The Stranger's Child - Alan Hollinghurst [98]
“I don’t suppose you’ve seen your father this morning,” said George.
Wilfrid thought about how to answer this. He said, “We don’t see Daddy in the mornings.”
“Oh, really?”
“Well, not as a rule. You see, he’s writing his book.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” said George. “Well, that’s the most important thing, isn’t it.”
Wilfrid didn’t agree to this exactly. He said, “He’s writing a book about the War.”
“Not like his other book, then,” said Madeleine, who with her head back and her glasses on the end of her nose was gaping at the shelves above her.
“Not at all,” said Wilfrid. “It’s about Sergeant Bronson.”
“Oh yes …,” said George vaguely. “So he tells you about it? How exciting …”
The constraints of strict truth felt more threateningly present in this room full of old learning. He wandered off to the centre table with a smile, keeping his answer. “Uncle George,” he said, “do you like Uncle Revel’s pictures?”
“Oh, very much, old boy. Not that I’ve seen very many of them. He’s still very young, you know,” said George, looking less green now than pink. “You know he’s not really an uncle, don’t you?”
“I know,” said Wilfrid. “He’s an honourable uncle.”
“Well, ha, ha! … Well, yes, that’s right.”
“You mean an honorary uncle,” said Madeleine.
“Oh,” said Wilfrid, “yes …”
“I expect you mean both, don’t you, Wilfie,” said George, and smiled at him understandingly. Wilfrid knew his father couldn’t stomach Aunt Madeleine, and he felt this gave him licence to hate her too. She hadn’t brought him a present, but as a matter of fact that wasn’t it at all. She never said anything nice, and when she tried to it turned out to be horrible. Now she tucked in her chin and gave him her pretend smile, staring at him over her glasses. He leant on the table, and opened and shut the hinged silver ink-well, several times, making its nice loud clopping noise. Aunt Madeleine winced.
“I suppose this is where Granny does her book tests, isn’t it,” she said, wrinkling her nose, her smile turning hard.
“I’m sure the child doesn’t know about that,” said Uncle George quietly.
“Actually, I’m learning reading with Nanny,” said Wilfrid, abandoning the table and going off towards the corner of the room, where there was a cupboard with some interesting old things in.
“Jolly good,” said George. “So what are you reading now? Why don’t we read something together?” Wilfrid felt his uncle’s grateful relief at the idea of a book—he was already sitting down in one of the slippery leather chairs.
“Corinna’s reading The Silver Charger,” he said.
“Isn’t that a bit hard for you?” said Madeleine.
“Daphne loved that book,” said George. “It’s a children’s book.”
“I’m not reading it,” said Wilfrid. “I don’t really want to read now, Uncle George. Have you seen this card machine?” He opened the cupboard, and got the card machine out very carefully, but still banging it against the door. He carried it over and handed it to his uncle, who had assumed a slightly absent smile.
“Ah, yes … jolly good …” Uncle George wasn’t very clever at understanding it, he had it round the wrong way. “Quite a historic object,” he said, ready to hand it back.
“What is it?” said Madeleine, coming over. “Oh, yes, I see … Historic indeed. Quite useless now, I fear!”
“I like it,” said Wilfrid, and something struck him again, by his uncle’s knee, with his aunt bending over him, with her smell like an old book. “Uncle George,” he said, “why don’t you have any children?”
“Well, darling,” said Uncle George, “we just haven’t got round to it yet.” He peered at the machine with new interest; but then went on, “You know, Auntie and I are both very busy at our university. And to be