The Stranger's Child - Alan Hollinghurst [88]
When the dancing stopped, Flo said, “Let’s all go outside and get some air.” Daphne glanced at Revel, who said, “Oh, good idea,” with a sweeping smile which lingered for a moment on her before dropping thoughtfully aside. There was a rush to the front door, even shoving and protesting, then Mark, already out on the drive, singing lustily, to the tune of “Auld Lang Syne,” “We’re here because we’re here because we’re here because we’re here,” which seemed to Daphne rather rude, though preferable no doubt to many of the other army songs that he and Dudley sang when they were drunk, such as “Christmas Day in the Workhouse,” which he started to sing next.
“Tell Mark to stop singing,” said Daphne to Flo, who seemed to get the point. On a still night every word would be audible in Louisa’s bedroom.
“You coming out, Dud?” said George, still panting a bit, and letting his high spirits run on over his brother-in-law.
“Eh …? Oh—no, no,” said Dudley, swivelling round on the stool, and then back again to reach for his drink. “No, no—you all go out. I’m going to stop in and read.”
“Oh …,” said Tilda, still breathless and delighted. Dudley stood up with a fixed but already absent smile, shuffled sideways and dropped back on to the edge of the stool, which shot away across the bare floor—he lunged for the edge of the keyboard as he fell, George jumped from the flying cut-glass tumbler, and Daphne started forward but merely snatched his elbow as he thumped heavily backwards, with a furious shout of “Watch out!” as if someone else was behaving dangerously. “Oh!” said Tilda again. He lay there for several seconds, then sat up like the Dying Gaul, leaning on one hand, staring at the floor as though only just containing his patience, then raised his other hand, whether for help or to ward help off it was hard to tell. Daphne found herself gasping with alarm and pity and almost giggling with childish hilarity.
“No, I’m perfectly all right,” said Dudley, and sprang up quite smartly, in the soldier-like way he still had, though unsteady for a moment as he gained his feet. A wince of pain was covered by a sarcastic laugh at the whole situation. His shirt-front and lapel were wet with whisky.
“Are you sure, old man?” said George. Dudley didn’t answer or even look at him, but crossed the hall with uncertain dignity, flung open the door and disappeared into the cow-passage, the door swinging loudly shut behind him.
“You go on out,” said Daphne to the others. With a familiar resolve she went after Dudley, but with a newer sense looming beyond it that it wasn’t just repetition, it was getting much worse.
She found him in the washroom, and his dripping face as he raised it from the basin was alarmingly red. The veins in his temples stood out as if he’d been throttled. But when he had dried himself and sleeked back his hair the colour receded and he looked almost normal. Daphne thought of various futile reproaches and suggestions. She watched him dab at his lapel with the damp towel and then throw it on the floor, as he always did. Then she found he was smiling at her in the mirror, just a moment of doubt as he hooked her glance, the old trick he did without thinking. “Oh my god, Duff”—he turned and lurched into her, his teeth moist and gleaming, his arms went heavily round her shoulders, not her waist, he was kissing her and kissing her, squashing and probing as though to get at something; she didn’t know what if anything she gave: all she got from it herself was a compounded sequence of discomforts, the sour flare of drink and cigars into her face. He hadn’t done this for ages, it was like a violent little visit from the days when they still made love. He stood back, shaking her lightly, encouragingly, like a good old friend, then he was limping off, head down, head up, with the oblivious sense of a new mission, the unspoken agreements of the demented and the drunk. “Come on, Duffel,” he called over his shoulder