When they emerged, their heads spinning with Viennese music, the fog was so thick that the busmen had gone on strike, leaving their vehicles standing about the streets and blocking most of the other traffic. In some of the buses passengers bearing holly and rocking-horses, were defining and proclaiming their rights; in some, mistletoe was being hoisted; and in some, tramps were beginning to bed down for the holiday. Every now and then a bus became dark, as its battery failed or miscarried. Over all could already be felt the spirit of Christmas.
‘Let’s look for the tube.’
But when they found it, the Underground had ceased to run. Across the entry was a strong iron gate, bearing the notice ‘Special Christmas Service’, surrounded by little figures of Santa Claus.
‘Let’s walk. Do you mind, Griselda?’
‘Of course not, Geoffrey.’
‘Fortunately I’m good at finding the way.’
‘I can’t see my feet.’
Allowing for errors of direction, and the further time consumed in retracing their steps, the walk took until a quarter to one. By the time she reached their attic flat, Griseida’s legs were cold, her respiration clogged, and her spirits chastened.
Kynaston left her alone in their bedroom (where his single divan bed had been supplemented by its double) to undress. Almost at once she was in bed. Rather charmingly, Kynaston then appeared with a glass of hot milk and some bread and treacle.
‘Would you like a hot water bottle?’
‘It’s lovely of you, Geoffrey, to work so hard, but I don’t use them.’
‘I do.’
‘That’s all right.’
Kynaston disappeared again and was gone some time. After the hot milk, Griselda felt not anticipatory but comatose. Ultimately Kynaston returned. He wore pyjamas. He must have changed in the sitting room.
He crossed to Griselda’s bed, where she lay with her eyes shut.
‘You look tired, darling. I suggest we just sleep. There’s all day tomorrow.’
Griselda opened her eyes. ‘Yes, darling, let’s just sleep.’ He kissed her lips fondly.
All the same it was disappointing. Griselda could not resolve how disappointing.
Kynaston put out the light.
‘I think we’d better keep to our own beds. For tonight. Else we might spoil things. Because I’m sure you must be cold and tired.’
‘I agree.’ But Griselda was now perfectly warm and, for some reason, much less tired.
She rolled round and round in her bed several times.
Then without warning in the darkness Kynaston said ‘Are you a virgin?’
And when Griselda had explained the position, he said ‘I expect we’ll be able to manage;’ then sighed and began to snore.
On Christmas Day Griselda became quite fond of Kynaston. He performed unending small services, and seemed to be filled with happiness every time she smiled. He spent the morning writing a sonnet, while Griselda made a steak-and-kidney pudding. In the afternoon he attempted to codify some new plastic poses, while Griselda mended his clothes. At about the time of the King’s broadcast, however. Griselda became aware of an undefined, unacknowledged strain. At dinner it seemed to have affected Kynaston’s appetite: a very unusual circumstance. Griselda herself continued more cheerful than she had expected. Kynaston’s slight nerviness seemed to make him more attentive than ever, almost anxiously so; and the immediate future aroused interest and curiosity.
After dinner, Kynaston began to read The Faery Queen aloud. Fortunately he did this very well. Every now and then he broke off while Griselda made some more coffee in a laboratorial vessel of glass and chromium which Lotus had given them as a wedding present. On one of these occasions Griselda noticed that Kynaston’s hand shook so much that he spilled the coffee into the saucer.
‘Is anything wrong, darling? You’re shaking like a leaf.’
‘I’m not used to so much happiness.’
‘Does happiness make you tremble?’
‘Of course. Now I’ll go on reading.’
His explanation was convincing but unsatisfying. Griselda felt that happiness precluded while it lasted the thought of its own fleetingness. Kynaston, moreover, every now and then between stanzas, flashed a look at her which was positively panic-stricken.
After several hours of reading, and several rounds of coffee in the pretty shepherdess cups which had been Peggy’s wedding present, Kynaston reached the lines:
‘“Or rather would, O! would it be so chanced,
That you, most noble sir, had present been
When that lewd ribald, with vile lust advanced,
Laid first his filthy hands on virgin clean,
To spoil her dainty corps, so far and sheen
As on the earth, great mother of us all,
With living eye more fair was never seen
Of chastity and honour virginaclass="underline"
Witness, ye heavens, whom she in vain to help did call!”’
At this Kynaston broke off, thought for a moment, while Griselda continued mending a sock, then, with glassy eyes said ‘Darling. Would you care to take off your sweater and skirt?’
‘Of course, darling. If you wish.’ Griselda laid aside the sock and complied with Kynaston’s suggestion.
He looked at her doubtfully, his eyes still glassy. ‘You won’t be cold?’
‘That depends.’
‘You mean on how much longer we go on reading?’
This seemed not to require an answer, so Griselda simply smiled.
‘I’ll finish the canto.’
Griselda sank to the floor and sat close to the heater. Lena had given her a quantity (much greater than Lena could afford) of attractive underclothes as a wedding present, and she felt that she looked appealing as long as she could keep warm. Kynaston resumed:
‘“‘How may it be,’ said then the knight half wroth,
‘The knight should knighthood ever so have spent?’
‘None but that saw,’ quoth he, ‘would ween for troth,
How shamefully that maid he did torment:
Her looser golden locks he rudely rent,
And drew her on the ground; and his sharp sword
Against her snowy breast he fiercely bent,
And threatened death with many a bloody word;
Tongue hates to tell the rest that eyes to see abhorred.’”’
At the end of the canto, Kynaston looked at the floor and said: ‘Magical, isn’t it? And so modern.’
‘How much more is there?’ asked Griselda. She liked The Faery Queen, but was increasingly troubled by the draught along the floor.
‘We’re less than a third through. There are six books. Spenser actually hoped to write twelve. Each is concerned with a different moral virtue. We’ve only just begun Book Two. On Temperence.’
‘I remember,’ said Griselda. ‘What’s Book Three about?’
‘Chastity.’
Griselda’s bare arms were beginning to make goose-flesh.
‘Shall we go to bed, darling? It’s past midnight.’
Kynaston nodded. Griselda put away her pile of socks. Kynaston crossed the room like a man heavily preoccupied, and replaced The Faery Queen on her shelf. Then, pulling himself together, he said ‘Shall I bring you some hot milk? To make you sleep?’
‘I don’t know, darling. Should you?’
Kynaston turned, if possible, a little paler.
‘Or should we both have a stiff drink?’
‘Would that be a good thing?’
‘I’d like you to have what you want.’
‘I want bed. I’m frozen.’
‘I’m terribly sorry. Really I am.’
‘I didn’t mean that at all.’
The sudden turning on of the light emphasized the quantity of fog which had entered the little bedroom. Griselda realized that it was the only day for many mouths on which she had taken no exercise. With shaking hand, she cleaned her teeth, and fell into bed exactly as she was. She lay in the foggy freezing room (for the heater had not yet begun to take effect) with the light on, waiting for Kynaston.