The Stranger's Child Part 2

Now her mother was stooping and pulling records out from the cupboard at the bottom, trying to find Senta's Ballad. There were only a dozen records but of course they all looked the same and she didn't have her spectacles.

'Are we having the Hollander?' said Mrs Kalbeck.

'If Mother can find it,' said Daphne.

'Ah, good.' The old woman sat back with a gla.s.s of cherry brandy and a patient smile. She had heard all their records several times, the John McCormack and the Nellie Melba, so the excitement was mixed with a sense of routine, which she seemed to find almost as pleasing.

'Is this it. . . ?' said Freda, squinting at the difficult small type on the label.

'Oh, let me do it,' said Daphne, dropping down beside her and nudging her until she went away.

It was Daphne's own favourite, because something she couldn't describe took place inside her when she heard it, something quite different from the song from Traviata or 'Linden Lea'. Each time, she looked forward to running again through the keen, almost painful novelty of these particular emotions. She set the disc on the mat, took another big sip from her gla.s.s, coughed shamefully, and then cranked up the handle as tight as it would go.

'Careful, child . . . !' said her mother, one hand reaching for the mantelpiece, eyes fixed as if about to sing herself.

'She's a strong girl,' said Mrs Kalbeck.

Daphne lowered the needle and at once walked towards the window, to see if she could spot the boys outside.

The orchestra, they had all agreed, left much to be desired. The strings shrilled like a tin whistle, and the bra.s.s thumped like something being thrown downstairs. Daphne knew how to make allowances for this. She had heard a real orchestra at the Queen's Hall, she had been taken to The Rhinegold at Covent Garden, where they'd had six harps as well as anvils and a giant gong. With a record you learned to ignore the shortcomings if you knew what this piping and thumping stood for.

When Senta started singing it was spellbinding Daphne said this word to herself with a further s.h.i.+ver of pleasure. She sat on the window-seat with the shawl pulled round her and a mysterious smile on her face at the first intimacies of the ginger brandy. She'd had a real drink before, a half gla.s.s of champagne when Huey came of age, and once long ago she and George had done a small but rash experiment with Cook's brandy. Like the music, a drink was marvellous as well as alarming. She was gripped by the girl's eerie calls, Jo-ho-he, Jo-ho-he, which had a clear warning of tragedy to them; but at the same time she had a delicious sense of having nothing whatever to worry about. She looked casually at the others, her mother braced as if for the impact of salt waves, Mrs Kalbeck tilting her head in more mature appraisal. Daphne saw the beauty of being spontaneous, and had to hold back a number of things she suddenly felt like saying. She frowned at the Persian rug. There were two sections, which recurred; there was the wild storm music, where you saw the men hanging in the rigging, and then, when the storm was stilled, the most beautiful tune she'd ever heard came in, dropping and soaring, rapturous and free and yet intensely sad, and in either case somehow inevitable. She didn't know what Senta was saying, beyond the recurrent sounding of the word Mann, but she sensed the presence of pa.s.sionate love, and felt the air of legend, which had a natural hold on her. Emmy Destinn herself she saw as a wild waif with long dark hair, somehow marked out by her own peculiar name. Almost at once she sang a high note, the bra.s.s fell downstairs and Daphne ran over to lift the needle off the disc.

'It is sadly shortened,' said Mrs Kalbeck. 'In truth there are two more strophes.'

'Yes, dear, you said before,' said Freda rather sharply; and then, softening as always, 'There is only so much they can squeeze on to the record. To me it's a marvel that they do that.'

'Then shall we have it again?' said Daphne, looking back at them.

'Oh, why not!' said her mother, in a tone of harmless female conspiracy, given more swagger by what Daphne saw as a small crowd of empty gla.s.ses. Mrs Kalbeck nodded in helpless agreement. Records were indeed marvels, but they were only tiny helpings from the ocean of music.

During the second helping Daphne moved very slowly across the room, picked up her gla.s.s and drained it, and put it down again with a complicated feeling of sadness and satisfaction that was thoroughly endorsed by Wagner's restless ballad. She slipped out into the garden just as the music hurtled to its end. 'Oh darling, should you?' wailed her mother. It was simply that the lure of the other conspiracy, the one she had entered into with the boys in the wood, was so much more urgent than keeping company with the two old women. 'There may be a dew-fall!' said Freda, in a tone that suggested an avalanche.

'I know,' Daphne called back, seizing her excuse, 'I've left Lord Tennyson out in the dew!' Things seemed to come to her.

