The Stranger's Child - Alan Hollinghurst [220]
“I was too young to remember him,” said Wilfrid, and looking at Paul over Daphne’s head, “I was only seven when we … er, moved to London.”
Even so, Paul wondered whether Wilfrid wasn’t abashed by looking at these sketches, all the bolder for being private things, the little studies of the Scotch boy’s thighs, buttocks and nipples, in the presence of his mother; and what on earth Daphne herself thought, having married a man who produced such work. “I remember he came to several of our parties at the studio,” she said, as if in fact recommending her husband’s roving eye. Paul thought for a moment she might be teasing him.
“These ought to be in a museum,” he said awkwardly.
“And soon I dare say they will be. But I like having them around, so for now I’m hanging on to them, thanks very much”—and she shut the book halfway through as if to say she’d indulged him quite enough.
“Actually I wanted to ask if you have any pictures of ‘Two Acres’?”—something told him it was cleverer to ask for pictures of the house than pictures of people: it sounded more disinterested, and no doubt both kinds of photo would be mounted in the same album. Once more Wilfrid obliged. “This was Granny Sawle’s album,” he said.
“It was a dear house,” said Daphne, again holding the album down by her left knee and raising her eyebrows suspiciously. “That’s the view from the lane, isn’t it, yes, that was the dining-room window, and there were the four cherry-trees in front of it, of course.”
“A cloud of snow at Eastertide!” said Paul (it wasn’t Cecil’s most original line).
“Aha!” said Wilfrid from the far side of the room.
“There you are …,” said Daphne. “And the rockery, look. Goodness, how it all comes back.”
“Well, I’m glad,” said Paul, with a frank laugh.
“Now who’s that? Wilfie, is it Granny?”
“Oh …,” said Paul. It was the stout old German woman again, that George had told him about, but of course he didn’t know her name. Already Paul felt annoyed by her, a figure of no interest who kept demanding attention. He remembered George had said she was a great bore. She sat in light-absorbing black in a deckchair from which it was hard to see how she would ever get up.
“What?” said Wilfrid, coming over. “I don’t know who everyone is, I wasn’t even born yet, remember? Oh, good grief—no, no, that’s not Granny. No, no.” He laughed breathily. “Granny was really a rather—lovely woman, with lovely auburn hair.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say it was auburn,” said Daphne. “She was a dark blonde. She was very proud of her hair.” It probably wasn’t something Daphne would say of herself. Paul looked to Wilfrid, and said,
“She was the German woman, wasn’t she?”
“That’s right …,” said Wilfrid, already abstracted, leaning forward quickly to turn the page. “I haven’t seen these for a long time,” he said.
“I wonder what’s become of the house,” said Daphne.
“It probably doesn’t even exist any more, Mother,” said Wilfrid. It was one of those little moments when Paul found it in his power to inform and perhaps upset the person he had himself come to for information.
“Oh, it does, actually,” he said.
“You’ve seen it, I suppose, have you,” Daphne said, in an irritable tone.
Paul pursed his lips regretfully. “Well, I’m not sure you’d recognize the old place.”
“Oh, really?” she said, lightly but grimly.
“Well, no—you would,” said Paul, “of course you would”—and he thought, but you never will go there, you’ll never see the place again. He had a feeling she was blaming him already for the changes, the years of flats, the sold-off garden, blaming him for knowing what he knew and what she had hoped never to know.
“Actually don’t tell me,” she said.
“Anyway, we’ve got the poem, haven’t we,” said Wilfrid.
“Well, of course,” said Daphne, “there’s always the poem.”
There were no photos of Cecil in the album, which since he’d only spent six nights of