fondly, using his name for the first time, ‘I expect you understand the words.’
‘Ja, ja, clear as mud,’ said Cecil, with a friendly though disconcerting snort.
‘She’s a mad girl in love with a man she’s never seen,’ said George, ‘and the man is under a curse and can only be redeemed by a woman’s love. And she rather fancies being that woman. There you are.’
‘One feels no good will come of it,’ said Cecil.
‘Oh, but listen…’ said Daphne.
‘Would you like a go?’ said Cecil.
Daphne, taking in what she’d just been told about Senta, leant on the rope. ‘In the hammock…?’
‘On the cigar.’
‘Really…’ murmured George, a little shocked.
‘Oh, I don’t think so!’
Cecil took an exemplary pull on it. ‘I know girls aren’t meant to have them.’
Now the lovely tune was pulsing through the garden, full of yearning and defiance and the heightened effect of beauty encountered in an unexpected setting. She really didn’t want the cigar, but she was worried by the thought of missing a chance at it. It was something none of her friends had done, she was pretty sure of that.
‘No, it is a fine song,’ said Cecil, and she heard how his words were a little slurred and careless. Now the cigar was being passed to George again.
‘Oh, all right,’ she said.
‘Yes?’
‘I mean, yes, please.’
She leant on George and felt the whole hammock shudder, and held his arm firmly to take the item, taboo and already slightly disgusting, from between his thumb and forefinger. By now she could half-see the two boys squashed together, rather absurd, drunk of course, but also solid and established, like a long-ago memory of her parents sitting up in bed. She had the smell of the thing near her face, almost coughed before she tasted it, and then pinched her lips quickly round it, with a feeling of shame and duty and regret.
‘Oh!’ she said, thrusting it away from her and coughing harshly at the tiny inrush of smoke. The bitter smoke was horrible, but so was the unexpected feel of the thing, dry to the fingers but wet and decomposing on the lips and tongue. George took it from her with a vaguely remorseful laugh. When she’d coughed again she turned and did a more unladylike thing and spat on the grass. She wanted the whole thing out of her system. She was glad of the dark, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Beyond her, in the friendly familiar house, Emmy Destinn was still singing, in noble ignorance of Daphne’s behaviour.
‘Want another puff?’ said Cecil, as though satisfied with her reaction to the first.
‘I think not!’ said Daphne.
‘You’ll like the second one much more.’
‘That seems unlikely.’
‘And the third one will be better still.’
‘And before you know where you are,’ said George, ‘you’ll be strolling through Stanmore with a pongy old cheroot clamped between your teeth.’
‘Don’t I detect Miss Sawle’s cigar?’ said Cecil facetiously.
‘That would never happen,’ said Daphne.
But she was really very happy after all, standing there, peering somewhat speculatively into the smoky darkness. ‘Is ginger brandy considered a strong drink?’ she was saying. It must be the drink that gave this lovely spontaneity to things, so that she spoke or moved without deciding to do so.
‘Oh dear, Daph,’ said George. And before she knew what she’d done, she was heaving herself, gasping and laughing, onto the near end of the hammock, where the boys’ feet were.
‘Mind out!’ said George. ‘That’s my foot…’
‘You’ll break the blasted thing,’ said Cecil.
‘For God’s sake…!’ said George, tilting sideways in the effort to leap out, and in a second she was jolted on to the ground, Cecil was tumbling, his foot caught her, rather hard, between the ribs.
‘Ow!’ she said, and then ‘ow…’ but she despised the shock and fright; she was laughing again as the boys reached awkwardly for each other, and then she let herself be pulled up. She knew she had heard her shawl tearing as she fell, and that this was one part of the escapade she would not get away with; but again she didn’t terribly care.
‘Perhaps we should go in,’ said Cecil, ‘before something truly scandalous happens.’
They shepherded each other out on to the lawn, with little pats and murmurs. George spent a moment tucking his shirt in and getting his trousers straight. ‘At Corley, of course, you have a smoking-room,’ he said. ‘This sort of thing could never happen.’
‘Indeed,’ said Cecil solemnly. Emmy Destinn had finished, and in her place Daphne saw the figure of her mother coming to the lighted window and peering vainly out.
‘We’re all here!’ Daphne shouted. And in the darkness, under the millions of stars, with the boys on either side of her, she felt she could speak for them all; there was a hilarious safety that seemed a renewal of the pact they had made without speaking when Cecil arrived.
‘Well, hurry in,’ her mother said, in a hectic, ingenious tone. ‘I want Cecil to read to us.’
‘There you are,’ murmured Cecil, straightening his bow-tie. Daphne glanced up at him. George went responsibly ahead on the path, and as they followed behind him Cecil slipped his large hot hand around her, and left it there, just where he’d kicked her, until they reached the open french windows.
7
After breakfast next morning she found Cecil in a deckchair on the lawn, writing in a small brown book. She sat down too, on a nearby wall, keen to observe a poet at work, and just close enough to put him off; in a minute he turned and smiled and shut his book with the pencil in it. ‘What have you got there?’ he said.
She was holding a small book of her own, an autograph album bound in mauve silk. ‘I don’t know if you can be prevailed upon,’ she said.
‘May I see?’
‘If you like you can just put your name. Though obviously…’
Cecil’s long arm and blue-veined hand seemed to pull her to him. She presented the book with a blush and mixed feelings of pride and inadequacy. She said, ‘I’ve only been keeping it a year.’
‘So whom have you got?’
‘I’ve got Arthur Nikisch. I suppose he’s the best.’
‘Right-oh!’ said Cecil, with the delighted firmness that conceals a measure of uncertainty. She leant over the back of the deckchair to guide him to the page. He was like an uncle this morning, confidential without the least hint of intimacy. Last night’s rough-house, apparently, had never happened. She noticed again that smell he had, as if he’d always just got back from one of his rambles, or scrambles, which she pictured as fairly boisterous affairs. Oh, it was so typical of boys, they got on their dignity, they kept closing the door on some interesting scene they had let you witness a moment before. Though perhaps it was meant as a reproach to her, for last night’s foolery.
‘I got him when we went to
‘Ah yes… He’s quite a big shot, isn’t he?’
‘Herr Nikisch? Well, he’s the conductor!’
‘No, I’ve heard of him,’ said Cecil. ‘You may as well know that I have a tin ear, by the way.’
‘Oh…’ said Daphne, and looked for a moment at Cecil’s left ear, which was brown and sunburnt on top. She said, ‘I should have thought a poet had a good ear,’ with a frown at the unexpected cleverness of her own words.
‘I can hear poems,’ said Cecil. ‘But all the Valances are tone-deaf, I’m afraid. The General’s almost queer about it. She went to
