Hotel de Dream (9 page)

“Cridge, don't you think Mrs Houghton should be told lunch is ready? The bell wasn't very loud today, you know.”

“I'm sure she won't want to miss lunch,” Miss Briggs murmured in agreement. Poynter accorded her one of his rare approving smiles.

“It was delicious, Cridge,” said Miss Briggs. She raised a majestic hand to show that her plate could now be removed, and in his hurry to adapt from batman's limp to bowing servitor, Cridge fell against her table and righted himself mumbling his apologies. It was new to him, this personality of Miss Briggs's, and he felt obscurely that something of importance had taken place in the hotel that morning, that he was in the presence of the Great. He resolved to pay less attention to Mr Poynter's foibles, and to forget Miss Scranton altogether. Mrs Houghton, he hoped, would show the right respect for Miss Briggs. He looked to Miss Briggs for confirmation of Mr Poynter's suggestion, and saw Mrs Routledge staring at him in irritation from the hall.

“Yes, do go up and tell her,” Miss Briggs said sweetly. “It's the noisy typewriter, I'm sure!”

Cridge perfected his obeisance and went to the stairs.

As he climbed, and turned on the landing away from Mrs Routledge's penetrating gaze, the air grew thinner and he heard the sound of oars dipping in water, and small clouds appeared which floated about his head in the washed blue of the sky. When he reached the corridor he rubbed his eyes and stopped dead in his tracks, for he was in the Norfolk creek of seven years ago again, and Mrs Houghton had drawn him into her flashback, quite unwitting of the consequences. After a moment or so he walked on, treading the corridor from memory, for in reality it was low tide and there was wet mud at his feet. He knocked on Mrs Houghton's door and went in. It was thus that Mrs Routledge lost the small chance she had of realising a peaceful, productive and possibly romantic meeting with Mr Rathbone the following day.

Mr Rathbone walked in the park. To see Mr Rathbone walk—and this he did with a roll and a bounce that suggested he felt himself to be on the high seas, not under way but in a trim vessel anchored by a long rope to the ocean bed—was to realise that however invisible his assets might be, Mr Rathbone was as a person very visible indeed. A great swell of money ran beneath his feet, the wind running high sometimes and Mr Rathbone rocking slightly, then recovering balance; in periods of calm, when the deep waters only hinted at the turmoil under him, the snakes and flecks of currencies adrift and he upright, he was more evidently than ever in command and could be seen for miles around. If he was larger than life, then so were the objects he came in contact with: the pink horse chestnuts on the branches above him in the avenue made fat spears over his head; outsize dogs seemed always to be attracted to him when he went walking; large women, richly dressed, strolled about the horizons of his gaze. Policemen and park keepers encountered by Mr Rathbone were splendid specimens, and he could look them in the eye when asking for directions. Giant babies might receive a smile from him as they lay in prams the size of small cars. Everything in Mr Rathbone's world was to his scale, and could even be said to be growing yearly, so that if Mr Rathbone had his way the population explosion would consist not of millions of underfed but of a few people of his sort increasing in girth at a dizzying rate, and needing appropriately expanding accommodation. It was his intention that this should happen, and as his big,
hand-made shoes trod the ill-kept paths of the park, he worked out further schemes in his head towards its coming to pass. He saw his country in ruins—the sad appearance of the park testified to that, and the occasional glimpse of a dwarfish person, never before noticed by Mr Rathbone—and he knew that only his own growth could save it. By this evening he would be in a stronger position than ever to come to the rescue of his native island. For at 3 p.m. Mr Rathbone was due to be knighted by the Queen. He saw himself kneel, and rise several inches taller than when he had gone down. Because of the important event later in the day, he had decided to stay away from the office and take advantage of the spring air. Besides, he had no wish to get in the way of his wife as she prepared for the ceremony. The Rathbones were anxious to conceal their wealth and lived in a flat so small that it could hardly contain the two of them at the same time (his mate was of a fitting size for Mr Rathbone). She would be pulling dresses over her head, and arms akimbo meant danger to the other. He strolled with a purposeful air beneath the chestnuts, bringing embarrassment, shame or resentment to the habitual users of the lovely park.

A small boy ran up to Mr Rathbone. As the financier had come to expect, the small boy, although probably only ten years old, was sturdier and more stalwart than most of the other, fully grown inhabitants of the globe; his cheeks were red and his eyes were shining. Mr Rathbone fished in his pocket for a 1op piece, as he believed in helping the flourishing along as best he could. But the boy, to his surprise, shook his head and refused the coin. He was holding an early edition of an evening paper and waved it in Mr Rathbone's face, while at the same time a stream of excited words came out of his mouth. Mr Rathbone stooped; it was a long way down, over waistcoat, and careful paunch; and came on a level with the boy. As he descended, he saw out of the corner of his eye a distinctly tiny park-keeper
shovelling at the untidy gravel at the side of the path. The wizened creature looked up and grinned at him, and Mr Rathbone frowned. It wasn't often that he came down to this level, and he had no intention of staying there long, hobnobbing with the people who appeared to live there. But something in the headline that danced up and down before him gave a sense of premonition. He grabbed the paper when he was near enough to it, and regained his height.