She went quickly past the windows of the house, and then stood still on the edge of the lawn. The gra.s.s was dry when she stooped and touched it it was still too warm for dew. Warm and yet not warm. Seeing the house from outside she remembered her earlier twinge of loneliness, when the sun was setting and the lights came on indoors. She did have to find her books, which would be lying just where she'd left them, by the hammock. She wanted to prepare for the Tennyson reading that Cecil had proposed, she was already imagining it . . . 'I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May . . .', or, ' "The curse is come upon me!" cried the Lady of Shalott' . . . completely different, of course she couldn't decide. But where were the boys? The night seemed to have swallowed them up completely, leaving only the whispering of the breeze in the tree-tops. All she could see was vague silhouettes of black on grey, but the smells of the trees and the gra.s.s flooded the air. She felt that Nature was restoring itself in a secret flow of scent while people, most people, stayed heedlessly indoors. There were privet smells and earth smells and rose smells that she took in without naming them in her heady swoop across the lawn. Her heart was beating with the undeniable daring of being out here, and being slightly adrift, coming suddenly on the stone bench and stopping to peer around. Up above, the stars were gathering all the time, sliding out between high faint trails of cloud as though they had grown used to her. She heard a sort of moan, just ahead of her, quickly stifled, and a run of recognizable giggles; and of course that further smell, distinct from dry gra.s.s and vegetation, the gentlemanly whiff of Cecil's cigar.

She went a few steps towards the clump of trees where the hammock was slung. She didn't know if she'd been seen. It was oddly like the minute of uncertainty before, in the wood, when Cecil had just arrived, and she couldn't tell if she was spying. Now, though, it was far too dark for spying. She heard Cecil say something funny about a moustache, 'quite an adorable moustache'; George murmured something and Cecil said, 'I suppose he wears it to make himself look older, but of course it has just the opposite effect, he looks like a boy playing hide and seek.' 'Hmm . . . I'm not sure anyone's seeking especially,' said George. 'Well . . .' said Cecil, and there was a little stifled rumpus of giggles and grunts that went on for ten seconds, till George said, rather loudly, gasping for breath, 'No, no, besides, Hubert's a womanizer through and through.'

A womanizer . . . ! The word lay, sinuous and poisonous, in the shadowy borders of Daphne's vocabulary. For a moment she pictured it, and behind it a vaguer image still, of a man dancing with a woman in a low-cut dress. The drunkenness of her own evening was lurchingly intensified in this imaginary room, where it was really the woman she saw, and certainly not Hubert, who was quite the most awkward figure when it came to dancing. A strange silence fell, in which she heard her own pulse in her ear. Part of her, she realized, needed to learn more. Then, 'What is it, Daphne?' said George.

'Oh, are you here?' she said, and she pushed on, under the low branches that screened the hammock on that side. 'I've left my books out here, in the dew.'

'Well, I haven't seen them,' said George, and she heard the hammock rope s.h.i.+ft and creak against the tree.

'No, you wouldn't have seen them, of course, because it's the night.' She laughed mockingly and slid her foot forward over the invisible ground. 'But I know where they are. I can picture them.'

'All right,' said George.

She edged forward again, and could just make out the slump of the hammock as it tilted and steadied. Again, she stooped to pat the gra.s.s, and half fell forward, startled and amused by her own tipsiness. 'Isn't Cecil with you?' she said artfully.

'Ha . . . !' said Cecil softly, just above her, and pulled on his cigar she looked up and saw the scarlet burn of its tip and beyond it, for three seconds, the shadowed gleam of his face. Then the tip twitched away and faded and the darkness teemed in to where his features had been, while the sharp dry odour floated wide.

'Are you both in the hammock!' She stood up straight, with a sense that she'd been tricked, or anyway overlooked, in this new game they were making up. She reached out a hand for the webbing, where it fanned towards their feet. It would be very easy, and entertaining, to rock them, or even tip them out; though she felt at the same time a simple urge to climb in with them. She had shared the hammock with her mother, when she was smaller, and being read to; now she was mindful of the hot cigar. 'Well, I must say,' she said. The cigar tip, barely showing, dithered in the air like some dimly luminous bug and then glowed into life again, but now it was George's face that she saw in its faint devilish light. 'Oh, I thought it was Cecil's cigar,' she said simply.

