The Stranger’s Child

endpapers with gold-seamed crimson marbling, bound by Webster’s, ‘By Appointment to Queen Alexandra’. Rob winced at the violation, quite apart from the damage to the price. Inside perhaps a hundred pages densely written over in greyish blue-black ink, a sheet of mauve blotting-paper half-way through marking where the writing stopped.

‘Have a look at it,’ said Raymond. ‘Cup of tea?’

And so he settled Rob down, after jarring shunting of a large wardrobe, in a tiny improvised sitting-room, made out of a chaise-longue, a bedside cupboard and a standard-lamp. The tea was served in a bone-china cup and saucer. Beyond the wardrobe, he could hear Raymond back at his computer, moments of music and talk.

At first, Rob wasn’t sure what he was reading. ‘December 27, 1911 – My dear Harry – I can never thank you enough for the Gramophone, or “Sheraton Upright Grand” to give it its official title! It is the most splendid gift anyone ever had, Harry old boy. You should have seen my sister’s face when the lid was first opened – it was a Study, Harry. My mother says it is quite unearthly to have Mr McCormack singing his heart out in her own humble Drawing room! You must come and hear him yourself soon Harry. Mere Thanks are inadequate Harry old boy – Best love from Yours ever Hubert.’ The handwriting was small, vigorous and compacted. Under a ruled line another letter began immediately: ‘January 11, 1912 – My dear old Harry – A Thousand thanks for the Books. The binding alone is most handsome and Sheridan one of the best writers I am sure. My mother says we must read the plays out Harry she is keen for you to take a Part! Daphne is all set to dress up too! You know I am not much of an actor Harry old boy. We will see you tomorrow at 7.30. Really you are too kind to us all. Tons of love from yours Hubert.’

So, a letter-book, copies kept by the grateful ‘Hubert’? It seemed a bit unlikely he would show such pride in them. In which case, letters transcribed by their recipient, also ‘H’ of course, to immortalize them, if that was the word? So many of them were thank-you letters that it seemed little more than a vanity project. He had an image of this wealthy old queen in effect writing thank-you letters to himself (‘ “My dear Harry,” wrote Harry.’). Rob skimmed on, with lowish expectations, eye out for proper nouns… Harrow, Mattocks, Stanmore, the whole thing parochial in the extreme, and then Hamburg, ‘when you get back from Germany, Harry,’ well, we knew Harry was a businessman. Rob sipped frowningly at his tea. It was slightly chilly in the shop. ‘You will not find me much use at bridge, Harry, Old maid is about my level!’

Jumping ahead, Rob started to see there was something else going on, a kind of shadow side to the glow of gratitude. June 4, 1913 – ‘My dear old Harry, I am very sorry but you know by now I am not the demonstrative type, it is not in my nature Harry.’ September 14, 1913 – ‘Harry, you must not think me ungrateful, no one ever had a better friend, however I’m afraid I do rather shun, and Dislike, displays of physical affection between men. It is not in my way Harry.’ In fact – of course – the two strands often came together, thanks and no thanks. Perhaps the book of vanity was also a covert record of mortification – or success: Rob didn’t know how it was going to end. He tried to picture the displays of physical affection – what were they? More than hugs, kisses, perhaps, begun with tense negligence, then growing more insistent and difficult. And meanwhile the presents escalated. May 1913, ‘The gun arrived this morning – it’s an absolute ripper, Harry old boy’; October 1913, ‘Harry, I can’t thank you enough for the truly splendid wardrobe. My poor old suits look quite shabby in their new home!’ – and a quaint reflection, ‘Creature comforts in life do matter Harry, whatever the Divines may say!’ Then January 1914, ‘My dear old Harry, the little car is a joy – I went out with Daphne for a spin in her – we did 48mph several times! She says a Straker is the best car in the world, and I am bound to agree. Only a large Wolseley overhauled us.’ Was there a certain hardening, the half-hidden note of covetousness, poor puzzled Hubert very slightly corrupted by all this generosity? Perhaps Harry would give him a Wolseley next. To an ardent gay man the recurrent olds that tolled through the letters – ‘My dear old Harry’, ‘Harry old boy’ – however cheerfully meant, might have palled after a bit: ‘I cannot believe you are 37 tomorrow, Harry old boy!’ in November 1912. Well, it was a curiosity – clever of Raymond to see that, and worth paying a bit for. One of Garsaint’s customers would probably go for it, the collectors of Gay Lives, which Rob had made a speciality of. And then of course the date.

