The Stranger’s Child

descriptions, comically earnest, too boring to do more than pretend to listen to. He claimed to dream about Sergeant Bronson, which Daphne deplored and felt very slightly jealous of. She leant over him and straddled him with her arm, as if to keep him to herself, to say he was spoken for. ‘Uncle Revel,’ said Wilfrid sociably.

‘Hello, old chap!’ whispered Revel, smiling down at him, setting Roger down safely by the pillow. ‘We didn’t mean to wake you up.’

Wilfrid gave him a look of unquestioning approval and then his eyes closed and he swallowed and pursed his lips. As they both watched him, the happy look slowly faded from his face, until it was again a soft witless mask.

‘You see how he adores you,’ said Daphne, almost with a note of complaint, a breathless laugh. She gave him a long stare over the child’s head. Revel’s smiling coolness made her wonder for a moment more soberly if she was being played with. He went to the table and pulled out the diminutive child’s chair and sat down with his knees raised. He pretended drolly that life was always lived on this scale. She watched him, vaguely amused. The night- light made a study of his face as he worked quickly at a drawing. It seemed the very last moment of a smile lingered there in his teasing concentration. He used the children’s crayons as though they were all an artist could desire, and he was the master of them. Then with a louder snort Corinna had woken herself up and sat up and coughed uninhibitedly.

‘Mother, what is it?’ she said.

‘Go back to sleep, my duck,’ said Daphne, with a little shushing moue, affectionate but slightly impatient with her. The child’s hair was tousled and damp.

‘No, Mother, what’s the matter?’ she said. It was hard to tell if she was angry or merely confused, waking up to these unexpected figures in her room.

‘Shush, darling, nothing,’ said Daphne. ‘Uncle Revel and I came up to say goodnight.’

‘He’s not Uncle Revel actually,’ said Corinna; though Daphne felt this was not the only matter on which she might put her in the wrong. The child had a fearfully censorious vein; what she really meant was that her mother was drunk.

Revel looked over his shoulder, half-turned on the little chair. ‘We were wondering if we might still see that dance, if we asked very nicely,’ he said, which actually wasn’t a very good idea.

‘Oh, it’s too late for that,’ said Corinna, ‘far too late,’ as if they were the children pleading with her for some special concession. And getting out of bed she thumped across the room and went out to the lavatory. Daphne slightly dreaded her coming back and making more of a scene, allowing herself to say what she thought. If they all said what they thought… And now Wilfrid had woken again at the noise, with a furtive look, like an adult pretending not to have slept. She watched Revel finishing his drawing. There was the clank and torrent of the cistern, suddenly louder as the door was opened. But now Corinna seemed more balanced, more awake perhaps. She got back into bed with the little twitch of propriety that was part of her daylight character.

‘Shall I just read you something, darling, and then you both go back to sleep,’ Daphne said.

‘Yes, please,’ said Corinna, lying down and turning on her side, ready for both the reading and the sleeping.

Daphne looked by Wilfrid’s bed, then got up to see what books Corinna had. It was rather a bore, but they would be asleep again in a moment. ‘Are you reading The Silver Charger – how I adored that book… though I think I was a good deal older…’

‘There you are, little one,’ said Revel, getting up from the desk and holding his picture in front of Wilfrid to catch the light. The child pondered it, with a conditional sort of smile, against the pull of sleep. ‘I’ll put it over here, shall I?’

‘Mm,’ said Wilfrid. Daphne couldn’t quite make it out; she saw the great bill of a bird.

