Hotel de Dream (5 page)

“Deposed kings,” he said ruminatively. “I thought I had them all by now, I must say.” He looked sternly down at Mrs Houghton. “Poynter. Lieutenant-colonel Arthur Poynter. And may I have the pleasure …?”

“This is too extraordinary.” Mrs Houghton smiled at Cridge, who was backing away now and making for the tin of condensed milk, dolloping in the spoonfuls in a near panic. “He was in Volume One of the trilogy, you know, Mrs Routledge! A dear little hotel in Norfolk, when Johnny and Melinda had just come back from Czechoslovakia and wanted to get away from it all. Cridge—you were the boatman. Oh, that bitterly cold weather. And your blue-veined hands! Melinda was so sorry for you, but then she saw you had made no attempt to join the struggle against capitalism and neo-imperialism. Yes, Johnny had to persuade her not to give you a good talking to at the end of that long day in the creek.”

“What's all this?” Mr Poynter strode over to his table and exchanged glances with Mrs Routledge on the way. Cridge, who might not have heard a word of his former creator's speech, went over to him with an uneven gait and slopped down the tea.

“My table's been moved, Mrs Routledge.” Poynter stood dumbfounded at the top of the basement steps, where indeed, in her effort to please Mrs Houghton, Mrs Routledge had placed him. The sweet, acrid stench reached his nostrils. He thumped the table and his fern—dusted that morning, he could see—quivered in response. “I demand an explanation,” he went on, in the face of Mrs Routledge's silence, and Cridge, limping back to the sideboard. Mr Poynter had once told Cridge that he reminded him of his wounded batman and the limp was now a matter of course when he was being served.

“Have I taken your table? I'm so terribly sorry, I had no idea.”

“The rules of the house,” Mrs Routledge snapped at her two guests. “We had a spring clean, Colonel. And we all need some variety sometimes. So there we are, I'm afraid.”

Miss Briggs came down the stairs, followed closely by Miss Scranton. They, too, stopped at the threshold of the dining room, but as both were acquainted with Cridge's basement odours it was the double shock of seeing a new resident at the best table by the door and a look of implacable hatred on the face of Mr Poynter which brought them to a halt. Mrs Routledge bustled at them and ushered them to their respective seats. This was even more surprising. Miss Scranton sipped at her scalding tea and Miss Briggs, still stunned by the behaviour of her Queen the night before, stared vacantly around her.

“This is Miss Scranton. Miss Scranton, Mrs Houghton. And this is Miss Briggs.” Mrs Routledge escaped to the reception desk in the hall after effecting the introductions. She sat on the high leather stool behind the desk and pretended to sort through mail, but she felt shaken and was unable to bring herself to look up and meet the eye of either Mr Poynter or Cridge. Something would have to be done about this woman with her gold cigarette case and illusions of royalty in the hotel; her impossible recognition of Cridge. Mrs Routledge wished her husband was alive, then remembered how she had dealt with these problems before. A call to Mr Rathbone's office. Get through and speak to Mr Rathbone personally, if necessary. As the chairman of the company which owned the property, he would be as anxious as she to evict undesirable persons—potential arsonists, possibly—from the premises. She slid her hand into a cubbyhole under the desk and pulled out her address book, running a ringed finger down to the letter R. Yes, there he was. But she must wait until tea was over and the residents safely back in their rooms before making the call.

Slight murmurs of conversation drifted in from the dining room. Mr Poynter appeared to have discovered that
he knew some relations of Mrs Houghton's. Miss Briggs also claimed she had met them at a recent garden party. Cridge was refilling the cups and handing bread and butter as if nothing had happened. Mrs Routledge wavered. Anything to avoid trouble; and if Mrs Houghton's family was important enough to compensate Mr Poynter for the terrible new position of his table it would perhaps be better to leave well alone and see how things went for another day or two. Mrs Routledge risked a searching glance into the room where her guests were sitting. Miss Briggs was hushed and effusive. Cridge limped frequently to Poynter, bringing with him, she saw, an unallowable quantity of sugar. Mrs Houghton's bag was now upright and she smiled and chatted and lit up cigarettes by pressing the little sapphire button.

