The Stranger's Child - Alan Hollinghurst [203]
The sitting-room was stifling from a two-bar electric fire—a great thing like a fire-basket, with glowing fake coals showing dimly in the sunlight. There was a strong smell of burnt dust. Paul came in with a cheerful “Hello, Mrs. Jacobs,” determined not to show his shock at the state of the room. She was sitting almost with her back to him, in a wing-chair covered in shabby pink chintz. All around her was an astounding chaos of junk, so extreme that he knew he must simply ignore it. There was a worrying sense of the temporary grown permanent, piled-up objects adapting into furniture, covered by tablecloths and tipsily topped with lamps and vases and figurines.
“It’s all right,” she said, half-turning her head, but not looking at him, “Wilfrid’s put me right about you.”
“Oh, yes …?”—he laughed cautiously: so she was tackling the question of his review straight off.
“You’re not the pianist.”
“No, I’m not—you’re quite right,” said Paul.
“I have an excellent memory, Mummy, as you know,” said Wilfrid, as if still contradicting her. “The pianist was a big … handsome fellow.”
“Oh, what was he called? that charming young man … so talented …”
Paul groped round this for a moment, almost as if struggling to remember himself. “Peter Rowe, do you mean?”
“Peter—you see, I rather liked him.”
“Oh, yes, well …,” murmured Paul, coming round in front of her; she didn’t seem interested in shaking hands. She was wearing a thick grey skirt and a blouse under a shabby sleeveless cardigan. She gave him a calculating look, perhaps only the result of her not seeing him properly. After the first awkward moments, he absorbed this as a likely hazard of the hours ahead.
“What became of him, I wonder?”
“Peter? Oh, he’s doing all right, I think,” said Paul blandly. He was standing in the small area between the fire and a low coffee-table heaped with books and newspapers, it was almost like a childish dare as the back of his calves got hotter and hotter.
“Of course he taught at Corley Court—he was extremely interested in that house, you know.”
“Oh, he was,” said Wilfrid, with a shake of the head.
“Extremely interested. He wanted to put back all the jelly-mould ceilings and what-have-you that Dudley did away with.”
“During your time, of course,” said Paul encouragingly, as if the interview had already started. He moved round towards the armchair facing hers, and got out the tape-recorder from his briefcase in a slightly furtive way.
“You see, he’s the one I might have expected to be writing about Cecil,” she said. “He was extremely interested in him, as well.”
“What wasn’t he interested in!” said Paul.
Daphne said, “I’m having a certain amount of trouble with my eyes,” reaching on the little table beside her with its lamp and books. Could she still read? Paul wondered. He half-expected to see his own letters there.
“Yes, so I gathered from Robin,” he said, with a fond tone towards this mutual friend.
“You didn’t block the drive, did you?” said Daphne.
“Oh … no—I got a taxi at Worcester station.”
“Oh, you got a Cathedral. Aren’t they expensive?” said Daphne, with a hint of satisfaction. “Can you find somewhere to sit? One day quite soon Wilfrid’s going to sort this room out, but until that day I fear we live in chaos and disorder. It’s funny to think I once lived in a house with thirty-five servants.”
“Goodness …!” said Paul, lifting a leather Radio Times folder and a heap of thick woollen socks, perhaps waiting to be darned, from the armchair. In her book he was sure she’d said twenty-five servants. He rigged up the microphone on top of the books on the coffee-table between them. “Why is this house called Olga, I wonder?” he said, just to test the levels.
“Ah! You see, Lady Caroline had it built for her old housekeeper,” said Wilfrid in a pious tone, “whose name was Olga. She retired here … out of sight but not quite … out of reach.”
“And now Lady Caroline lets it to you,” said Paul, watching the bobbing red finger which dropped, as if by gravity, when no one spoke.
“Well, we hardly