fact more so, much more so. He had drawn the web of his emotions back inside himself with not a thread lost. Well, he would see Miles. It was unpredictable though, and that was scaring.
‘Of course I do want to see him,’ said Bruno judiciously, ‘but I feel quite detached about it. You shouldn’t have implied I was frantic.’
‘I didn’t imply it. We had a very plain talk.’
‘How do you mean plain? What’s Miles like now?’
‘He’s going bald.’
‘You never liked him, Danby.’
‘He never liked me. I liked him all right. He was horribly like Gwen. He still is.’
‘That’s why you’re upset.’
‘Yes. More champagne?’
‘Thanks. But what’s he like?’
‘Rather brutal and preoccupied. But he’ll be nice to you.’
‘I can’t think what on earth we’ll talk about,’ said Bruno.
His left hand strayed vaguely over things on the counterpane while the right conveyed the trembling glass to his lips. Champagne still cheered.
‘You’d better see him some morning. You’re best in the mornings.’
‘Yes. It’ll have to be Saturday or Sunday then. Will you let him know?’
‘Yes. May I leave you now, Bruno? There’s a man waiting in a pub. Here’s Nigel the Nurse to take over.’
Soft-footed Nigel pads in and Danby leaves. Nigel’s lank dark hair sweeps round his pale lopsided face and projects in a limp arc beneath his chin. His dark eyes are dreamy and he is many-handed, gentle, as he tidies Bruno up for supper-time. The stamps are put away, the Evening Standard neatly folded, Bruno’s glass of speckled golden champagne filled again to the brim. Some of it spills upon the white turned-down sheet as the crippled spotted hand trembles and shakes. Such an old old thing that hand is.
‘Want to go to the lav?’
‘No thanks, Nigel, I’m all right.’
‘Not got cramp again?’
‘No cramp.’
Nigel flutters like a moth. A pyjama button is done up, a firm support between the shoulder blades while a pillow is plumped, the lamp and telephone moved a little farther off, Soviet Spiders closed and put away. The back of Nigel’s hand brushes Bruno’s cheek. The tenderness is incredible. Tears are again in Bruno’s eyes.
‘I am going to see my son, Nigel.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Do you think forgiveness is something, Nigel? Does something happen? Or is it just a word? I feel sleepy now. Can I have my supper soon?’
Too much champagne. Nigel is drinking out of Danby’s glass. Nigel flutters like a moth, filling the room with a soft powdery susurrous of great wings.
8
D ANBY STRAIGHTENED HIS tie and rang the bell.
The door was opened by a large-browed woman with very faded sand-coloured hair tucked well back behind her ears.
The image of Miles vanished.
‘I say–Hello–I–’
‘You’re Danby.’
‘Yes. You’re Diana.’
‘Yes. Oh good. I’ve been longing to meet you. Come in. I’m afraid Miles is out.’
There was some faint music playing in the background.
Danby followed her through the dark hall into a room into which the last evening sun was palely shining. Outside, through French windows, there was a pavement wet with recent rain, interspersed with bushy clumps of grey and bluish herbs. A very faint steam was rising from the sun-warmed pavement. But Danby had not taken his eyes off the woman.
The music, Danby now became aware, was dance music, old fashioned dance music, a foxtrot, something dating from Danby’s youth and stirring up a shadowy physical schema of memories. A slow foxtrot. Diana turned it down to a background murmur.
‘How nice of you to call.’
‘Well, I could have telephoned, but I was passing by and thought I’d drop in.’ Danby in fact had found himself much troubled by a craving to see Miles again.
‘It’s about Miles seeing Bruno? I’m so glad he’s going to, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. I wonder would Saturday morning be all right? Miles doesn’t work on Saturdays?’
‘Sometimes he does, but he can always not if
‘Of course I do want to see him,’ said Bruno judiciously, ‘but I feel quite detached about it. You shouldn’t have implied I was frantic.’
‘I didn’t imply it. We had a very plain talk.’
‘How do you mean plain? What’s Miles like now?’
‘He’s going bald.’
‘You never liked him, Danby.’
‘He never liked me. I liked him all right. He was horribly like Gwen. He still is.’
‘That’s why you’re upset.’
‘Yes. More champagne?’
‘Thanks. But what’s he like?’
‘Rather brutal and preoccupied. But he’ll be nice to you.’
‘I can’t think what on earth we’ll talk about,’ said Bruno.
His left hand strayed vaguely over things on the counterpane while the right conveyed the trembling glass to his lips. Champagne still cheered.
‘You’d better see him some morning. You’re best in the mornings.’
‘Yes. It’ll have to be Saturday or Sunday then. Will you let him know?’
‘Yes. May I leave you now, Bruno? There’s a man waiting in a pub. Here’s Nigel the Nurse to take over.’
Soft-footed Nigel pads in and Danby leaves. Nigel’s lank dark hair sweeps round his pale lopsided face and projects in a limp arc beneath his chin. His dark eyes are dreamy and he is many-handed, gentle, as he tidies Bruno up for supper-time. The stamps are put away, the Evening Standard neatly folded, Bruno’s glass of speckled golden champagne filled again to the brim. Some of it spills upon the white turned-down sheet as the crippled spotted hand trembles and shakes. Such an old old thing that hand is.
‘Want to go to the lav?’
‘No thanks, Nigel, I’m all right.’
‘Not got cramp again?’
‘No cramp.’
Nigel flutters like a moth. A pyjama button is done up, a firm support between the shoulder blades while a pillow is plumped, the lamp and telephone moved a little farther off, Soviet Spiders closed and put away. The back of Nigel’s hand brushes Bruno’s cheek. The tenderness is incredible. Tears are again in Bruno’s eyes.
‘I am going to see my son, Nigel.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Do you think forgiveness is something, Nigel? Does something happen? Or is it just a word? I feel sleepy now. Can I have my supper soon?’
Too much champagne. Nigel is drinking out of Danby’s glass. Nigel flutters like a moth, filling the room with a soft powdery susurrous of great wings.
8
D ANBY STRAIGHTENED HIS tie and rang the bell.
The door was opened by a large-browed woman with very faded sand-coloured hair tucked well back behind her ears.
The image of Miles vanished.
‘I say–Hello–I–’
‘You’re Danby.’
‘Yes. You’re Diana.’
‘Yes. Oh good. I’ve been longing to meet you. Come in. I’m afraid Miles is out.’
There was some faint music playing in the background.
Danby followed her through the dark hall into a room into which the last evening sun was palely shining. Outside, through French windows, there was a pavement wet with recent rain, interspersed with bushy clumps of grey and bluish herbs. A very faint steam was rising from the sun-warmed pavement. But Danby had not taken his eyes off the woman.
The music, Danby now became aware, was dance music, old fashioned dance music, a foxtrot, something dating from Danby’s youth and stirring up a shadowy physical schema of memories. A slow foxtrot. Diana turned it down to a background murmur.
‘How nice of you to call.’
‘Well, I could have telephoned, but I was passing by and thought I’d drop in.’ Danby in fact had found himself much troubled by a craving to see Miles again.
‘It’s about Miles seeing Bruno? I’m so glad he’s going to, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. I wonder would Saturday morning be all right? Miles doesn’t work on Saturdays?’
‘Sometimes he does, but he can always not if
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