Only Miss Scranton was silent. Mrs Routledge gazed at her. Her eyes grew wide, then closed in horror and disbelief. Miss Scranton's legs and feet were bare and thickly coated with what appeared to be sand. It was too much. Mrs Routledge wondered whether Mrs Houghton had noticed and, if so, whether she would lodge a complaint to the company over the standards of hygiene in the hotel. She imagined an inspection of the basement, and shuddered. Miss Scranton finished her tea and pulled a couple of exercise books from her satchel. She leant back in her chair, her sandy legs sticking out on the carpet. But the others seemed to have seen nothing as yet. Mrs Routledge felt a headache coming on. She slipped out unobtrusively from behind the desk and went up to her second-floor bedroom to take an aspirin and lie down.

When tea was over Mr Poynter went up to his room trembling with excitement. He sat down on the edge of his bed and put his head in his hands, staring out through bony fingers at the lumps under the lino, and the greasy film of curtain against the closed window, and the hanging bulb in the little parchment shade that trembled every time Mrs Routledge got in or out of her divan on the floor above. He was sure he had seen Cecilia Houghton somewhere before—in his City, of course—at one of the evenings given by the cultural attaché perhaps, or in the salon of Lady Kitty Carson, a literary hostess slightly inaccurately imagined by Mr Poynter but able to function nevertheless in a small antique-crammed house near the moving quarter. Yes; it must have been there: he saw Lady Kitty in her Retour d'Egypte chair, the literary lions of the megalopolis gathered at her feet, the epigrams coming out sharp and smooth as the cheese biscuits were handed and good wine was poured. He saw Cecilia Houghton, dignified and aloof, amused at the spectacle Lady Kitty made of herself on these occasions, and even imagined himself exchanging glances with her. Really Creative People like Mrs Houghton (and himself, he had to add this) always found these hostess figures a bit of a joke. But they were necessary: even the staidest novelist or historian needed to relax and show off sometimes; once or twice a year a cruel parody of Lady Kitty appeared in one of their books and was then serialised in the City Sundays. Cecilia had probably gone there, as he did, to show she felt no spite towards her fellow workers.

What a stroke of luck to find her suddenly at the Westringham, though! Mr Poynter smiled out through his fingers, and caught sight of his watch on his hairless wrist as he did so. He took off his clothes and pulled on a pair of musty red and white striped pyjamas. He padded to the window and wrestled with the inadequate curtain. He climbed into bed. There was ample time before lunch to meet Cecilia Houghton again. To show her who he really was. Not, of course, that she hadn't known at once in the dining room, but in the presence of others one must be discreet … He closed his eyes and a blissful sigh escaped him before he slept. The niece of Field-marshal Sir Eddie Houghton … he remembered her coming-out ball in the Tatler. And such a brilliant novelist too! She had informed him over Cridge's revolting tea that her work was taught all over the world. He wasn't surprised. Today she would be entertained at HQ; a banquet with roses and champagne. He tried to decide whether she would like to meet his wife—or was there, possibly, a romance brooding between them? A meeting of equals? A faint snore issued from Mr Poynter as he approached the four-walled city of his dreams.

Today, although at least an hour and a half had passed since Poynter had been woken and gone downstairs, the sun seemed to show no change of position in the sky. The City was still in the early morning stage, the sprinklers refreshing the bright green turf, the workers hurrying to their production lines within the thick walls of the town as if he had only just completed the morning parade and was not yet even on his way to visit his wife. Mr Poynter frowned. Sometimes this happened—like a record with the needle stuck in a groove the same dream would repeat itself—and he prayed, as he strode from the portals of HQ and saw the white Rolls waiting there, that he would not have to undergo the tiresome experience this morning. Of all mornings! Somewhere in the City Mrs Houghton awaited him—he was sure of that—in the Central Park probably, under the trimmed
pink apple blossom, or in the National Portrait Gallery, where her uncle's portrait (almost as many versions of the Field-marshal as of Mr Poynter himself) hung in the dark rooms. Or at Lady Kitty's, at a literary luncheon: they would smile at each other at the pretensions of the woman and then go strolling hand in hand in the portion of the park reserved for upper ranks. Mr Poynter's frown turned to an audible curse when he saw his chauffeur come out to admit him to his car.

“Where are we going, my man?”

“To the Poynter Residence, Sir.”