George chortled in three quick huffs of smoke. And Cecil cleared his throat somehow supportively and appreciatively. 'So it was,' said George, in his most paradoxical tone. 'I'm smoking Cecil's cigar too.'

'Oh really . . .' said Daphne, not knowing what tone to give the words. 'Well, I shouldn't let Mother find out.'

'Oh, most young men smoke,' said George.

'Oh, do they?' she said, deciding sarcasm was her best option. She watched, pained and tantalized, as the next glow showed up a hint of Cecil's cheeks and watchful eyes through a fading puff of smoke. Quite without warning The Flying Dutchman began again, startlingly loud through the open windows.

'G.o.d! What's that, the third time . . . !' said George.

'Lord,' said Cecil. 'They are keen.'

'It's Kalbeck, of course,' George said, as though to exonerate the Sawles themselves from such obsessive behaviour. 'G.o.d knows what the Cosgroves must think.'

'Mother loved Wagner long before she met Mrs Kalbeck,' said Daphne.

'We all love Wagner, darling. But he's quite repet.i.tious enough on his own account without playing the same record ten times.'

'It's Senta's Ballad,' Daphne said, not immune to it herself this third time, in fact suddenly more moved by it out in the open, as if it were in the air itself, a part of nature, and wanting them all to listen and share in it. The orchestra sounded better from here, like a real band heard at a distance, and Emmy Destinn seemed even more wild and intense. For a moment she pictured the lit house behind them as a s.h.i.+p in the night. 'Cecil,' she said fondly, using his name for the first time, 'I expect you understand the words.'

'Ja, ja, clear as mud,' said Cecil, with a friendly though disconcerting snort.

'She's a mad girl in love with a man she's never seen,' said George, 'and the man is under a curse and can only be redeemed by a woman's love. And she rather fancies being that woman. There you are.'

'One feels no good will come of it,' said Cecil.

'Oh, but listen . . .' said Daphne.

'Would you like a go?' said Cecil.

Daphne, taking in what she'd just been told about Senta, leant on the rope. 'In the hammock . . . ?'

'On the cigar.'

'Really . . .' murmured George, a little shocked.

'Oh, I don't think so!'

Cecil took an exemplary pull on it. 'I know girls aren't meant to have them.'

Now the lovely tune was pulsing through the garden, full of yearning and defiance and the heightened effect of beauty encountered in an unexpected setting. She really didn't want the cigar, but she was worried by the thought of missing a chance at it. It was something none of her friends had done, she was pretty sure of that.

'No, it is a fine song,' said Cecil, and she heard how his words were a little slurred and careless. Now the cigar was being pa.s.sed to George again.

'Oh, all right,' she said.

'Yes?'

'I mean, yes, please.'

She leant on George and felt the whole hammock shudder, and held his arm firmly to take the item, taboo and already slightly disgusting, from between his thumb and forefinger. By now she could half-see the two boys squashed together, rather absurd, drunk of course, but also solid and established, like a long-ago memory of her parents sitting up in bed. She had the smell of the thing near her face, almost coughed before she tasted it, and then pinched her lips quickly round it, with a feeling of shame and duty and regret.

'Oh!' she said, thrusting it away from her and coughing harshly at the tiny inrush of smoke. The bitter smoke was horrible, but so was the unexpected feel of the thing, dry to the fingers but wet and decomposing on the lips and tongue. George took it from her with a vaguely remorseful laugh. When she'd coughed again she turned and did a more unladylike thing and spat on the gra.s.s. She wanted the whole thing out of her system. She was glad of the dark, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Beyond her, in the friendly familiar house, Emmy Destinn was still singing, in n.o.ble ignorance of Daphne's behaviour.

'Want another puff?' said Cecil, as though satisfied with her reaction to the first.

'I think not!' said Daphne.

'You'll like the second one much more.'

'That seems unlikely.'

'And the third one will be better still.'

'And before you know where you are,' said George, 'you'll be strolling through Stanmore with a pongy old cheroot clamped between your teeth.'

'Don't I detect Miss Sawle's cigar?' said Cecil facetiously.

'That would never happen,' said Daphne.

But she was really very happy after all, standing there, peering somewhat speculatively into the smoky darkness. 'Is ginger brandy considered a strong drink?' she was saying. It must be the drink that gave this lovely spontaneity to things, so that she spoke or moved without deciding to do so.

'Oh dear, Daph,' said George. And before she knew what she'd done, she was heaving herself, gasping and laughing, onto the near end of the hammock, where the boys' feet were.

