The Stranger's Child - Alan Hollinghurst [37]
“Yes, we’ll be sorry to see you go, old chap,” said George.
“Such a pity …,” said his mother, with an uncertain little smile at Daphne.
Daphne in turn peered at George, who did look oddly wretched—she knew the way his face went stiff with feeling, just as she knew his irritable frown when he found he was being stared at. “You’ll be back in Cambridge in a fortnight,” she said.
“Oh, I think we’ll get by,” said Cecil absently.
Daphne said, “I mean, George is all right, but we won’t see Cecil for ages, perhaps never again!”
Cecil seemed pleased by this histrionic claim, and his dark eyes held hers as he laughed, and said, “You must come to Cambridge too. Mustn’t she, Georgie?”
“Oh, rather …,” said George dully.
“Hmm …,” said Daphne.
“No, of course you must,” said George in a sincere tone; though she knew that George didn’t want her in Cambridge, “tagging along,” breaking in on his important discussions with Cecil, and all the other things she was prone to do.
“You might all come up for the French play,” said Cecil.
“I suppose so,” said Daphne, though she felt she heard in this general invitation a note that she hadn’t suspected before, the note of a general boredom.
“What are you doing?” said her mother.
“The Dom Juan of Molière,” said Cecil, as if it was something they all knew well. Daphne knew enough to know what it was about—a lady’s man—a womanizer, in fact! “I’m taking Sganarelle—rather a fine part, though of course a great deal to learn.”
“It’s in French, you know,” said George, which if it was meant to put his sister off was fairly effective.
“I see,” said Daphne. “I’m not sure I’d be able to follow a whole play in French.” She hardly thought it worth it just to watch Cecil prancing around, with a cloak and sword, probably. But at once she had a pang at the thought of missing it.
“How marvellous,” said her mother graciously, excusing herself as well.
A little later Cecil said to George, as if the others weren’t there, “I’ll have to get ahead with my paper on Havelock this week,” so that Daphne had a clear sense that he had already left them, might even have preferred to go today, after lunch.
When supper was over, George was sent round to the Cosgroves’ on some mission he clearly thought beneath him, Hubert claimed he had letters to write, and their mother, trailing into the drawing-room, paused, raised a finger, and went out again. Cecil and Daphne were left for a minute on the hearth-rug. Daphne saw this as the threshold to the grown-up end of the evening, with social requirements she wasn’t quite sure of.
“I don’t suppose you want to hear the gramophone,” she said. She had a sense of opportunity, made more incoherent by her new fear of boring Cecil.
“Not specially,” he said, casually but kindly, with a smile she hadn’t seen before, a candid gape that slightly startled her, and was probably a Cambridge thing: it was hard to work out, but at Cambridge it seemed it was almost a sign of respect to be disrespectful, to say just what you felt at any time. Well, candour was their watchword! Cecil was fingering in his waistcoat pocket, then brought out his little clipper. He said, “I wonder if Miss Sawle would care to keep me company while I enjoy my cigar?”
“Oh, yes!” said Daphne. “Oh, I’ll get a coat,” and she ran to the cloakroom under the stairs. It was such an exciting idea that there were bound to be strenuous arguments against it. But that was part of Cecil’s atmosphere and appeal. She came back, not with her own dull coat, but with one of George’s old tweed jackets round her shoulders. She liked the air of improvisation; a man’s jacket seemed to show she was up for a lark, and to carry some chivalrous hint of her need for protection. “It’s a little bit smelly,” she said; though she hardly imagined that would worry Cecil.
“Well, I’m going to make a smell too.”
“Well, quite.”
“I may be being too sensitive,” said Cecil, glancing towards the door. “The General’s so down on smoke, at home we all sneak off to the