The Stranger's Child - Alan Hollinghurst [55]
“Well, you see,” said Daphne, “it’s been decided that there’s going to be a book of all Uncle Cecil’s poems, and Sebby’s come down to talk to your father about it, and Granny V, and well, talk to everybody really.”
“Why?” said Wilfrid.
“Well … there’s to be a memoir, you know … the story of Uncle Cecil’s life, and Granny V wants Sebby to write it. So he needs to talk to all the people who knew him.”
Wilfrid said nothing, and started on a game, and a minute later, staring into the pond, said, “A memoir …!” under his breath, as if they all knew it was a mad idea.
“Poor Uncle Cecil,” said Corinna, in one of her calculated turns of piety. “What a great man he was!”
“Oh … well …,” said Daphne.
“And so handsome.”
“No, he was,” Daphne allowed.
“Was he more handsome than Daddy, would you say?”
“He had enormous hands,” said Daphne, looking round at the first bark of the dog, which must mean Dudley, and everyone coming.
“Oh, Mother!”
“He was a great climber, you know. Always clambering up the Dolomites or somewhere.”
“What’s the Dolomites?” said Wilfrid, stirring the fishpond tentatively with a short stick.
“It’s mountains,” said Corinna, as Rubbish busied in through the rose arch behind them, went rather fast round half the circle, and came back, nose low and lively over the flagstones, scruffy grey tail flickering. Wilfrid pointed his wet stick bravely at him and Corinna commanded, “Rubbish!” but Rubbish only gave them a perfunctory sniff; it was almost hurtful to the children how little they counted for in the dog’s stark system of command and reward, though a relief too, of course. “Bad dog!” said Wilfrid. Sometimes Rubbish explored by himself, sometimes he joined you flatteringly for the outset of a walk and then doubled off on business of his own, but mainly he was Dudley’s running herald, hounded himself by his own shouted name. Daphne waited for the shouts, ignoring the dog, and rather disliking it; but no shouts came and in a minute Rubbish, oddly polite, stepping forward and stopping, gave a long cajoling whine, and when she looked round there was Revel under the arch.
He made a little picture of himself, in its frame. “My dear,” said Daphne, “you made it!” as though she’d encouraged him rather than put him off. She felt she put a hint of warning in her welcome, in the look she gave him, which searched his charming sharp little face for signs of distress. He almost ignored her, bit his lip in mock-penitence, while his dark eyes went from one child to the other. He made everything depend on them—he was the opposite of the dog. “Rubbish told me I’d find you here,” he said, coming forward to kiss Corinna on the silky top of her hair, pulling Wilfie quickly against his thigh, while the dog barked brusquely and then, its duty done, trotted back towards the house without looking round.
“Uncle Revel,” said Wilfrid, taking the surprise more easily than his mother, “will you draw a brontosaurus?”
“I’ll draw anything you like, darling,” said Revel. “Though brontosauruses are rather hard.” He came towards Daphne, who stood up, without quite wanting to, and felt his cheek and chin harsh against hers for a second. He said quietly, “I hope you don’t mind, I rang up Dud and he said just to come.”
“No, of course,” she said. “Did you see someone? Did you see the photographer?” She felt somehow that Revel’s visit, if it had to happen, should be kept out of the papers—and of course, if the photographers saw him they’d want him: he seemed to her to come emphasized, transfigured, set apart by success in a light of his own that was subtly distinct from the general gleam of the April day. Everyone was talking about him, not as much perhaps as they were about Sebby and the Trade Unions, but a good deal more than about Dudley, or Mrs. Riley, or of course