Alan Hollinghurst - The Stranger’s Child

‘Just wait till she starts singing the Ride of the Valkyries,’ Dudley said.

‘Oh, does she do that,’ said Mrs Riley.

‘Well, she loves Wagner,’ said Daphne. ‘You know she took my mother to Bayreuth before the War.’

‘Poor thing…’ said Mrs Riley.

‘She’s never quite recovered,’ said Dudley in a tactful tone, ‘has she, Duffel, your mother, really?’

Mrs Riley chuckled again, and now Daphne looked at her: yes, that was how she chuckled, head back an inch, upper lip spread downwards, a huff of cigarette-smoke: a more or less tolerant gesture as much as a laugh.

‘I don’t rightly know,’ said Daphne, frowning, but seeing the point of keeping her husband in a good humour. A certain amount of baiting of the Sawles would have to be allowed this weekend. She came over with her drink, and dropped into one of the low grey armchairs with a trace of a smirk at its continuing novelty. She thought she’d never seen anything so short, for evening wear, as Eva Riley’s dress, only just on the knee when she sat, or indeed anything so long as her slithering red necklace, doubtless also of her own design. Well, her odd flat body was made for fashion, or at least for these fashions; and her sharp little face, not pretty, really, but made up as if it were, in red, white and black like a Chinese doll. Designers, it seemed, were never off duty. Curled across the corner of a sofa, her red necklace slinking over the grey cushions, Mrs Riley was a sort of advertisement for her room; or perhaps the room was an advertisement for her. ‘I know this weekend has been consecrated to Cecil,’ Daphne said, ‘but actually I’m glad that Clara was persuaded to come. She has no one, really, except my mother. It will mean so much to her. Poor dear, you know she hasn’t even got electricity.’

Dudley snorted delightedly at this. ‘She’ll revel in the electrical fixtures here,’ he said.

Daphne smiled, as if trying not to, while the quick unmeaning use of the word revel lodged and sank in her, a momentary regret; she went on, ‘It’s really rather a hovel she lives in, I mean clean of course, but so tiny and dark. It’s just down the hill from where my mother used to live.’ Still, she knew she had been right to tell Revel not to come.

‘And where you grew up, Duffel,’ said Dudley, as if his wife were getting airs. ‘The famous “Two Acres”.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Mrs Riley. ‘What was it…? “Two blessèd acres of English ground!” ’

‘Indeed!’ said Dudley.

‘I suppose that was Cecil’s most famous poem, wasn’t it?’ said Mrs Riley.

‘I’m not sure,’ said Daphne, with another little frown. There was perhaps something reassuring after all about Eva Riley’s long bare legs. A clever woman aiming to seduce a rich man right under his wife’s nose would surely wear something more discreet, and dissembling. Daphne looked away, and out through the window at the garden already losing colour in the early spring evening. At the top of the central section of each window the Valance coat of arms appeared, with the motto beneath it on a folded strip in Gothic letters. The gaudy little shields looked cheerfully at odds with the cold modernity of the room.

Dudley sipped piously at his cocktail, and said, ‘I can’t help feeling slightly mortified that my brother Cecil, heir to a baronetcy and three thousand acres, not to mention one of the ugliest houses in the south of England, should be best remembered for his ode to a suburban garden.’

‘Well,’ said Daphne stoutly, and not for the first time, ‘it was quite a lovely garden. I hope you’re not going to say things like that to Sebby Stokes.’ She watched Mrs Riley’s heavy-lidded smile indulge them both. ‘Or indeed to my poor mother. She’s very proud of that poem. Besides Cecil wrote far more poems about Corley, masses of them, as you well know.’

‘Castle of exotic dreams,’ said Dudley, in an absurd Thespian tone, ‘mirrored in enamelled streams…’ – but sounding in fact quite like Cecil’s ‘poetry voice’.

‘I’m sure even Cecil never wrote anything so awful as that,’ said Daphne. And Dudley, excited by mockery of anything that others held dear, grinned widely at Eva Riley, showing her, like a flash of nakedness, his glistening dog-teeth. Mrs Riley said, very smoothly, jabbing her cigarette out in the ashtray,

‘I’m surprised your mother didn’t marry again.’

‘The General, dear god!’ said Dudley.

‘No… Lady Valance’s mother,’ said Eva Riley.

‘It never seemed to come up, somehow… I’m not sure she’d have wanted it,’ said Daphne, suppressing, in a kind of ruffled dignity, her own uncomfortable thoughts on the subject.

‘She’s a pretty little thing. And she must have been widowed rather young.’

‘Yes – yes, she was,’ said Daphne, absently but firmly; and looked to Dudley to change the subject. He lit a cigarette, and steadied a heavy silver ashtray on the arm of his chair. It was one of over a hundred items that he had had stamped on the bottom: Stolen from Corley Court . Up in his dressing-room he kept a pewter mug of no great value with Stolen from Hepton Castle invitingly engraved on its underside, and he had followed the practice back at Corley, overseeing the work himself with fierce determination.

‘When’s the Stoker getting here?’ he said, after a bit.

‘Oh, not till quite late, not till after dinner,’ said Daphne.

‘I expect he’s got some extremely important business to attend to,’ said Dudley.

‘There’s some important meeting, something about the miners, you know,’ said Daphne.

‘You don’t know Sebastian Stokes,’ Dudley told Mrs Riley. ‘He combines great literary sensitivity with a keen political mind.’

‘Well, of course I’ve heard of him,’ said Mrs Riley, rather cautiously. In Dudley’s talk candour marched so closely with satire that the uninitiated could often only stare and laugh uncertainly at his pronouncements. Now Mrs Riley leant forward to take a new cigarette from the malachite box on the low table.

‘You don’t need to lose any sleep about the miners with Stokes in charge,’ said Dudley.

‘I’m sleeping like a top as it is,’ she said pertly, fiddling with a match.

Daphne took a warming sip of her gin and thought what she could say about the poor miners, if there had been any point to it at all. She said, ‘I think it’s rather marvellous of him to do all this about Cecil when the Prime Minister needs him in London.’

‘But he idolized Cecil,’ said Dudley. ‘He wrote his obituary in The Times , you know.’

‘Oh, really…?’ said Mrs Riley, as if she’d read it and wondered.

‘He did it to please the General, but it came from the heart. A soldier… a scholar… a poet… etc., etc., etc… etc. … and a gentleman!’ Dudley knocked back his drink in a sudden alarming flourish. ‘It was a wonderful send-off; though of course largely unrecognizable to anyone who’d really known my brother Cecil.’

‘So he didn’t really know him,’ said Mrs Riley, still treading warily, but clearly enjoying the treacherous turn of the talk.

‘Oh, they met a few times. One of Cecil’s bugger friends had him down to Cambridge, and they went in a punt and Cecil read him a sonnet, you know, and the Stoker was completely bowled over and got it put in some magazine. And Cecil wrote him some high-flown letters that he put in The Times later on, when he was dead…’ Dudley seemed to run down, and sat gazing, with eyebrows lightly raised, as if at the unthinkable tedium of it all.

‘I see…’ said Mrs Riley, with a coy smirk, and then looked across at Daphne. ‘I don’t suppose you ever knew Cecil, Lady Valance?’ she said.