the writing was in sacrificial blood. Tonight it may appear that the need is less: not for blood, but for toil and taxes and toil again, to rebuild the sinews of greatness.”

  But, if so, it appeared wrongly. For when Mr. Leech came to these words, there was a flash and a detonation; and the ballroom momentarily took on the aspect of a battlefield. The Communists had contrived to throw a bomb.

  A group of about a dozen classless figures had appeared from nowhere, screaming slogans and distributing leaflets. One of them even had a banner, bearing a highly coloured portrait of Engels on one side, and a quotation in German on the other (the article having been salvaged from a sympathetic foreign organization recently dissolved by the authorities).

  Griselda, whose first political meeting this was, looked around terrified. Fortunately, however, there appeared to have been no loss of life, or even major injury, and what blood the historian could have drawn upon, had come mainly from noses.
There was, however, a terrible smell of poor quality chemicals and burnt cardboard. The victims of the outrage were setting themselves and their chairs upon their feet, adjusting their garments and calling for redress. Those who had not been bowled over, were even more belligerent, having more available energy.

  Immediately a flood of policemen armed with batons poured through the french windows, and made a series of arrests. The Communists were borne off into the scented night, twisting and biting. One of them had been standing close to Griselda, screeching out vilifications, his face that of a modern gargoyle. In the rough and tumble with the police he was knocked out and dragged from the ballroom by the legs.

  “Ladies and gentlemen. Supper is served.”

  Mrs. Hatch had resumed control. Griselda was startled by the volume of the cadaverous Brundrit’s voice, as he stood at the other side of the ballroom, just inside the door from the passage.

  For the most part, the guests pulled themselves together smartly, and another long queue began to form. The Communists had provided everyone with something to talk about. A small group, however, remained round the platform, and between the heads Griselda could see that both Mr. Leech and Mr. Minnit lay recumbent in their chairs. Recalling for the second time during the visit her slight knowledge of first-­aid, she was about to go forward and offer assistance, when a handsome figure detached itself from the group and approached. It was Edwin.

  “How entirely that mask becomes you.”

  Griselda had forgotten. She groped at the knot behind her head.

  “No. Don’t take it off. Unless, of course, you wish; in which case you must allow me to assist.”

  “Clearly it is no disguise.”

  “Were you seeking to escape supper?”

  Griselda remembered. It was appalling.

  “I went out in the garden. I am dreadfully rude.”

  “Not at all. The speeches, you know, were to have been after supper. The broadcasting arrangements were responsible for the change. It’s late, but at least we’ve now nothing to do but enjoy ourselves.” He offered Griselda his arm. They moved towards the tail of the queue.