The Stranger's Child - Alan Hollinghurst [29]
He paid scant attention to the service, conducted by Mr. Barstow, the laborious curate; but it gave him a measure of satisfaction to sit in his pew, and to kneel on the hard carpet of the sanctuary steps. Afterwards he walked home through the Priory, and was still quite warm from the climb when he joined the others at breakfast. Cecil was talking, in his trying, amusing way, and though Hubert greeted them all properly, and asked them if they’d slept well, he sensed that Cecil had taken charge.
“I slept almost troublingly well,” said Cecil, showing by his frown at his boiled egg that he expected a laugh; then went on where he’d been interrupted, “No, I shall leave that to you, if you don’t mind.”
“You know Cecil’s a pagan, Mother,” said George.
“Cecil worships the dawn,” said Daphne.
“I see …,” said their mother, with the strained brightness of her early mornings.
Cecil said, “I confess I was relieved when Georgie told me Stanmore church was a roofless ruin.”
“He may not have mentioned,” said Hubert, “but there’s a first-rate new church bang next door to it. I can recommend it.”
“I think I rather prefer the ruined one,” said Daphne experimentally.
“Really, child,” said her mother, pouring tea into her cup with a wandering hand. “Well, we will have to go without you.”
“Oh …!”
“Cecil, I mean, not you.”
“You know we had rather hoped to show you off to the village,” said George.
“Daphne will repeat the sermon for you over lunch,” said his mother.
“And what will Cecil do while we’re at church?” asked Daphne.
Cecil gave a hesitant smile, and then rather mumbled, “Oh, I expect I’ll have a look at a poem.”
“There,” said Daphne; and George too looked vindicated.
Hubert, feeling a little queasy, poured out a cup of coffee and stood up. “I hope you won’t mind,” he said, “if I excuse myself,” and he left the room with the clear feeling that no one did. He crossed the hall and went into his father’s office, and closed the door.
My dear Harry [he wrote]
I will certainly take the cigarette-case in to Kinsley’s & have your name put on it—I think not in my writing, which as one wit remarked looks like a man’s attempt at knitting!
He looked gloomily out of the little leaded casement, that was half-obscured by leaves; and went on,
You were a bit upset with me last night Harry, and I’m not sure you were being altogether fair. I’m afraid I always rather shun demonstrations of affection between men.
Here he paused again, and then, with a firmness belied by his flinching expression, inserted “and dislike” after “shun”; he turned his full stop into a comma, and went on:
as being unmanly, and “aesthetic.” I know the rest of the Sawle clan are more that way, but it has never been in my nature. You know no one ever had a better friend than you, Harry old boy. I should not have told you about our situation, it is not “desperate” by any means, and I hope we manage pretty well. We are not yet “mortgaged to the last sod” as you put it! But the small comforts of life make all the difference, whatever anyone says. I am not the demonstrative sort Harry, as you must know by now, but we are all very grateful.
Hubert sat back and smoothed his moustache down over his mouth in vexation. He felt his letter wasn’t going well. He looked briefly at the photograph of his father that hung above the bookcase, and wondered if he had ever had to deal with a similar problem. It was very hard, when you did get a friend, who was so ready to help, and then this happened. And then not knowing exactly what it was that was happening. He felt he must say something before Harry took him out for a run to St. Albans in the car. Still not sure if he would actually send the letter, he closed it anyway, with a touch of coolness, “Yours ever Hubert.” Remembering an idea he had had, which he hoped might not offend Harry, and might even be thought to have a certain elegance, he added: “PS, I wondered last night whether a simple H might not do just as well, on the cigarette-case, as standing for us both—”
Then he thought he’d better start the