Alan Hollinghurst - The Stranger’s Child

‘What an exceptionally pretty hat, if I may say so,’ said Cecil, as they started back together up the path.

Daphne looked up at him with an idiotic smile. ‘Oh, thank you, Cecil!’ she said. ‘Thank you.’ And as they walked on: ‘Yes, I’ve received any number of compliments on this hat.’

To George it was entirely irksome having Daphne with them for the walk home – twenty minutes that he and Cecil might have spent alone. He wondered what further chances they would have before the van came in the morning. After supper, perhaps, they might slip outside for a cigar. And of course they could start very early indeed and walk to the station, and Jonah could go in the van with Cecil’s bags. He thought intently about how to propose these arrangements, only sharing in the chatter with a tone of wan good cheer. Wherever they paused to let one another go ahead through a gap in the undergrowth George patted Cecil, and sometimes Cecil abstractedly patted him back. Soon they left the woods by a different path, and then they were out in the lane… a high load of straw creaking past on a wagon, a motor-car caught behind it, banging and fuming. It seemed to him Cecil was taking quite unnecessary interest in Daphne, bending to her, shielding her as they scooted past the smelly car; but he had a picture too of his own silly jealousy, scuffing along behind this comical couple, the tall dark athlete with his ears curled outwards by an oversized boater and the little girl in a bright red hat trotting eagerly beside him.

And there, already, was the steep red roof of ‘Two Acres’, the low wall, the front gate, the row of dark-leaved cherry-trees outside the dining-room window. The front door stood open, in the summer way, into the shadowy hall. Beyond it, the garden door too stood open, the afternoon light glinting softly on polished oak, a china bowl – one could pass right through the house, like a breeze. Over the door was the nailed-up horseshoe, and beneath it the old palm cross. George felt the unseen jostling of different magics, varying systems of good luck. It was something extraordinary they were doing, he and Cecil, a mad vertiginous adventure. On the hall-stand hung Hubert’s irreproachable bowler, and their father’s old billycock hat that was always left there, as if he might return or, having returned, feel the need to go out again. Cecil looked round, with George’s boater in his hand, and tossed it with a slight spin through the air so that it landed on a free peg. ‘Ha!’ he said, with a little smirk of satisfaction at George and at himself. George found his hand was trembling as he hung up Cecil’s cap beside it.

‘Cecil, you’ve performed a miracle,’ said Daphne.

‘My dear girl…’ said Cecil complacently.

‘You’ve turned water into wine.’

‘Well,’ murmured Hubert, with a quick glance at his mother, ‘a special occasion.’

‘We not infrequently have wine on Sunday,’ said George.

‘A very sad occasion,’ said their mother, shaking her head as she raised her glass. ‘We can’t have Cecil drinking water on his last night with us. Whatever would he think.’

‘I should think you jolly insensitive,’ said Cecil, knocking back his glass of hock.

‘Indeed!’ said Daphne, who was still forced to keep their normal Sunday commons. Sunday was Cook’s night off, and they had sat down to a bare supper of jellied chicken and salad. They had given up the festive style, there was a sense of looking ahead – after the champagne and Tennyson of their earlier dinners, the table tonight seemed tactfully to prepare them for the prose of Monday morning.

‘Yes, we’ll be sorry to see you go, old chap,’ said George.

‘Such a pity…’ said his mother, with an uncertain little smile at Daphne.

Daphne in turn peered at George, who did look oddly wretched – she knew the way his face went stiff with feeling, just as she knew his irritable frown when he found he was being stared at. ‘You’ll be back in Cambridge in a fortnight,’ she said.

‘Oh, I think we’ll get by,’ said Cecil absently.

Daphne said, ‘I mean, George is all right, but we won’t see Cecil for ages, perhaps never again!’

Cecil seemed pleased by this histrionic claim, and his dark eyes held hers as he laughed, and said, ‘You must come to Cambridge too. Mustn’t she, Georgie?’

‘Oh, rather…’ said George dully.

‘Hmm…’ said Daphne.

‘No, of course you must,’ said George in a sincere tone; though she knew that George didn’t want her in Cambridge, ‘tagging along’, breaking in on his important discussions with Cecil, and all the other things she was prone to do.

‘You might all come up for the French play,’ said Cecil.

‘I suppose so,’ said Daphne, though she felt she heard in this general invitation a note that she hadn’t suspected before, the note of a general boredom.

‘What are you doing?’ said her mother.

‘The Dom Juan of Molière,’ said Cecil, as if it was something they all knew well. Daphne knew enough to know what it was about – a lady’s man – a womanizer, in fact! ‘I’m taking Sganarelle – rather a fine part, though of course a great deal to learn.’

‘It’s in French, you know,’ said George, which if it was meant to put his sister off was fairly effective.

‘I see,’ said Daphne. ‘I’m not sure I’d be able to follow a whole play in French.’ She hardly thought it worth it just to watch Cecil prancing around, with a cloak and sword, probably. But at once she had a pang at the thought of missing it.

‘How marvellous,’ said her mother graciously, excusing herself as well.

A little later Cecil said to George, as if the others weren’t there, ‘I’ll have to get ahead with my paper on Havelock this week,’ so that Daphne had a clear sense that he had already left them, might even have preferred to go today, after lunch.

When supper was over, George was sent round to the Cosgroves’ on some mission he clearly thought beneath him, Hubert claimed he had letters to write, and their mother, trailing into the drawing-room, paused, raised a finger, and went out again. Cecil and Daphne were left for a minute on the hearth-rug. Daphne saw this as the threshold to the grownup end of the evening, with social requirements she wasn’t quite sure of.

‘I don’t suppose you want to hear the gramophone,’ she said. She had a sense of opportunity, made more incoherent by her new fear of boring Cecil.

‘Not specially,’ he said, casually but kindly, with a smile she hadn’t seen before, a candid gape that slightly startled her, and was probably a Cambridge thing: it was hard to work out, but at Cambridge it seemed it was almost a sign of respect to be disrespectful, to say just what you felt at any time. Well, candour was their watchword! Cecil was fingering in his waistcoat pocket, then brought out his little clipper. He said, ‘I wonder if Miss Sawle would care to keep me company while I enjoy my cigar?’

‘Oh, yes!’ said Daphne. ‘Oh, I’ll get a coat,’ and she ran to the cloakroom under the stairs. It was such an exciting idea that there were bound to be strenuous arguments against it. But that was part of Cecil’s atmosphere and appeal. She came back, not with her own dull coat, but with one of George’s old tweed jackets round her shoulders. She liked the air of improvisation, a man’s jacket seemed to show she was up for a lark, and to carry some chivalrous hint of her need for protection. ‘It’s a little bit smelly,’ she said; though she hardly imagined that would worry Cecil.

‘Well, I’m going to make a smell too.’

‘Well, quite.’

‘I may be being too sensitive,’ said Cecil, glancing towards the door. ‘The General’s so down on smoke, at home we all sneak off to the smoking-room. She’s made it into quite a guilty pleasure.’