‘Goodness…!’ said Paul, lifting a leather Radio Times folder and a heap of thick woollen socks, perhaps waiting to be darned, from the armchair. In her book he was sure she’d said twenty-five servants. He rigged up the microphone on top of the books on the coffee-table between them. ‘Why is this house called Olga, I wonder?’ he said, just to test the levels.
‘Ah! You see, Lady Caroline had it built for her old housekeeper,’ said Wilfrid in a pious tone, ‘whose name was Olga. She retired here… out of sight but not quite… out of reach.’
‘And now Lady Caroline lets it to you,’ said Paul, watching the bobbing red finger which dropped, as if by gravity, when no one spoke.
‘Well, we hardly pay a thing…’
Daphne chuckled narrowly. ‘What have you got there?’ she said.
‘I hope you don’t mind if I tape our conversation…’ Paul clicked the button and rewound.
‘Perhaps as well to get it right,’ said Daphne uncertainly. It was the tape-recorder’s odd insinuations of flattery and mistrust. Some people glanced at it as an awkward third person in the room, others were calmed by the just-detectable turning of the spool, some, like old Joan Valance, a second cousin of Cecil’s whom he’d tracked down in Sidmouth, were moved to gabbling relief at having so impartial and receptive an audience. Daphne fidgeted with her cushions. ‘I’ll have to be careful what I say.’
‘Oh, I hope not,’ with his ear to the idiotic tone of the playback.
‘Very careful.’
‘If you want to tell me anything off the record, you can: just say, and I’ll stop the tape.’
‘No, I don’t think I’ll be doing that,’ said Daphne, with a quick smile. ‘Aren’t we having any refreshments, Wilfrid?’
‘Well, if you care to ask for them…’
They both said coffee. ‘Bring us a couple of coffees, Wilfrid, and then find something useful to do. You could make a start on clearing up those things in the garage.’
‘Oh, that’s a very big job, Mummy,’ said Wilfrid, as if not so easily fooled.
When he had gone out of the room, she said, ‘It’s only a very big job because he will keep putting it off. Oh, he’s so… disorganized,’ and she shifted her cushion again, flinched and half-turned, the powder-and-smoke-smudged discs of her glasses blank for a second in the light. This irritable nervousness might be hard to deal with. Paul wanted to remind her of their old connections, but he was wary of mentioning Corinna. He said, just while they waited,
‘I was wondering, do you see much of John, and Julian, and Jenny?’ They sounded like characters in a children’s book.
‘We’re a bit cut off here, to be perfectly frank,’ she said. He saw she wouldn’t want to admit to feeling neglected.
‘What are they doing now?’ – with a glance at the red needle.
‘Well…’ She was slow to warm to the question. ‘Well, they’re all extremely busy, and successful, as you might expect. Jennifer’s a doctor – I mean, not an actual doctor, obviously. She’s teaching at Edinburgh, I think it’s Edinburgh. Wilfrid will put me right if it’s not.’
‘Teaching French literature?’
‘Yes… and John of course has his very successful wine business.’
‘He takes after his grandfather,’ said Paul, almost fondly.
‘His grandfather doesn’t have a wine business.’
‘No, I meant – I believe Sir Dudley is involved in the sherry world, isn’t he.’
‘Oh, I see… And Julian – well Julian’s the artistic one. He’s very creative.’
Paul could tell from her tone, which was also fond, but final, that he shouldn’t ask what form this creativity took. He felt his own secret interest in Julian as a sixth-former might somehow burn through. Daphne said, ‘Why, have you met Dudley?’
‘Yes, I have,’ said Paul simply, with no idea as yet what line to take about him. He told her a bit about the Oxford conference, in what felt to him a very fair-minded way, and finding he had already somehow both censored and excused Dudley’s crushing put-down over the phone; as an anecdote it had a value that went some way to compensate for the further talk they had never had. ‘He was quite controversial. He said that war poems, being written at the time, were usually not much good, “inept and amateurish” I think were his words; whereas the great war writing was all in prose, and appeared ten years later – or more in his case, of course.’
‘That sounds like Dudley.’
‘He wouldn’t say anything much about Cecil.’
She pondered for a minute, and he thought she might say something about him herself. ‘Of course they’ve made him an honorary fellow, haven’t they,’ she said.
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Yes, they have. We’re talking about your father,’ Daphne said, as Wilfrid came back in.
‘Oh…!’ said Wilfrid, with a surprising cold grimace.
‘Not Wilfie’s favourite person,’ said Daphne.
When Wilfrid had gone out again, there was swiftly a new atmosphere, of involuntary intimacy, as if Paul were a doctor and about to ask her to undo her blouse. He checked the tape again. Daphne had a look of conditional resignation. He cleared his throat and looked at his notes, his plan, designed to make the whole thing more like a conversation, and for both of them more convincing. Still, it sounded more stilted than he’d meant: ‘I was wondering about the way you wrote your memoirs, er, The Short Gallery, as a set of portraits of other people, rather than one of yourself.’ He was afraid she couldn’t see his respectful smile.
‘Oh, yes.’ Her head went back an inch. No doubt the shadowy question of his review of that book lurked somewhere beyond the actual question – beyond all of them. ‘Well…’
‘I mean’ – Paul laughed – ‘why did you do it like that? Of course, I remember when I first met you you said you were writing your memoirs then, so I know it occupied you for a long time. That was thirteen years ago!’
‘No, it did,’ said Daphne. ‘Much longer than that, even.’
‘And may I just say that I admired the book a great deal.’
‘Oh – that’s kind of you,’ she said, pretty drily. ‘Well, I suppose the main reason was that I was lucky enough to know a lot of people more talented and interesting than myself.’
‘Of course, in a way I wish you’d written more about yourself.’
‘Well, there’s a certain amount that gets in, I hope.’ She squinted at the tape-recorder, aware it was capturing this flannel, and her reaction to it. ‘I was very much brought up in the understanding that the men all around me were the ones who were doing the important things. A lot of them wrote their own memoirs, or, you know, their lives are being written about now – there’s this new life of Mark Gibbons that’s going to come out.’
‘Oh, yes, I’ve heard about it,’ Paul said; Karen had got the proofs – unindexed, but a quick read through had produced only passing references to Daphne; Daphne, it seemed, had them too.
‘The publisher sent it. Wilfrid’s been reading it to me, because I can’t read any more. But of course she’s got all sorts of things wrong.’
‘Were you consulted for that book?’
‘Oh yes, the woman wrote to me. But really, I put it all in my own book – everything I thought worth saying about Mark, who was a dear friend, of course.’
‘Well, I know,’ said Paul, and looked at her rather cannily; but it was instantly clear from her hard half-smile that no confessions about bearing his child were remotely on the cards. ‘I remember meeting him at your seventieth.’
‘Ah, do you…’ – she accepted this. ‘Yes, he must have been there. Isn’t it awful, I’ve forgotten,’ she said, and smiled more sweetly, as if she’d just seen a good way out of his future questions.