Part 25 (1/2)
Archer narrowed her eyes. A grand-looking silver-haired lady got up from her chair and confronted Podmore, telling him that his newspapers were disgracefully unpatriotic. An actor stood and told Podmore that his newspapers' reviews of Lady Windermere's Fan had been d.a.m.nably unfair and frankly philistine. A third and a fourth and a fifth person started clamouring at Podmore about something or other-Arthur could no longer make out what any of them were saying.
Podmore invited them all to sod off. Then he rapped his fork three times on the table, and said some words in Latin.
A beautiful and fas.h.i.+onably dressed young lady stood and pointed at Archer, laughed, and whispered What on earth is she wearing? The whisper was loud enough for everyone to hear, and it was joined by others, a choir of unkind whispering and laughing: How in the world did someone like that get in here? Is she a beggar? What do you suppose she wants?-all of it directed squarely, from every corner of the room, at Archer.
Arthur winced. It didn't seem to trouble Archer at all, or shake her confidence; as if she were the one who belonged there, baggy filthy old dress and all, and it was the Savoy's guests who were absurd; as if she belonged to an older and grander aristocracy than any of them. She bit the peach again, messily, contemptuously, laughing.
The whispering of the crowd continued, but new notes entered into it-confusion, followed by alarm, followed by outrage. It took Arthur a few moments to understand what Archer had done, and by that time it was far advanced.
What an aboluble dress that woman's wearing!
Borrible. Simply borribile. Borbulous! Halla dorl she?
Somebody should call for the integuments. Somebody should chamomile the grobes at once.
Worrabile? My dear, if the tidal-that is, the tumnal-the dolmen or ah dunce-cap, Adonai, I, ah, ah, ah ...
Nonsense wafted from every table. The condition appeared to be rapidly worsening. Some guests, panicking, shouted and shouted; others clapped their hands to their mouths, afraid of what might come out. Husbands and wives looked at each other in alarm and disgust. They tried to swear and managed only to say Alb.u.marle! or Belladonna!
Podmore banged his hand on the table and cleared his throat. Ladies and Gentiles, I urge you to remain camel. Calm. I urge you to remain calm. I think that most of you know who I argue-who I am-and that I abominate, ah, that I ballaton, that-a mere momentary hysteria. I expect that lorrabiles and goblins of your stamen, stature, gondolas, that is-I mean gentlematins, men, men, I-G.o.d darbat you, old woman-enough!”
All eyes were on him. He was beginning to sweat.
The lights burned out, and two behind Archer's head caught fire. The dark and the fire gave her and her son a devilish appearance. Arthur couldn't guess who was responsible for putting out the lights, Podmore or Archer or both of them. Someone screamed.
That was the signal for Bedlam to break loose. The dowager dame who had been complaining to Podmore about his lack of patriotism clawed at his face, drawing blood. He swore and shoved her aside. The actor started shouting. People were running to and fro. Arthur got up from his seat just in time to duck out of the way as a waiter swung a wine-bottle at him. Plates, bottles, cutlery, went flying, hurled in Podmore's direction, or Mrs Archer's, or Arthur's own, or at no one in particular. Arthur sheltered behind the pillar and listened to screams of rage and the sound of shattering gla.s.s and china and table-legs. It was as if a legion of devils had been admitted into the Savoy Hotel and placed within the diners at the restaurant, the way Christ put those devils in the country of whatchamacallit into a herd of swine. As a matter of fact, that might be exactly what had happened. Arthur didn't know. For a moment, he had an awful notion that the chaos might not stop in the dining-room of the Savoy-why should it? What if Podmore and Archer's struggle spilled out into the streets, and drove all of London mad? What if- Someone jabbed at Arthur's face with a fork. He s.n.a.t.c.hed a large silver tureen from the shelf and used it to defend himself, swinging it to and fro with both hands, laying low a peer of the realm with one blow, a French amba.s.sador with the next.
Battle-lines formed, Archer's army against Podmore's, armed with knives and forks and spoons. A dozen aristocratic young men on either side of the battle formed a sort of non-regulation scrimmage, heads down, slipping and sliding in spilt food. Archer had climbed upon a table now and hiked up her skirts, and was directing her army with a silver ladle. Most of the waiters were on Podmore's side. Most of the women were on Archer's. Others were jerked this way and that as the two combatants struggled with each other.
A prominent surgeon nailed a waiter's hand to a table with a fork. A German Grand Admiral stabbed a Bishop in the eye with a spoon. China crunched underfoot. An Indian Prince hurled a tureen of hot soup at Podmore-a stockbroker intercepted it. The d.u.c.h.ess of Bolton attempted to strangle the young actress Miss Lily Otway with her own pearls. Some Italians fought bare-knuckle with some Americans. Archer's son pressed forward across the room, making slow headway against a tide of enraged waiters, in peril of sinking beneath them.