He leafed forward, something resistant in the dense exclamatory crawl of the writing, the words themselves. There was very little after the end of 1914 – a few short letters from France, it seemed: BEF Rouen, more whole- hearted letters now they were apart, perhaps, and the whole perspective had changed. Then a letter of April 5, 1917: ‘My dear old Harry – A quick letter as we are moving shortly but don’t know where. They don’t give us much notice as a rule. A glorious day, which makes life feel much more worth living. We had our Easter service today, as we shall probably be moved by then, and I stayed to Communion afterwards. You will keep an eye on Hazel won’t you Harry old boy – she is a dear sweet girl – and on Mother and Daphne too. Goodnight Harry and best love from Hubert.’ After which Harry had written, ‘My last letter from my darling boy: FINIS.’ But underneath, in a ruled ink box, there was a little memorial:

HUBERT OWEN SAWLE

1st Lieut ‘The Blues’

Born Stanmore, Mddx, January 15, 1891

Killed at Ivry April 8, 1917

Aged Twenty-Six

At the counter Raymond raked his beard, ‘Ah, Rob – any interest?’

‘This Hubert Sawle – any relation of G. F. Sawle and Madeleine Sawle?’

‘Very good, Rob… yes… Hubert was G. F.’s brother.’

‘Totally unheard-of.’

‘Till now…’ – Raymond nodded at the book.

‘And Daphne Sawle was the sister. You see, I met this woman last week who was Daphne Sawle’s grand- daughter.’

‘Right…’

‘I got a bit lost in her story, about the biography of Cecil Valance, you know. She said her grandmother had written her memoirs. I meant to chase it up.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Raymond; and as this was something he didn’t like saying, he got to work.

‘Of course the house in “Two Acres” was round here, wasn’t it?’

‘Stanmore, yep.’

‘Anything there?’

Raymond peered, scrolled down and up, tongue on lip. ‘Demolished five or six years ago – well, it was a ruin already. No, Rob, there’s no one called Sawle except G. F. and Madeleine, who I happen to know was his wife.’

‘Are you on Abe?’

‘G. F. edited Valance’s letters, of course.’

‘That’s right,’ said Rob, again with the private glow of perceived connections, the protective feeling for his quarry that came up in any extended search. ‘I’ve an idea Daphne wrote under the name Jacobs.’

‘Oh yes…’ Raymond’s large hands made their darting wobble above the keyboard.

‘She’s totally forgotten now, but she published this book of memoirs about thirty years ago – she was married to Dudley Valance, then to an artist called Revel Ralph.’

‘Right… here we are… Daphne Jacobs: Assyrian Woodwind Instruments – that the one?’

‘Um…’

‘Bronze Ornaments of Ancient Mesopotamia.’

‘I don’t think she goes back quite that far.’

‘Corpus Mesopotamianum…’ – that slowed him up for a second. ‘There’s loads of this stuff.’

‘I think her book’s called The Short Gallery.’

‘O-kay – here we go – The Short Gallery: Portraits from Life. Aha, seven copies… Plymbridge Press, 1979, 212 pp… First Edition, ?1. There you are!’

Rob came round and looked over Raymond’s shoulder. ‘Scroll down a bit.’ There were the usual anomalies – fine copy in fine dj, ?2.50; ex-library, with no dj, damp-staining to rear boards, some light underlining, ?18, with