“TROUBLE AT THE PALACE,” he read out, as the chubby boy shouted and jumped at his feet. “It is not yet possible to discover the exact sequence or content of the strange happenings at the Palace in the last twenty-four hours. It is thought that the grounds, and the Palace itself, may be occupied by alien forces. Other reports suggest that the site has been abruptly vacated, and that an armed entry could be risked. What is known is that the fore-courtyard is practically impregnable. Although the gate is open, and there is no sign of habitation, those civilians who have attempted to cross the yard have found themselves unable to go on. The army may be sent in this evening.”

“Well I'm damned,” said Mr Rathbone aloud when he had read this. “And what about my knighthood? This is ridiculous.”

He began to stride at speed down the Avenue. The boy ran beside him; and to Mr Rathbone's annoyance the miniature park-keeper joined in, his unwieldy rake and shovel banging on the hard gravel as he ran.

“Hey, I want my paper back!” The boy leapt, but the newspaper might have been a kite, it was so high above him.

Mr Rathbone held it out before his large, blinking eyes and went at the rate of a carthorse towards the entrance to the park. Several statuesque, fur-coated women turned in surprise at the sight of a member of their species abandoning dignity, and it was remarked that the currency must have collapsed at last, for Mr Rathbone had many who would
do his running for him. As he passed, they too began to lope after him, and soon the park was emptied of the bigger members of the race, leaving the undersized an unprecedented amount of space among the ornamental pools and landscaped gardens. Only the midget keeper, running on his short legs with agility and determination, succeeded in staying abreast of Mr Rathbone in the great exodus.

“I know what's happened, Guv!” The words floated up to Mr Rathbone, as he jogged; he frowned again, and jogged on. But the squeaky voice at his elbow persisted. “The wife heard about it from one of the cleaners. They cleared out this morning. It's the atom bomb. You know.”

Mr Rathbone slowed, and his unwanted retinue bumped into him from behind. Expensive scents filled the air and soft furs rubbed together as the women, only a few moments before happily discontented in their morning stroll in the park, collided and grumbled with fear in his wake.

“What do you mean, the atom bomb?” Rathbone demanded. In his mind's eye he saw his empire blown to pieces, his currency laid waste over the face of the globe. He thought of gold, melting in the great heat from the holocaust, the magic substance seeping like butter into the blasted earth. Paper notes, torn and useless, blew unpegged in the dim air. “I haven't seen anything about the bomb lately,” he snapped. He had come to a halt, however, for rumour, in his world, could raise and destroy as efficiently as the most powerful explosion. The women crowded in round him, all gazing down as he did at the tiny man, who came to resemble now a captured frog on the stretch of grass beside the gate.

“It may not be straightaway, Guv. But Meg, this friend of the wife's, heard them all go off when everyone was asleep. And there's someone else in charge now.”

It all sounded—and Mr Rathbone could not say why, perhaps it was because his nerves were strained for violent times, for the battle of petrodollars and the crises of confidence as the war of underprivileged economies went on,
the pound held hostage while the mark and franc ran free—only too horribly true. He wondered wildly what monetary resources the escaping Royals had taken with them, and above all where they had gone. He felt offended that no invitation had been sent to him to accompany them in their flight. He could have been knighted anywhere—even en route would have done. He looked blindly round him, at the wide mascaraed eyes of the ladies, and lowered the paper in defeat. The boy snatched it and galloped off.

“Where have they gone, d'you know? And who's in charge, for God's sake?” It seemed intolerable that this dwarf should be in possession of such valuable knowledge. But the little man shook his head. There was a stubborn glint in his eyes.

“I can't say, Guv. Sorry about that.”

“What? You can't say? We'll see about that!”

A tremor of rage had seized Mr Rathbone. It was seldom that he allowed himself to lose control, and it presented a strange spectacle: his well-covered frame shook and juddered, as if the rope attaching him to the ocean bed had come loose and all the force of the rebellious tons of water below him were rising up against his ship; he rolled from side to side on the balls of his feet in his attempt to fight the storm; and his face was a pale yellow, as if sea-sickness had finally found the experienced sailor after all these years. He grabbed hold of the keeper and lifted him several feet in the air. The ladies gasped, and a murmur of disapproval at his extreme behaviour made itself heard. It was accepted amongst the big people that there were more subtle methods, moderate in appearance, for dealing with this type of insubordination.

“Now tell me!” yelled Mr Rathbone. “Go on, or I'll throw you!”

“I don't know, Guv! Honest I don't!”