Poynter's shoulders sagged. When the dream got into one of its self-repeating states urgent measures were called for. The people became discontented and sometimes actually rebellious at the total sameness of things, booing their leader's speeches on reforms and progress from the balcony. The lack of darkness (or light, if this catastrophic event occurred at night) threw out their digestions and there were complaints of eyeache and headache. Barricades could only too easily go up in the ghetto, if the streets happened to be narrow at the time, and home-made weapons were directed at the troops. Usually, there was a short insurrection, and much bloodshed. Mrs Poynter hated violence; so, Poynter remembered from his conversation at morning tea, did Cecilia; and a bad impression of the City would be registered on the novelist. Further, and here Mr Poynter stopped cursing and groaned aloud, it was his daughter's ball tonight. Nothing appeared more squalid, in a peaceful, well-run State, than the sight of the Top Rank cavorting in a surround of Security Guards. To cancel the ball was out of the question, even if it had to take place in the light from the early morning sun. It would be an admission of weakness, of fear at the consequences. He thought of giving orders to leave the candles in the great chandeliers unlit, but realised he was already admitting defeat to himself. Something must be done; and quickly and subtly now, before the populace
looked up to see the sun at its zenith and understood the truth. He took the chauffeur's arm and led him a few steps to the side of the car, out of earshot of the sentry.

“I don't want to go to my wife's house at the moment. Do you hear me? I want to be taken to the park, and then on to Lady Kitty Carson's. Possibly the Portrait Gallery. And be sharp about it, will you?”

Poynter went to the car and opened the door himself. He was convinced now that only Cecilia Houghton could solve this problem for him. With her ingenuity and love of moderation … he swung himself half into the deeply padded seats and then stopped, his body in the position of a sitting man but only air under him and the surprised face of the chauffeur looking down into his eyes.

“I'm sorry sir. But those were Orders. It's your wife's Residence we're going to.” The chauffeur climbed into the driving seat and instantly Poynter was released from his discomfort and found himself sitting in the back, the car purring softly at a ceremonial ten miles an hour towards the smart district. He gritted his teeth in rage.

“Didn't you hear me?”

“You remember what happened last time, Sir.”

So the man knew! Perhaps it was later than Poynter thought—after noon and trouble already brewing in the ghetto. Perhaps he even knew of the terrible time when Mr Poynter had found himself stuck there, endlessly repeating the Victorian fetishistic fantasies which had seemed so entertaining at the beginning of the evening—it had been touch and go then, with Poynter's First-in-Command having to quell the insurrection while the leader went on hands and knees, again and again, to kiss the dainty laced boots and frilled camiknickers of the exhausted girls, as to whether the City would fall to the revolutionaries or control would be regained. Mr Poynter shuddered. Rumours travelled fast in the City, however hard he tried to repress them.

“Very well then.” He spoke in a dignified tone. It was
true that the re-enacting of the preceding sequence had never worked before, and things had always remained stubbornly stuck until the use of violence was the only means, but it was worth trying. Cecilia would almost certainly approve of his efforts, he reflected as the car carried him inexorably past the neat front gardens and down Rainbow Avenue to his wife's house. He would have done what he could. But the thought of his wife—and the unpleasant sandy marks on the lawn and the drawing room carpet, too—filled him with displeasure and disgust. The only hope was to try and speed the thing up—or it would be lunchtime and still no glimpse of Mrs Houghton at all. He raced through the early morning's events in his head, deciding to cut out Mrs Poynter's expressions of astonishment and grief.

The first part of the scene did indeed seem to go more quickly. Poynter went through the sprinklers at double speed, so that he emerged at the front steps of his house only slightly damp; and this time, keeping his eyes carefully averted from the lawn, he managed to miss out the muddy trail which had proved so unpleasant a part of the early morning dream. He went through the blue hall at a gallop, and arrived in the heavenly drawing room hand held out in front of him in the effort to stall the breakdown and recovery sequence on the part of his wife. His heart was racing; but he felt it was only a matter of seconds before he was back in the car again, the sun mounting the sky to the meridian, and Cecilia captured. What met his gaze, instead of bringing him to the standstill so common in his City (he wondered sometimes if these stoppages were due to a missed heartbeat while sleeping) led him to increase his velocity—and it was only by flinging himself at the trunk of the ancient oak on the sward beyond the French windows that he was able to come to a halt at all. The bump against the knotted oak shook him considerably, and he stood dazed for a moment, spread-eagled on the solid expanse of his famous heritage.