The Stranger's Child - Alan Hollinghurst [131]
“Oh, hello,” said Peter Rowe, “it’s you!”
“Hello!” said Paul, looking at his actual face, which seemed unaccountably both plainer and more lovable than he’d remembered, while his sense of the evening ahead seemed to shift around and beneath him, like stage scenery. The inside of the car smelt headily of oil and hot plastic. On the passenger seat lay a clutch of sheet music—“W. A. Mozart,” he read, “Duetti.” He felt whimsical. “You’re not frail or elderly, are you?” he said.
“Absolutely not,” said Peter Rowe, with a warm affronted tone and a sly smile.
“Then I’m afraid you’ll need to park in the field over there,” said Paul; and stayed smiling into the car without thinking of what to say next.
Peter Rowe gave the gear-knob a struggling thrust into first. “Well, I’ll see you in a minute,” he said, “what fun …!” Paul felt the hot car slip away under his fingers, which left a long scuffled trace in the dirt on the roof. “Watch your footing!” he called out, over the popping roar of the engine, which for some reason in a Hillman Imp was at the back, where the boot should be; and the word footing, odd from the start, sounded now quite surreal and hilarious to him. He watched the car nose up through the gate and into the field, while the reek of its exhaust sank sweetly into the mild scent of grass.
“Do you know Peter Rowe?” said Jenny.
“Well, I’ve met him,” said Paul, feeling strangely fortified, so that he could say, “I didn’t know he’d be here tonight, though—that’s great.”
“No, well, he’s going to play duets with Aunt Corinna—it’s a surprise for Granny.”
“Oh, I see,” said Paul. He thought this was a pretty tame kind of surprise; but then he wasn’t really musical. Music always struck him as a bit of a performance. Still, he started to see the scene, himself watching, admiring, possessive, even slightly resentful of Peter’s confidence and ability. As a contribution to the party it certainly beat telling people where to park.
“How do you know him?” said Jenny, with a mischievous look.
“Oh, he banks with us. I’ve cashed his cheques.” Paul was blandness itself, just tinged with pink.
Jenny glanced over her shoulder, where Peter was now crossing the lane to go in by the other gate, with his music in his hand—he brandished it at them in a wave that was cheerful though suddenly not quite enough. Though perhaps he had to get ready, he had to practise. Paul watched him for these few seconds with a half-smile, an air, he hoped, of untroubled interest—a brisk, heavy walk, he found he knew it already. “He teaches at Corley Court as well,” said Jenny; and dropping her voice, “We call him Peter Rowe-my-dear.”
“Oh, yes …?” said Paul, now a little critical of Jenny.
Again she gave him a droll look. “He’s rather full of himself,” she said, in a plonking voice, so he saw that she was quoting someone—Aunt Corinna, very probably.
AS THE SHADOWS SHIFTED and lengthened and the church clock struck eight and then a quarter past, Paul’s happy excitement began to dim. In between cars he finished his drink, and the tipsy rush was followed by a less pleasant state of dry-mouthed impatience, as he found himself saying the same thing over and over. Jenny had gone in to find Julian and hadn’t come back—anyway they were only kids, even if Jenny treated Paul as somehow younger than herself. Roger wandered out for a sniff around the verge and pissed concisely at four different spots, but made no further sign of solidarity. The arrivals grew fewer. The dreaded Sir Dudley perhaps wasn’t coming—thus far Paul had let only one small car, which was virtually an invalid carriage, on to the drive itself. He thought of Peter’s smile, and the little throb in his voice as he said “Absolutely not!”—there was a giddy sense of an understanding, like the kick and lift of the booze itself, undamaged, stronger in fact since their first meeting, that made Paul’s heart race again.