An unpleasant silence ensued. Then one of the ladies—she came towards him in her mink with a delicate air, and
seemed almost loath to approach him at all—bravely gave a gentle tug at Mr Rathbone's sleeve.

“Do put the poor little man down! I'm sure he knows nothing. I mean, how could he? I do think it's time we went to the Palace and saw for ourselves, don't you?”

The request was reasonable, and also presented a challenge to Mr Rathbone; accordingly, he let the keeper drop to the ground and nodded briskly.

“I quite agree. What's all this nonsense about no one being able to cross the front courtyard. I never heard such rubbish in my life!”

He marched to the gate and turned into the street, the ladies, after a hurried confabulation, following. From the Rathbone flat at the edge of the park, Mr Rathbone's wife looked out at the procession in perplexity. She was half way into her dress, and stood at the window of their modest bedroom unsure what to do. It seemed that her husband was leading some delegation—something to do with the upkeep of the parks perhaps—but why, when he was just about to receive the greatest honour of his life? She felt a sudden annoyance with him. It was so like her husband to be selfish at such a time. She opened the window and shouted out to him, but her voice was blown away in the wind. On the pavement below her stood a small park-keeper, and he was shaking his rake at the fast-vanishing throng. He saw her and opened his mouth to shout.

“I'm getting the police! Bodily molested!”

He went off down the road limping and Mrs Rathbone felt even more angry and unsure. She sat down on the economy-size bed, and began her long wait.

Miss Briggs woke from her afternoon doze (thus causing Mr Rathbone, who had just that minute arrived at the gates of the Palace, to look around in anger and consternation at the ordinariness of the scene: the Changing of the Guard was under way; tourists and pigeons fluttered in the Mall; the Royal flag was firmly in place: he had a horrible feeling he was dreaming, there in the wrong clothes an hour before the investiture and his poor wife waiting in their flat before his laid-out tails: he hailed a cab and went home); and turned uneasily in her narrow bed before falling off to sleep again. She dreamed of her childhood in India, and the thin fringe of tropical trees that bordered the lawn of her father's house. There were often birds in the trees, and in the long mornings between piano lessons and French she would lie beside her mother on a deckchair on the unconvincing grass, listening to their dry call, watching the Indian gardener move slowly with a hosepipe round their feet. Her mother smoked, and threw cigarette butts on to the grass, where they seemed to shrivel almost at once in the heat of the sun. Or the gardener would crawl towards them and retrieve them, and make them vanish somehow, as if he were performing a conjuring trick, between his yellow thumb and finger. Sometimes he stood a long while without moving the hosepipe, and the trickle of water bored a small round black hole in the grass. At the end of the morning, when Miss Briggs opened her eyes, he had disappeared, his bare feet had left no imprint. She went in with her mother to steak and kidney pudding and treacle tart, and they lay
all afternoon in the dim drawing room, the great fan on the ceiling ruffling the moist hair (it would have been fair in England, but here the heat and wet had turned it green, it receded from their pale foreheads in transparent wisps); they waited for the sudden night, and the arrival of other officials and their wives for dinner, and the silence of the birds, the beginning of the night lizards in the trees. In their house there were containers for everything. The poor wine was poured into glass decanters and stood in little silver baskets on the table, the rubbish was put into bins, the food was sealed in china dishes, but outside there was nothing to hold anything in at all. When Miss Briggs went out in a rickshaw she felt she was falling off the edge of the world. India was so vast; and there were no containers anywhere. The food lay spread out on the ground, and so did the waste. Many of the people were not even contained in houses. She made a giddy tour of the market, where the bright cottons and perishable goods were here one moment and gone the next, and bought a sari length and went home. The rains were coming soon. Europeans walked with a firmer step, as if a longed-for frost was on the way. When she came near to her house, she saw her mother through the window, and her mother called out to her that she was writing to Harrods for their catalogue. Tears came into Miss Briggs's eyes, although she had hardly ever been to England. The old governess was playing the piano in the nursery, and there was a rattle of crockery from the kitchen. Miss Briggs embraced her mother and sank on to a buttoned sofa. When she woke she was crying, and a late, reluctant sun was coming out of the mist round the Westringham. She lay thinking of her responsibilities, unaware that already her dreams were penetrating the world around her; that millions of people, that afternoon, had dreamed of Empire and glory in their shrinking patch of space, homesick (as she had been for birch trees and ploughed fields she hardly knew), for power and tropics to control. She sighed; and willed herself to her Palace dream
again. There was plenty to be done, and she alone could do it. It seemed, as her eyes closed and opened again in the splendours of the Throne Room, that an investiture was expected to take place. A silver sword lay on a tasselled cushion at her side. Many of the great works of art had disappeared, but Miss Briggs decided to pay no attention to this. She lifted the sword and waited, and thought, in the moment before the opening of the majestic doors, of the Indian gardener on the lawn and the hosepipe in his hand, and the way he stood with his legs bent and his head back, staring up at the sky and the trees.