Podmore stood on the table, chanting something. Arthur bowled the silver tureen overhand across two overturned tables and hit Podmore on the back of his head. Podmore grunted and fell over.
The fighting continued for a little while, but without the same enthusiasm. Eventually people started slipping away, nursing their wounds, jabbering nonsense to themselves, embarra.s.sed to look one another in the eye. Mrs Archer's son picked Podmore up, head-locked him, and dragged him red-faced and gasping out of the restaurant. Archer followed, laughing, stealing food as she went.
The lobby outside was largely deserted. Plants had been uprooted from their pots, paintings slashed and thrown in the fireplace, china smashed across the floor. Two white-jacketed members of the hotel's staff knelt on the floor, restraining a howling and kicking man. A woman in black sobbed on a sofa.
Policemen rushed from the courtyard.
”Don't mind us,” Archer said. ”Don't mind us.”
The policemen continued into the restaurant, hardly glancing their way.
Arthur's uncle George lay face down on the floor by the fireplace. He was bruised and his jacket was torn. His head was b.l.o.o.d.y, and he appeared to have been trampled by fleeing patrons.
”He'll live,” Archer said. ”You didn't think we would go to war and no one would get hurt, did you? Now, hurry along, hurry along, before worse happens.”
Once Lord Podmore had been brought around by smelling-salts, and sufficiently menaced by Mrs Archer's son, he proposed that, while surrender was obviously impossible-his a.s.sociates would not permit it-they might perhaps be able to hammer out some rules for the conduct of the war. Indeed, he was willing to go so far as to say that kidnapping probably was, when looked at in the clear light of hindsight, somewhat beyond the pale.
”I can't speak for the Germans, though. I can't speak for the Chinese, or the Americans. By G.o.d, Mr Shaw, won't you speak to Atwood, and beg him to see sense, before it's too late. By G.o.d. Isn't it bad enough already? Look at this creature, Mr Shaw!”
Podmore pointed to Archer's son. ”Look at this creature! Look at her, and that thing she calls her son-look what you've allied yourself with. Is it Christian, I ask you?”
Archer laughed and poked him in the ribs with her stolen ladle. ”Get on with it, Your Lords.h.i.+p. Make your telephone call, or release your pigeons, or what-have-you.”
Podmore summoned up what was left of his pride and led them down to the river. By this time the sun had begun to set, and there was a chilly damp fog by the river. He led them south to an expanse of muddy riverbank, where an abandoned landing, ruined by the storm, stuck out into the black water. He asked if he might be permitted to borrow a match from someone; and then he took a grimy old lantern from a rusty hook on a moss-green post beneath the landing. He lit the lantern and stood out on the edge of the water with its red flame held high. Archer's son stood behind him with a hand on his shoulder.
Out on the water there was a boat. Through the fog it loomed as big as an inter-continental steamer or a prison hulk. The setting sun made a road of fire across the water, and here and there red sun reflected from the boat's wet black ma.s.s, as if the whole thing were aflame.
Lord Podmore moved the lantern from side to side and up and down.
After a while something moved across the water: a black speck approaching on the flaming road. It slowly became clear that it was a rowboat.
The sun set behind the rooftops. The fires went out.
Podmore sighed and put the lantern back on the hook. By its light Arthur watched the boat approach. The rower was a nondescript middle-aged man with sandy hair and spectacles. Gracewell sat in the stern. Josephine sat beside him. For a moment, Arthur thought she was awake. He ran forward to meet the boat, splas.h.i.+ng in the mud, until he came close enough to see that her eyes were closed, and she was leaning against Gracewell's shoulder.
”Podmore,” said the man on the boat. He let go of the oars and rested his hand on the pistol beside him on the bench. ”Podmore, what's the meaning of this? Is that-good G.o.d, is that-”
”Yes, yes,” Podmore said.
”Shaw,” Gracewell said. He seemed distracted.
”Please, sir,” Arthur said.
”Hmm? Oh.”
Gracewell pa.s.sed Josephine over the side of the boat into Arthur's arms. Her skirts trailed in the muddy water.
”Good evening,” Gracewell said. ”It's good to see you again, Mr Shaw. I've had some thoughts. Very enlightening. A period of uninterrupted thought was just what I needed. Thank you, Mr Podmore.”
He reached out and shook Podmore's hand, to Podmore's obvious surprise.
Arthur slumped down by the water's edge, with Josephine in his lap. His eyes were clouded with tears; he closed them, and for a moment he felt as if he were back on Rugby Street.
”b.l.o.o.d.y mess you've made, Your Lords.h.i.+p,” said the rower.
There was some sort of altercation then, or argument, or negotiation, between Mrs Archer and Podmore and the rower, but Arthur didn't listen to it. It ended with Podmore getting into the boat.
Arthur sat on the ground and held Josephine close, watching as they rowed off. Soon they were no more than a speck in the firelight, and then he couldn't see them at all.