The Stranger's Child - Alan Hollinghurst [53]
“Say hello to Mrs. Riley,” he said.
“Hello, Mrs. Riley,” said the children, promptly but with no great warmth.
“My dears …,” said Mrs. Riley over her cocktail-glass.
Wilfrid ran round politely to bow to Granny V as well, who said warily, “Look at you!” as with a quick panting sound and the thwack of his tail against chairs and table-legs Rubbish bustled across the room from the open garden door and excitedly circled his master.
“Oh, do we really want the dog in?” said Daphne, with a flutter of panic as her mother raised her drink away from its thrusting nose and made a face at the gamy heat of its breath. She got up to grab it, but Dudley was growling indulgently and provokingly, “Oh, Wubbishy Wubbishy Wubbish!” and had already produced from somewhere one of the bone-hard black biscuits that Rubbish was said to like, which after a bit of teasing he threw into the air—it went down in one. Clara was still nervous of the dog, and smiled keenly at it to suggest she was not. She hid her shyness in a bit of pantomime, stretching out a hand in childish reconciliation, but she had no biscuit, and Rubbish walked past as if he hadn’t seen her.
Corinna had moved in a discreetly purposeful way towards the piano, and now perched on the edge of the stool, studying her father for the best moment to speak. “You’re not going to play for us, or anything, are you, old girl?” said Dudley.
“Oh, does she play?” said Eva, with a sly spurt of smoke.
“Play? She’s a perfect fiend at the piano,” said Dudley. “Aren’t you, my darling?” At which Corinna smiled uncertainly.
“I’ll play for you tomorrow,” she said.
“Good idea. Play for Uncle George,” said Dudley, tired already of his own sarcasm, as well as the subject itself.
“And Wilfie can do his dance,” said Corinna, reminding her father of the terms of the deal.
“Well, exactly …,” said Dudley after a minute.
Louisa, still rather fixed on Eva, said, “I imagine you might care for music, Mrs. Riley?”
Mrs. Riley smiled at her to prepare her for her answer: “Oh, awfully—certain music, at least.”
“What, Gounod and what have you?”
“Not Gounod particularly, no …”
“I should think one would draw the line at Gounod.”
“Now Wilfie,” said Dudley, with a loud cough, as if reproving him; but then went on, “have you heard about the Colonel and the Rat?”
“No, Daddy,” said Wilfrid softly, hardly daring to believe that a poem was starting, but perhaps apprehensive too about its subject.
“Well …,” said Dudley. “The Colonel was there, with bristling hair, and a terrible air, of pain and despair.”
Wilfrid laughed at this, or at least at the awful face his father had pulled to go with it; anything awful could be funny too. “Oh ducky,” said Daphne, “is Daddy doing doggerel for you.”
“It’s not doggerel, Duffel,” said Dudley, tightly suppressing a snort at so much alliteration, “it’s called Skeltonics, it dates from the time of King Henry VIII. If you remember, Skelton was the poet laureate.”
“Oh, in that case,” said Daphne.
“Well, if you don’t want me to tell you a poem.”
“Oh, yes, Daddy!” said Wilfrid.
“Your uncle Cecil was a famous poet, but what people tend not to know is that I have quite a talent that way myself.”
Daphne glanced at Louisa, who had an unprovokable look, as though she found her son and her grandson equally beyond comprehension.
“I know, Daddy,” said Wilfrid, and stood yearningly by his father’s knee, almost as if he might be going to lay his hand on it.
4
AFTER BREAKFAST the next day Daphne appeared in the nursery, just as Mrs. Copeland was getting the children ready for a walk: “No, Wilfrid, not those white trousers, you’ll be all over mud.”
“Mud will be all over me, you mean, Nanny,” he said.
“Mother, we’re walking to Pritchett’s farm,” said Corinna, with a stoical wince as Mrs. Copeland pulled a band over her hair.
“Don’t worry, Nanny,” said Daphne, “I’ll take them myself. We’ve got photographers.”
“Indeed, my lady!” said Nanny, with a keen smile and a hint of pique, scanning her charges with a sharper eye. “Shall we be in the papers again, then?”