The Blind Assassin - Margaret Atwood [213]
Mr. Griffen is rumoured to be in consultation with leading members of the Conservative Party, and to be eyeing the position of helmsman. His speech was roundly applauded.
Mayfair, June 1939
ROYAL STYLE AT
ROYAL GARDEN PARTY
BY CYNTHIA FERVIS
Five thousand honoured guests of Their Excellencies, Lord and Lady Tweedsmuir, stood spellbound along the garden walks at His Majesty’s birthday party at Government House in Ottawa, as Their Majesties made their gracious rounds.
At half-past four they emerged from Government House by the Chinese Gallery. The King was in morning dress; the Queen chose beige, with soft fur and pearls and a large slightly uptilted hat, her face delicately flushed, her warm blue eyes smiling. All were charmed by her entrancing manner.
Walking behind Their Majesties were the Governor General and Lady Tweedsmuir, His Excellency a gracious and genial host, Her Excellency poised and beautiful. Her all-white ensemble, enhanced by fox furs from Canada’s Arctic, was set off by a splash of turquoise in her hat. Presented to Their Majesties were Colonel and Mrs. F. Phelan, of Montreal; she wore a printed silk, on which bloomed small vivid flowers, and her smart hat had a large clear brim of Cellophane. Brigadier General and Mrs. W. H. L. Elkins and Miss Joan Elkins, and Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone Murray were similarly honoured.
Mr. and Mrs. Richard Griffen were singled out; her cape was of silver fox, the furs placed on black chiffon in the form of rays, worn over an orchid costume. Mrs. Douglas Watts wore chartreuse chiffon with a brown velvet jacket, Mrs. F. Reid was trim and lovely in an organdie and Valenciennes lace gown.
No whisper of tea was heard until the King and Queen had waved farewell, and the cameras had clicked and flashed, and all voices had been raised in God Save the King. After that the birthday cakes held centre stage . . . enormous white cakes, with snowy icing. The cake served to the King indoors was ornamented not only with roses, shamrocks and thistles, but also with flocks of miniature sugar doves with white pennants in their beaks, the fitting symbols of peace and hope.
The Blind Assassin: The Be rage Room
It’s mid-afternoon, cloudy and humid, everything sticky: her white cotton gloves are already smudged just from holding the railing. The world heavy, a solid weight; her heart pushes against it as if pushing against stone. The sultry air holds out against her. Nothing budges.
But then the train comes in, and she waits at the gate as is required of her, and like a promise fulfilled he comes through it. He sees her, comes towards her, they touch each other quickly, then shake hands as if distantly related. She kisses him briefly on the cheek, because it’s a public place and you never know, and they walk up the slanted ramp into the marble station. She feels new with him, nervous; she’s barely had a chance to look at him. Certainly he’s thinner. What else?
I had the hell of a time getting back. I didn’t have much money. It was tramp steamers all the way.
I would have sent you some money, she says.
I know. But I had no address.
He leaves his duffel at the baggage check, carries only the small suitcase. He’ll pick up the bag later, he says, but right now he doesn’t want to be hampered. People come and go around them, footsteps and voices; they stand irresolute; they don’t know where to go. She should have thought, she should have arranged something, because of course he has no room, not yet. At least she’s got a flask of scotch, tucked into her handbag. She did remember that.
They have to go somewhere so they go to a hotel, a cheap one he remembers. It’s the first time they’ve done this and it’s a risk, but as soon as she sees the hotel she knows that