The Stranger's Child - Alan Hollinghurst [3]
“One can see George is so happy to be having his friend,” said Clara.
“I know,” said Freda, sitting down again with a sudden return of patience. “And of course I’m happy too. Before, he never seemed to have anybody.”
“Perhaps losing a father made him shy,” said Clara. “He wanted only to be with you.”
“Mm, you may be right,” said Freda, piqued by Clara’s wisdom, and touched at the same time by the thought of George’s devotion. “But he’s certainly changing now. I can see it in his walk. And he whistles a great deal, which usually shows that a man’s looking forward to something … Of course he loves Cambridge. He loves the life of ideas.” She saw the paths across and around the courts of the colleges as ideas, with the young men following them, through archways, and up staircases. Beyond were the gardens and river-banks, the hazy dazzle of social freedom, where George and his friends stretched out on the grass, or slipped by in punts. She said cautiously, “You know he has been elected to the Conversazione Society.”
“Indeed …,” said Clara, with a vague shake of the head.
“We’re not allowed to know about it. But it’s philosophy, I think. Cecil Valance got him into it. They discuss ideas. I think George said they discuss ‘Does this hearth-rug exist?’ That kind of thing.”
“The big questions,” said Clara.
Freda laughed guiltily and said, “I understand it’s a great honour to be a member.”
“And Cecil is older than George,” said Clara.
“I believe two or three years older, and already quite an expert on some aspect of the Indian Mutiny. Apparently he hopes to be a Fellow of the college.”
“He is offering to help George.”
“Well, I think they’re great friends!”
Clara let a moment pass. “Whatever the reason,” she said, “George is blooming.”
Freda smiled firmly, as she took up her friend’s idea. “I know,” she said. “He’s coming into bloom, at last!” The image was both beautiful and vaguely unsettling. Then Daphne was sticking her head through the window and shouting,
“They’re here!”—sounding furious with them for not knowing.
“Ah, good,” said her mother, standing up again.
“Not a moment too soon,” said Clara Kalbeck, with a dry laugh, as if her own patience had been tried by the wait.
Daphne glanced quickly over her shoulder, before saying, “He’s extremely charming, you know, but he has a rather carrying voice.”
“And so have you, my dear,” said Freda. “Now do go and bring him in.”
“I shall depart,” said Clara, quietly and gravely.
“Oh, nonsense,” said Freda, surrendering as she had suspected she would, and getting up and going into the hall. As it happened Hubert had just got home from work, and was standing at the front door in his bowler hat, almost throwing two brown suitcases into the house. He said,
“I brought these up with me in the van.”
“Oh, they must be Cecil’s,” said Freda. “Yes, ‘C. T. V.,’ look. Do be careful …” Her elder son was a well-built boy, with a surprisingly ruddy moustache, but she saw in a moment, in the light of her latest conversation, that he hadn’t yet bloomed, and would surely be completely bald before he had had the chance. She said, “And a most intriguing packet has come for you. Good evening, Hubert.”
“Good evening, Mother,” said Hubert, leaning over the cases to kiss her