‘I slept almost troublingly well,’ said Cecil, showing by his frown at his boiled egg that he expected a laugh; then went on where he’d been interrupted, ‘No, I shall leave that to you, if you don’t mind.’
‘You know Cecil’s a pagan, Mother,’ said George.
‘Cecil worships the dawn,’ said Daphne.
‘I see…’ said their mother, with the strained brightness of her early mornings.
Cecil said, ‘I confess I was relieved when Georgie told me Stanmore church was a roofless ruin.’
‘He may not have mentioned,’ said Hubert, ‘but there’s a first-rate new church bang next door to it. I can recommend it.’
‘I think I rather prefer the ruined one,’ said Daphne experimentally.
‘Really, child,’ said her mother, pouring tea into her cup with a wandering hand. ‘Well, we will have to go without you.’
‘Oh…!’
‘Cecil, I mean, not you.’
‘You know we had rather hoped to show you off to the village,’ said George.
‘Daphne will repeat the sermon for you over lunch,’ said his mother.
‘And what will Cecil do while we’re at church?’ asked Daphne.
Cecil gave a hesitant smile, and then rather mumbled, ‘Oh, I expect I’ll have a look at a poem.’
‘There,’ said Daphne; and George too looked vindicated.
Hubert, feeling a little queasy, poured out a cup of coffee and stood up. ‘I hope you won’t mind,’ he said, ‘if I excuse myself,’ and he left the room with the clear feeling that no one did. He crossed the hall and went into his father’s office, and closed the door.
My dear Harry [he wrote]
I will certainly take the cigarette-case in to Kinsley’s & have your name put on it – I think not in my writing, which as one wit remarked looks like a man’s attempt at knitting!
He looked gloomily out of the little leaded casement, that was half-obscured by leaves; and went on,
You were a bit upset with me last night Harry, and I’m not sure you were being altogether fair. I’m afraid I always rather shun demonstrations of affection between men.
Here he paused again, and then, with a firmness belied by his flinching expression, inserted ‘and dislike’ after ‘shun’; he turned his full stop into a comma, and went on:
as being unmanly, and ‘aesthetic’. I know the rest of the Sawle clan are more that way, but it has never been in my nature. You know no one ever had a better friend than you, Harry old boy. I should not have told you about our situation, it is not ‘desperate’ by any means, and I hope we manage pretty well. We are not yet ‘mortgaged to the last sod’ as you put it! But the small comforts of life make all the difference, whatever anyone says. I am not the demonstrative sort Harry, as you must know by now, but we are all very grateful.
Hubert sat back and smoothed his moustache down over his mouth in vexation. He felt his letter wasn’t going well. He looked briefly at the photograph of his father that hung above the bookcase, and wondered if he had ever had to deal with a similar problem. It was very hard, when you did get a friend, who was so ready to help, and then this happened. And then not knowing exactly what it was that was happening. He felt he must say something before Harry took him out for a run to St Albans in the car. Still not sure if he would actually send the letter, he closed it anyway, with a touch of coolness, ‘Yours ever Hubert.’ Remembering an idea he had had, which he hoped might not offend Harry, and might even be thought to have a certain elegance, he added: ‘PS, I wondered last night whether a simple H might not do just as well, on the cigarette-case, as standing for us both – ’
Then he thought he’d better start the whole letter again.
11
They left the garden through the front gate and went up the lane towards the Common, Cecil instinctively leading the way. ‘So what did you really do while we were flopping and droning?’ said George. He’d found the hour at church, away from Cecil, unexpectedly painful.
‘Oh, much the same,’ said Cecil. ‘I flopped on the lawn; and I droned to the parlour-maid.’
‘Little Veronica?’
‘Poor child, yes. We assessed the chances of a war with Germany.’
‘I’m sure she was a fund of pertinent views.’
‘She seemed to think it was on the cards.’
‘Oh, dear!’
‘I fear little Veronica is rather smitten with me.’
‘Darling Cecil, not everyone at “Two Acres” is in love with you, you know,’ said George, and smiled with private satisfaction and a hint of mistrust. He did wonder if Cecil hadn’t been almost too much of a success.
‘She’s an attractive young girl,’ said Cecil, in his most reasonable tone.
‘Is she?’
‘Well, to me.’ Cecil gave him a bland smile. ‘But then I don’t share your fastidious horror at the mere idea of a cunt.’
‘No, indeed,’ said George drily, though a blush quickly followed. His face was hot and stiff. He saw how easily Cecil could spoil the walk, the day, the weekend altogether, if he wanted to, with his airy aggressions. ‘She is only sixteen,’ he said.
‘Exactly,’ said Cecil, but relented, and put his arm through George’s, and pulled him to him tightly as they strode along. ‘Weren’t you possessed by the wickedest thoughts when you were sixteen?’
‘I never had a wicked thought at all till I met you,’ said George. ‘Or at least until I saw you, staring at me so brazenly, and longingly, across the lawn.’ This was a favourite scene or theme for both of them, their little myth of origins, its artificiality a part of its erotic charm. ‘Little did I know that one day you would be my Father.’ Here they were by Miss Nichols’s cottage. George straightened himself, knowing they would be seen, but not sure what impression he wanted to create. He felt a half-hearted desire to startle Miss Nichols, but in the event merely raised his hat and shook it in a feebly cavalier way.
‘You looked so perfectly… suitable,’ said Cecil, with a sudden drop of the arm and quick sharp squeeze of George’s bottom.
‘Is that what you call it?’ said George, wriggling free and looking quickly round.
‘I wouldn’t say your brother Hubert was particularly suitable.’
‘No,’ said George firmly.
‘Though one can’t help being just a little in love with his moustache.’
‘Don’t go on about it,’ said George. ‘You’re only saying it because I said Dudley had splendid legs. I’m not sure anyone’s ever admired poor Hubert. Besides, he’s a womanizer through and through.’ And they both laughed like mad again, and somehow amorously, at the silliness of their slang. George felt a wave of happiness rise through him. Then Cecil said,
‘I’m afraid you’re wrong about that, though.’
‘About what?’
Cecil glanced round. ‘I would say your brother Hubert has one very ardent admirer – in the person of Mr Harry Hewitt.’
‘What, Harry? Don’t be idiotic. Harry’s after my mother.’
‘I know that’s the idea. Your sister’s worried sick about it. But I promise you she needn’t be.’
‘I don’t know what’s put this into your head.’
‘Well, there’s his taste in art – you know, he told me the sort of thing he collects. But mainly, I must admit, there’s his tendency to manhandle your brother on every possible occasion.’
‘Does he?’ said George, with a frown of repudiation but also of dull recognition. ‘He’s certainly very generous to him.’
‘My dear, the man must be the most arrant sodomite in Harrow.’
‘A large claim!’ said George, sparring a little for time.
‘I just happened to catch an extraordinary moment, after dinner, when I’ll swear the old monster tried to kiss him in the inglenook. They didn’t know I could see them. Poor Hubert was most frightfully put out.’