Alan Hollinghurst - The Stranger’s Child

‘Oh, yes,’ said his father, at once visibly disappointed.

‘I think she’s fallen over.’

His father tutted and went to stand beside his desk, switched on the lamp, peered at some papers as if already getting on with something important. His hair, normally black and shiny, stood up at one side like a wing. Nanny seemed entirely uninterested; she had stood up, straightened her skirt, shifted the cushions on the settee to find her handbag. Without looking at him, Dudley said, ‘And have you told her to get up?’

‘No, Daddy,’ said Wilfrid, feeling another wail rising in his chest at his father’s perversity. He said, ‘She can’t get up, you see, as a matter of fact.’

‘Broken both her legs, has she?’

Wilfrid shook his head, but couldn’t say more, for fear of crying, which his father couldn’t stand.

‘I wonder if I should look, Sir Dudley?’ said Nanny, with odd reluctance, patting her hair. It was her day off, anyway: she probably didn’t want to be involved. Slowly, with the playful menace he brought to telling a story, Dudley turned his head, and stared at Wilfrid.

‘I wonder if what you’re trying to tell me, Wilfrid,’ he said, ‘is that Frau Kalbeck is dead?’

‘Yes, Daddy, she is!’ said Wilfrid, and in the relief of it he was very nearly grinning at just the same moment the saved-up tears poured out of him again.

‘Of course she should never have come here,’ said his father, still maddeningly unexcited, but no longer blaming Wilfrid himself, it seemed. He looked sharply at Nanny. ‘Upsetting my son like this.’ And then he gave a surprising laugh. ‘Well, it’s taught her a lesson, what? She won’t be coming here again.’

Nanny stood behind Wilfrid, and laid her hands hesitantly on his shoulders. ‘Now, don’t cry, there’s a good boy,’ she said. He struggled to obey her, as he wanted to, for a moment, but when he thought of the dead woman’s face again, and her hand moving by itself, it was all beyond him and over him like a wave.

‘Run along to Wilkes’s room and telephone Dr Wyatt, would you, Nanny?’ said his father.

‘At once, Sir Dudley,’ said Nanny. Wilfrid of course would go with her, but she turned uncertainly at the door, and his father nodded and said,

‘You stay here, old boy.’

So Wilfrid went to his father, and was pulled experimentally for a second or two against the heavy strange-scented skirts of the brocade dressing-gown. It was the touch of privilege, a feel of the luxurious concessions allowed when something awful had happened, and in the interesting surprise of it he at once stopped crying. Then they went together, snapping odd sharp fragments of china underfoot, to the window, and each drew back a curtain. Nothing was said about the dinner service; and his father already had the mischievous preoccupied look that sometimes announced a treat, an idea that had just surprised him and demanded to be shared. It was like the mad glint, but usually nicer. Staring into the garden, fixing his eye so hard on something that Wilfrid thought for a moment it must be the source of his amusement, he started to talk, too quietly and rapidly at first for him to follow – ‘The body was found – it lay on the ground – without a sound’ -

‘Oh, Skeleton, Daddy,’ he said and his father grinned tolerantly.

‘ – old fat Mrs Cow – with her face like a sow – you won’t hear from her now’ – he turned and walked excitedly round the room, Wilfrid had a distracted sense of how he really never noticed his father’s limp – ‘with her Wagner and Liszt – and her hair in a twist – and always pissed – like a terrible Hun – with a twelve-bore gun – what? – ’

‘Yes, Daddy…’

‘ – smelly old Valkyrie – rosewater talc-ery – came down to Corley – and said she was poorly – took it quite sorely…’ A little flick of spit from his father’s mouth danced in the light as he turned. Wilfrid couldn’t follow or understand a lot of the words themselves, but the joy of improvisation caught at him as well as the sense of horror that his father’s poems always challenged you not to feel. He had got to the door and flung it open – ‘And that, young man,’ he said, ‘is more than I’ve written of my book for the past six months.’

‘Really, Daddy?’ said Wilfrid, unable to decide from his father’s tone if this was a cause for celebration or despair.

At five o’clock, when they were all getting their things, Miss Cobb, the Manager’s secretary, made a rare appearance in the staff-room. ‘Oh, Mr Bryant,’ she said, ‘with Miss Carter away, I wonder if you would walk with Mr Keeping.’

‘Oh,’ said Paul, glancing round at the others, ‘I don’t know…’ In his mind he was already halfway home, in the high summer evening.

‘I’ll do it,’ said Heather Jones.

‘Mr Keeping did ask for Mr Bryant,’ said Miss Cobb. ‘He likes to get to know the new staff.’

‘Well, of course I will, in that case,’ said Paul, blushing, with no idea, really, what he was being asked.

‘I’ll tell Mr Keeping. In five minutes, in the Public Space? Thank you so much…’ – and Miss Cobb withdrew, with her sad flinch of a smile.

In a week he had got to know all their names, which were still coloured and almost physical for him, made distinct by their newness and the need to tell them apart. Heather Jones and Hannah Gearing; Jack Reeves, the chief cashier; Geoff Viner, the second cashier, a bit of a looker; Susie Carter, a good-natured chatterbox, who was off today, attending a funeral in Newbury. Her empty chair and shrouded typewriter had quietened the office behind him. He slid his thermos into his briefcase and said quietly to Heather, ‘What does Susie do with Mr Keeping exactly?’

Heather seemed to think for a moment. ‘Oh she just walks home with him.’

Hannah, with her more maternal note, said, ‘Mr Keeping likes someone to keep him company. Normally Susie goes because she lives up past the church. It’s a nice little walk, really – it’ll only take you five minutes.’

‘Just don’t say, “How are you, Keeping?” ’ said June Underwood.

‘I won’t,’ said Paul, to whom the whole business sounded odd and euphemistic. From what he had seen of him, Mr Keeping was a cool and formal sort of man, with a sarcastic streak, but he’d noticed the staff took a strangely protective attitude to him. If they’d ever thought it odd for a middle-aged man to need walking home, they treated it now as the normal thing. He said, ‘Isn’t the Manager meant to live over the bank?’ He’d seen upstairs, where the sitting-room of the bank house was lined with filing-cabinets and the bedrooms were stacked with old desks and junk.

‘Well, this one doesn’t,’ said Jack Reeves, who’d just got his pipe going, the coarse dry smoke like a sign of his authority.

Geoff Viner, taming his hair with a comb and the flat of his hand, said, ‘I assume you don’t know Mrs Keeping.’

‘Oh, you know her, Geoffrey, do you!’ said June, and a bit of a laugh went round the room.

Jack Reeves said, ‘I assure you Mrs Keeping has no intention of living over the shop.’

‘I’d hardly call the Midland Bank a shop,’ said Heather.

‘Her words, not mine,’ said Jack.

‘Well, she’s got the boys to think of too,’ said Hannah. ‘They need a proper garden to run around in.’

‘What children have they got?’ said Paul.

‘Well, I say boys… John’s at college, isn’t he.’

‘John, the elder boy, is at Durham University’ – Jack Reeves frowned over his pipe, out of his greater intimacy with the Manager. ‘Julian is in the Sixth Form at Oundle School, and doing very well, I believe.’ He sucked and nodded and gazed over their heads. ‘They talk of Oxford’ – and he went out, leaving them half a roomful of smoke.