The Stranger's Child - Alan Hollinghurst [110]
“Of course I could drive …”
Mrs. Keeping blew out smoke with a hard humorous expression. “We needn’t bore Mr. Bryant with our family nonsense,” she said.
Paul, in the first nice giddiness of a very strong gin-and-tonic, smiled, ducked his head, showed he didn’t mind the mild bewilderment at unexplained names and facts. As often with older people he was both bored and unaccountably involved at the same time. “No, no,” he said, and grinned at Mr. Keeping, who surveyed the whole scene with quizzical composure. The evening had swollen to a shape entirely unimagined an hour before.
“You see, I think our family is jolly interesting,” said Mrs. Jacobs. “I think you underestimate its interest. You should take more pride in it.” She reached down beside her chair and brought up her bag, the large tapestry bag with wooden jaws that Paul had seen earlier. She started going through it.
Mrs. Keeping sighed and was more conciliatory. “Well, I am proud of one or two of them, Mother, you know that very well. Cecil’s not exactly my cup of tea, but my father, for all his … oddities, has moments of genius.”
“Well, he’s certainly very clever,” said Mrs. Jacobs, brows lightly furrowed over her bag. Paul had the impression of a small-scale chaos of papers, powder compacts, glasses cases, pills. She stopped for a moment and looked up at him, her hand in the bag marking her place. “Jenny’s grandfather was a marvellous painter, too. You may have heard of him, Revel Ralph? No … he was, well, he was very different from Mark Gibbons. I suppose you’d say more decorative.”
“I think Mark’s a bit over the hill, Granny,” said Jenny.
“Well, possibly, my dear, since he’s almost as old as me.” Paul knew how old this was, of course, but didn’t know if it was a secret. “You probably think Revel’s hopelessly old hat too.”
Jenny made a moue and raised her eyebrows as if to say she could reach her own negative judgements. “No, I like Grandpa’s things. I find them rather piquant, actually. Particularly the late ones.” Again Paul was amused and impressed by the confidence of her views. She spoke with a small frown as if she was at Oxford already. He said,
“Is he … not still alive?”
“He was killed in the War,” said Mrs. Keeping, with a quick shake of the head, stubbing out her cigarette.
“Well, he was extraordinarily brave,” said Mrs. Jacobs. “He had two tanks blown up under him, and he was running to reach a third one when a shell got him.” Her cigarette was in one hand, her lighter in the other, but she went on, before anyone else could, “He was a hero, actually. He got a posthumous gong, you know …”
“What became of that, Granny?” said Jenny in a more docile tone.
“Oh, I have it,” said Mrs. Jacobs, quickly puffing, “of course I have it.” Paul wasn’t clear whom her indignation was aimed at. She gave him a look as if they were united against the others. “You know, people think he was flighty and gay and what-have-you, but in fact he could be quite fearless.”
“Yes,” said Paul, “I’m sure …,” slightly mesmerized by her and already an admirer of this man he had never heard of a minute ago.
AT THE GATE Paul turned and waved his bandaged hand but Jenny, who’d been told to see him out, had already vanished from the front step. Still, the small muscular contractions of pleasure and politeness remained almost unconsciously on his face as he swung and scuffed along the lane. He smiled at the view over the hedge, at the other front gardens, at the approaching Rover and then its driver, squinting in a rictus of his own against the evening sun, and making Paul feel again like an intruder, or now perhaps an absconder. The sun was still hot on his back. Among the trees the church clock chimed the quarter-hour once more—he checked his watch: 7:15 of course; the hour just gone had taken about twenty minutes, and some compensating sense made him wonder if it shouldn’t in fact be 8:15. Here he was in Church Walk. Here was the marketplace. He had never really touched spirits before,