‘Well, outing gay writers was all the rage then, of course.’
‘Well, fine,’ she said, with a candid shake of the head. ‘If that’s all it had been…’
Rob looked at her as he found the title. ‘England Trembles,’ he said. Long out of print, though an American paperback had surfaced later – he could see the photo of Valance on the front – ‘Sensational!’ – Times of London – something like that.
‘England Trembles,’ said Jennifer, ‘exactly…’ turning down the corners of her mouth in a rather French expression of indifference. ‘The thing was-’
A loud purring sound, a preparatory burble of self-pleasure, rose above the talk, and then ‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much, my name’s Nigel Dupont…’
‘Ah – ’ Rob winced.
‘There’s quite a story about Master Bryant as well,’ said Jennifer, with a rapid nod and grimace of a promise to carry on with it later. ‘All was not as it seemed…’ Rob sat back, smiling appreciatively, but amused too to be reserving judgement on the matter.
It seemed Dupont had been asked by the family to be a sort of MC for the occasion – he assumed the role with evident willingness and natural authority and just a hint of allowable muddle, as if to remind them he was good-naturedly helping out. ‘So, we’re all here,’ he said, peering down with a smile of exaggerated patience at the confused figure of Peter’s sister, red-faced from a horrible rush across London, still settling her bags and papers in the front row. Then, the smile running across the rows, ‘I’m aware many people in this very splendid room knew… er, Peter far better than I did, and we’ll be hearing from some of them in a moment. Peter was a hugely popular guy, with a huge variety of friends. I can see many different types of people here’ – surveying the room humorously, with his expat’s eye, and producing confusion and even laughter in persons suddenly considering what type they might belong to – ‘and perhaps this gathering of his friends can best be thought of as the last of Peter’s famous parties, at which one might meet anyone from a duke to a… to a DJ, a bishop to a barrow-boy’ – Dupont perhaps suggesting a certain loss of touch with contemporary English life; the bishop in the second row smiled tolerantly. ‘Many friendships of course were initiated at those parties. I know some of my own best work might never have been done if it hadn’t been for meetings brought about by, um… Peter.’ He reflected for a moment – it seemed he was going to speak without notes, which created its own small tension of latent embarrassment and renewed relief when he went on. Peter’s name itself seemed constantly about to elude him. ‘However, for now, Terence – Peter’s father – has suggested I say a few words about the period when I first knew him, when he was in his early twenties, and I was a tender twelve years old.’ Dupont smiled distantly and high-mindedly at this memory as the vaguely disturbing sound of what he had said sank in – Rob glanced across the room, and caught a tall fair-haired man smiling too, and smiling at Rob specifically through his more general air of amusement. Rob thought he might have seen him around, but his cataloguing mind couldn’t yet place him. He looked down, and saw that Jennifer, beneath her own air of polite attention, was discreetly drawing on the back of the service card with a propelling penciclass="underline" an expert little sketch of Professor Dupont.
‘For a brief period, just over three years, Peter taught at a prep-school in Berkshire called Corley Court. It was his first proper job – I believe he had worked in the men’s department at Harrods for a few months before, which was what gave him his first taste for London – life in the inside leg as he used to call it! He had come down from Oxford with a decent second, but true academic endeavour was never going to be Peter’s Fach.’ Dupont gazed complacently at the tiers of leather-bound books, while a frown of uncertainty about what he’d just said passed through the audience. ‘He had a passion for knowledge, of course, but he wasn’t a specialist – which was just as well at Corley, where he had to teach everything, except I think math, and sport. Corley Court was a High Victorian country house of a kind then much reviled, though Peter was fascinated by it from the start. It had been built by a man called Eustace Valance, who had made his fortune from grass seed, and been created a baronet on the strength of it. His son was also an agriculturalist, but his two grandsons, Cecil and Dudley, were both in their ways to become quite well-known writers.’ Here Rob looked at Jennifer, who gave a little nod as she strengthened the boyish curl of Dupont’s forelock.
‘You probably all know lines of Cecil’s by heart,’ he went on, smiling along the densely packed rows and eliciting again a mixture of resistance and eagerness; it was as though he might ask any one of them to quote the lines they knew. ‘He was a first-rate example of the second-rate poet who enters into common consciousness more deeply than many greater masters. “All England trembles in the spray / Of dog-rose in the front of May”… “Two blessèd acres of English ground” ’ – he looked almost teasingly at them, as though he were a prep-school master himself. ‘Some of you perhaps know that I went on to edit Cecil Valance’s poems, a project that might never have come about had it not been for Peter’s early encouragement.’ And he nodded slowly, as if at the providential nature of this. Rob had forgotten this fact, which linked Jennifer and Dupont in the sort of unexpected way he liked.
‘So…’ Dupont paused, as if to recover his bearings, some clever little vanity again in the invitation to watch him improvise. Half the audience seemed seduced by it; others, older colleagues of Peter’s, friends of the family who had never heard of Dupont, and were yet to see the point of him, had the air of mildly offended blankness which is the default expression of any congregation. One or two, of course, would have read Dupont’s milestone works in Queer Theory, and perhaps be pleasantly surprised to find he could talk in straightforward English when necessary. Rob felt again he didn’t have to take a view, he looked humorously and enquiringly at Jennifer’s knee, and she offered her service card with her little down-turned smile: she had got Dupont exactly, in a sketch that was somewhere between a portrait and a cartoon. Rob gave an almost noiseless snort and as he looked across the rows again he found the tall blond man smiling at him and then blinking slowly before he turned away. Rob’s feeling it wasn’t proper to cruise at a memorial service was mixed with a feeling that Peter himself wouldn’t have minded. He looked aside and his gaze fell, with a kind of respectful curiosity, on Desmond, sitting very straight, but with his eyes fixed on Dupont’s black brogues. ‘So,’ Dupont was saying: ‘what… er, Peter used to call a “violently Victorian house”, and a poet of the First World War, with an interesting private life. We can see now that Corley Court was as seminal to Peter’s work, as it was to be to my own. His two ground-breaking series, Writers at War, for Granada, and The Victorian Dream, for BBC2, were in a way incubated in that extraordinary place, cut off from the outside world and yet’ – here he smiled persuasively at the beauty of his own thought – ‘bearing witness to it… in so many ways.’
Rob’s eye ran on along the curve of the front row, where the later speakers were smiling at Dupont with polite impatience and anxiety. At the far end Paul Bryant was scribbling on his printed text, like someone at a debate. Peter’s father had a grief-stricken but curious look, as though he were still finding out important things about his son. The timing of the event, four months after Peter’s death, was surely not easy for him. But something else, both awkward and comic, was now becoming unignorable. Very slowly, Dupont’s loud purr, a kind of maximized intimacy filling the high-ceilinged room impartially from the two large speakers on stands, had been dwindling to a sound of more modest reach, clearer at first, as the short masking echo was removed, then quieter altogether, as though a humble functionary were revealed working some splendid machine. He himself seemed to notice that his words weren’t coming back at him at quite the optimal volume. ‘When Peter drove some of us into Oxford in his car,’ he was saying, ‘the first thing he took us to see was Keble College chapel…’ -‘Can’t! hear!’ came a lordly shout from the back, enjoying its own petulance, and others more politely and helpfully joined in. Dupont looked down and found the microphone on its stand had drooped like a flower, and was now pointing at his crotch.