'Mind out!' said George. 'That's my foot . . .'

'You'll break the blasted thing,' said Cecil.

'For G.o.d's sake . . . !' said George, tilting sideways in the effort to leap out, and in a second she was jolted on to the ground, Cecil was tumbling, his foot caught her, rather hard, between the ribs.

'Ow!' she said, and then 'ow . . .' but she despised the shock and fright; she was laughing again as the boys reached awkwardly for each other, and then she let herself be pulled up. She knew she had heard her shawl tearing as she fell, and that this was one part of the escapade she would not get away with; but again she didn't terribly care.

'Perhaps we should go in,' said Cecil, 'before something truly scandalous happens.'

They shepherded each other out on to the lawn, with little pats and murmurs. George spent a moment tucking his s.h.i.+rt in and getting his trousers straight. 'At Corley, of course, you have a smoking-room,' he said. 'This sort of thing could never happen.'

'Indeed,' said Cecil solemnly. Emmy Destinn had finished, and in her place Daphne saw the figure of her mother coming to the lighted window and peering vainly out.

'We're all here!' Daphne shouted. And in the darkness, under the millions of stars, with the boys on either side of her, she felt she could speak for them all; there was a hilarious safety that seemed a renewal of the pact they had made without speaking when Cecil arrived.

'Well, hurry in,' her mother said, in a hectic, ingenious tone. 'I want Cecil to read to us.'

'There you are,' murmured Cecil, straightening his bow-tie. Daphne glanced up at him. George went responsibly ahead on the path, and as they followed behind him Cecil slipped his large hot hand around her, and left it there, just where he'd kicked her, until they reached the open french windows.

7.

After breakfast next morning she found Cecil in a deckchair on the lawn, writing in a small brown book. She sat down too, on a nearby wall, keen to observe a poet at work, and just close enough to put him off; in a minute he turned and smiled and shut his book with the pencil in it. 'What have you got there?' he said.

She was holding a small book of her own, an autograph alb.u.m bound in mauve silk. 'I don't know if you can be prevailed upon,' she said.

'May I see?'

'If you like you can just put your name. Though obviously . . .'

Cecil's long arm and blue-veined hand seemed to pull her to him. She presented the book with a blush and mixed feelings of pride and inadequacy. She said, 'I've only been keeping it a year.'

'So whom have you got?'

'I've got Arthur Nikisch. I suppose he's the best.'

'Right-oh!' said Cecil, with the delighted firmness that conceals a measure of uncertainty. She leant over the back of the deckchair to guide him to the page. He was like an uncle this morning, confidential without the least hint of intimacy. Last night's rough-house, apparently, had never happened. She noticed again that smell he had, as if he'd always just got back from one of his rambles, or scrambles, which she pictured as fairly boisterous affairs. Oh, it was so typical of boys, they got on their dignity, they kept closing the door on some interesting scene they had let you witness a moment before. Though perhaps it was meant as a reproach to her, for last night's foolery.

'I got him when we went to The Rhinegold.'

'Ah yes . . . He's quite a big shot, isn't he?'

'Herr Nikisch? Well, he's the conductor!'

'No, I've heard of him,' said Cecil. 'You may as well know that I have a tin ear, by the way.'

'Oh . . .' said Daphne, and looked for a moment at Cecil's left ear, which was brown and sunburnt on top. She said, 'I should have thought a poet had a good ear,' with a frown at the unexpected cleverness of her own words.

'I can hear poems,' said Cecil. 'But all the Valances are tone-deaf, I'm afraid. The General's almost queer about it. She went to The Gondoliers once, but she said never again. She thought it was never going to end.'

'Well, she certainly wouldn't like Wagner, in that case,' said Daphne, rescuing a kindly superiority from her initial sense of disappointment. And still not quite sure she had got to the bottom of it, 'Though you said you liked the gramophone last night.'

'Oh, I don't hate it, it's just rather lost on me. I was enjoying the company.' His ear coloured slightly at this, and she saw that perhaps she'd been given a compliment, and blushed a little herself. He said, 'Did you care for the opera when you went?'

'They had a new swimming apparatus for the Rhine-maidens, but I didn't find it very convincing.'

'It must be hard work swimming and singing at the same time,' said Cecil, turning the page. 'Now who's this Byzantine fellow?'

'That's Mr Barstow.'

'Should I know him?'

'He's the curate in Stanmore,' said Daphne, unsure if they were both admiring the elaborate penwork.