The Stranger's Child - Alan Hollinghurst [122]
The Personals were the climax of his solitary ritual, the words themselves bulging and bending with outrageous meaning: “Undisciplined bachelor (32) would like to meet strong-minded person with modern outlook.” “Motorcyclist, ex-Navy, seeks another for riding weekends.” It was 6d a word, but some people went on as garrulously as any tapesponder: “Motorcyclist, 30, but still a novice, seeks further instruction and would also particularly like to contact a qualified watersports trainer. North London/Hertfordshire area preferred.” Paul read all this with a beating pulse, smiling narrowly, in a sustained state of fascinated shock. Only one man seemed to have completely missed the point, and asked to meet a girl with an interest in gardening. Otherwise it was a world of “bachelors,” many of them with “flats,” and most of those flats in London. “Central London flat, large and comfortable. Young bachelor needed to share with another. No restrictions.” Paul looked up at the floral curtains and the evening sky above the mirror. “Energetic bachelor (26), own flat, seeks others, similar interests”—he hadn’t said what his interests were, it must be taken as read. “Interests cinema, theatre, etc.” said some, or just “interests varied.” “Interests universal,” said “bachelor, late forties,” leaving nothing, or was it everything, to chance.
Paul closed his eyes in a heavy-hearted dream of bachelor flats, his gaze slowly making out, among the pools of lamplight, the shared sofa, the muddled slippers, the advanced pictures, opening the door on to the bathroom, where he himself was shaving as Peter Rowe, now looking oddly like Geoff Viner, lolled in the bath, reading, smoking and washing his hair all at the same time, then opening, through a sort of purple vapour, the door of the bedroom, on to a shadowy scene more thrilling and scandalous than anything described in Films and Filming—in fact a scene that, as far as he knew, had never been described at all.
4
PETER SAT in the Museum, writing up the labels with his four-coloured biro. “Whose is the sword, again?”
“Oh, the sword, sir? Brookson’s, sir,” said Milsom 1, coming over and watching intently for a moment.
“He claims it was his grandfather’s, sir,” said Dupont.
“Admiral’s Dress Sword,” Peter wrote, in black, and then, flicking to red, “Lent by Giles Brookson, Form 4.” He felt the boys themselves ought really to do the labels, but they had a thing about his handwriting. Already he saw his Greek e, his looped d, his big scrolly B, seeping through the school, infecting the print-like hand they had hitherto based on the Headmaster’s. It was funny, and flattering in a way, but of course habitual; ten years before, he had copied those Bs from a favourite master of his own. “Voilà!”
“Merci, monsieur!” said Milsom, and took the card over to the display cabinet, where the more precious and dangerous exhibits were to be housed. There was a lovely set of Indian clay figures in the dress of different ranks and trades—military piper, water-seller, chokidar—very trustingly lent by Newman’s aunt. The shelf above was home to a hand-grenade, it was assumed unarmed, a flintlock pistol, Brookson’s grandfather’s sword, and a Gurkha kukri knife, which Dupont had taken down and was working on now with a wad of Duraglit. He and Milsom were talking about their favourite words.
“I think I’d have to say,” said Milsom, “that my favourite word is glorious.”
“Not gorgeous?” said Dupont.
“No, no, I far prefer glorious.”
“Ah well …,” said Dupont.
“All right, what’s yours? And don’t don’t don’t say, you know … sort of pig, or and … or, you know …”
Dupont merely raised an eyebrow at this. “At the moment,” he said, “my favourite word would have to be Churrigueresque.” Milsom gasped and shook his head and Dupont glanced at Peter for a second to judge the effect of his announcement.