‘It’s chapter eight,’ said Corinna. Did she think that she ought to have a drawing too? Perhaps, tomorrow, Revel could be asked to make her one, if he wouldn’t mind – he might even draw her likeness…

‘ “So Lord Pettifer climbed into his carriage,” ’ Daphne read, rather cautiously in the dim light, ‘ “which was all of gold… with two handsome footmen in scarlet livery with gold braid, and the coachman in his great cockled hat – cocked hat – and the green” – I’m so sorry! – “the great coat of arms of the Pettifers of Morden emblazoned upon the doors. The snow had begun to fall, very gently and silently, and its soft white flakes sat – settled – for a moment on the manes of the four black horses and on the gold… panaches of the footmen’s hats” – oh lawks, I remember them – or how do we say it? – panaches, French…’ She looked up over the edge of the book at Revel, who was a dark column against the low light, perhaps a little impatient with her performance. He was a man of the theatre, after all; it was just that reading aloud brought out how much you’d had to drink. ‘ “ ‘I shall return before dusk on Sunday!’ said Lord Pettifer. ‘Pray tell Miranda, my ward, to prepare… herself.’ ” ’ She wasn’t sure how much feeling to put into the speeches; and in fact at that moment there was a snort from Corinna’s bed, and Daphne saw that her mouth had opened, and she was already asleep. She peered hopefully at Wilfrid, who was gazing at her clearly, though he couldn’t have had the least idea what was going on. ‘Well, I’ll just read a little bit more, shall I?’ she said. And lowering her voice she read on, skipping a fair bit, through the wonderful description of Lord Pettifer’s journey to Dover through the falling snow, which she hadn’t read since she was a girl. How quaint it looked – part of her didn’t want to read it like this, distracted by Revel, stumbling over the words; but partly she kept it up out of simple disquiet about stopping. ‘ “In the distance they saw the lights of a lonely house – that she could never return,” ’ read Daphne, turning over two pages at once, and taking a moment to realize. She glanced at Wilfrid, then carried on, quite at a loss as to what was happening herself. He smiled distantly, as if to say now it made sense, and to thank her politely, and turned away from the light and pulled up his knees under the covers, which she felt she could take as a sign to stop.

When they were outside in the passage again, things were both more urgent and more awkward. She felt it might go wrong if it wasn’t acted on quickly, it would wither on the stem in a horrible embarrassment of delay and indecision. But then Revel put his arms round her lightly. ‘No,’ she whispered, ‘Nanny…!’

‘Oh…’

‘Let’s go down.’

‘Really?’ said Revel. ‘If you like.’ For the first time she had a sense that she could wound him, she could add to his other hurts; though he pressed his little flinching frown into a look of concern for her.

‘No, you’ll see,’ she said, and kissed him quickly on the cheek. She led him round, through the L-shaped top passage and out on to the top of the main stairs, with their sudden drama, the gryphons or whatever they were with their shields and raised glass globes of light descending beneath them. She thought, the glare of publicity.

‘They’re wyverns,’ she said, ‘I think,’ as they went down.

‘Ah,’ said Revel, as if he had indeed asked.

In the enormous mirror on the first-floor landing there they went, figures in a story, out of the light into the shadow. She thought she was calmer now but then she started gossiping under her breath, ‘My dear, I simply have to tell you what Tilda Strange-Paget said’ – she peered round – ‘about Stinker!’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Revel, half-listening, like someone driving.

‘I’m not at all sure I should. But apparently he’s got another woman, tucked away.’

Revel chuckled. ‘Mm, I wonder where he, um, tucks her.’ He slowed and turned outside the door of his room. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Well, how can one be sure…’

‘No, I mean…’ He looked from her to the door. What she wanted was so simple and she felt suddenly lost. She had an odd, quite superhuman sensation of hearing her mother’s breathing in her room, and then an image of Clara in hers, miles away, and Dudley of course, but she couldn’t think of that.

‘No, not here,’ she said; and taking him on she went round the corner. A single lamp burnt on a table for the guests, and when she opened the linen-room door it flung a great shadow up like a wing across the ceiling. ‘Will you come in here?’ She was solemn but she giggled too.

It was dark, which was the beauty of it, and then the skylight was seen to glimmer – the moon, of course, throwing other shadows down into the well of the room. Again there was no colour, just the white gleam of the high-piled sheets on the shelves among realms of grey. ‘You can climb out at the top on to the roof,’ said Daphne.

‘Not now, I think,’ murmured Revel, and putting his hands on either side of her face he kissed her. She rocked