Alan Hollinghurst - The Stranger’s Child

‘He picked me – he put me up,’ said George curtly, as if he shouldn’t be giving even this much away.

Stokes smiled almost slyly over this. ‘And do you still go back?’

‘So you do know about us, perhaps everyone knows.’

‘Oh, I don’t think by any means.’

George shrugged. ‘I haven’t been back for years. I’m immensely busy with the department in Birmingham. I can’t tell you how it nails me down.’ He heard his own forced note, and thought he saw Stokes hear it too, absorb it and conceal it. He went on, with a quick laugh, ‘I’ve rather left Cambridge behind, to be frank.’

‘Well, perhaps one day they will call you back.’

Stokes seemed to speak from the world of discreet power, of committees and advisers, and George smiled and murmured at his courtesy. ‘Perhaps. Who knows.’

‘And what about letters, by the way?’

‘Oh, I had many letters from him,’ said George, with a sigh, and choosing Stokes’s word, ‘really splendid letters… But I’m afraid they were lost when we moved from “Two Acres”. At least they’ve never turned up.’

‘That is a shame,’ said Stokes, so sincerely as to suggest a vague suspicion. ‘My own letters from Cecil, only a handful, you know, but they were marvellous things… joyous things. Even up to the end he had such spirit. I will certainly give some beautiful instances.’

‘I hope you will.’

‘And of course if yours were to be found…’

‘Ah,’ said George, with a laugh to cover his momentary vertigo. Was ever such a letter written by a man to a man? How the world would howl and condemn if it read over my shoulder, yet everything in it is as natural and true as the spring itself. He slid past Stokes to look at the tomb again and thought he could ask practically, ‘I suppose you’re his literary executor?’

‘Yes,’ said Stokes; and perhaps hearing something more in the question,‘He didn’t appoint me, to be completely frank, but I made a promise I’d look after all that for him.’ George saw he couldn’t ask if the promise had been made to Cecil in person or was purely a duty Stokes had imposed on himself.

‘Well, he’s very lucky, in that at least.’

‘There has to be someone…’

‘Mm, but someone with judgement. Posthumous publication doesn’t always enhance a writer’s reputation.’ He took a frank, almost academic note. ‘I don’t know how you would rate Cecil Valance, as a poet?’

‘Oh…’ Stokes looked at him, and then looked at Cecil, who now seemed to cause him a slight inhibition, his marble nose alert for any disloyalty. ‘Oh, I think no one would question,’ he said, ‘do you? that a number, really a goodly few, of Cecil’s poems, especially perhaps the lyrics… one or two of the trench poems, certainly… “Two Acres”, indeed, lighter but of course so charming… will be read for as long as there are readers with an ear for English music, and an eye for English things…’

This large claim seemed rather to evaporate in its later clauses. George glanced at Cecil’s knightly figure and said kindly, ‘I just wonder if people aren’t growing sick of the War.’

‘Oh, I don’t think we’ve heard the last of the War,’ said Stokes.

‘Well, no,’ said George. ‘And of course much of Cecil’s work was done before the War.’

‘Quite so, quite so… but the War made his name, you’d have to agree; when Churchill quoted those lines from “Two Acres” in The Times , Cecil had become a war poet…’ Stokes sat down, at the end of the first pew, as though to mitigate the strict air of debate, as well as to show he had time for it.

‘And yet,’ said George, as he often had before, with a teacher’s persistence, ‘ “Two Acres” itself was written a full year before war broke out.’

‘Yes…’ said Stokes, with something of a committee face. ‘Yes. But isn’t there often, in our poets and our artists, a prophetic strain?’ He smiled in concession: ‘Or if not that precisely, a fore-knowledge, a sense, perhaps, of the great inevitable that most of us are deaf and blind to?’

‘It may be so,’ said George, wary of this sweeping talk, which in his view bedevilled too much of what passed as literary criticism. ‘But to that I’d say two things. You’d agree, I’m sure, that we were all talking about war long before it happened. You didn’t need prophetic gifts to know what was going on, though Cecil certainly, who went to Hamburg and Berlin, and had been sailing up on the Frisian coast, was very much in the picture. My second point is that as I’m sure you know Cecil appended that further little section to “Two Acres” when it came out in New Numbers .’

‘ “The greyhound in its courses, / The hawk above the hill”, you mean.’

‘ “Move not more surely to their end / Than England to the kill”,’ said George, pleased to cap the quotation, though far from pleased by the words themselves. ‘Which of course has nothing to do with “Two Acres” the house, though it turns the poem “Two Acres” into a war poem of – in my view – a somewhat depressing kind.’

‘It certainly changes the poem,’ said Stokes more leniently.

‘For us it was a bit like finding a gun-emplacement at the bottom of the garden… But perhaps you think rather better of it. I’m a historian, not a critic.’

‘I’m not sure I allow a clear distinction.’

‘I mean I’m not a reader of new poetry. I don’t keep up, as you do.’

‘Well, I try,’ said Stokes. ‘I admit there are poets writing at this moment whom I don’t fully understand – some of the Americans, perhaps…’

‘But you keep up,’ George assured him.

Stokes seemed to ponder. ‘I think more in terms of those individuals I can help,’ he said, something at once noble and needy in his tone.

‘And now…’

‘And now… well, now I must get all Valance’s things up together,’ said Stokes, standing up, with the air of someone late for work.

‘How much is there, would you say?’

Stokes paused as if considering a further confidence. ‘Oh, it will be quite a book.’

‘A lot of new things…?’

A tiny flinch. ‘Well, a good many old ones.’

‘Mm, you mean the infant effusions.’

Sebby Stokes looked around, with his almost comical air of simultaneous candour and caution. ‘The infant effusions, as you so justly put it.’

‘Not omittable?’

‘All addressed to Mamma!’

‘Of course…’

‘Most unfortunate.’

‘Touching, in a way, perhaps?’

‘Oh, touching, certainly. Certainly that.’

George giggled ruefully. ‘And then Marlborough, I suppose?’

‘There the view grows a good deal brighter. Some of the schoolboy work we know from Night Wake , of course, but I shall comb the Marlburian with much keenness.’

‘But again… later unknown things?’

Stokes looked at him keenly, even pleadingly, for a second. ‘If you know of any…’

‘As I say, we’d rather lost touch.’

‘No… The fact is I am a little troubled by something.’ Stokes glanced at the tomb. ‘When I last saw Cecil that night in London, he showed me a handful of new poems, some of them unfinished. We went back to my flat after dinner, and he read to me, it must have been for half an hour or so. Very striking: both in itself and, somehow, in the way he read: very quiet and… thoughtful. It was a new voice – you might say a personal voice, as much as a poetical one, if you see what I mean. I was most taken, and stirred.’ Stokes was brusque for a moment with reawoken feeling.

George pictured this scene with a forgiving sense of the Cecil that Stokes had never known, the nudist, the satyr, the fornicator; and with a twist of envy too – the bachelor flat, Cecil in uniform, the bewildering brevity of a soldier’s leave, the luxury of talk about poems over a coal fire. ‘And what subjects was he dealing with?’