Anthony Powell - Books Do Furnish a Room

I could not quite understand why I was being told all this. Quiggin’s tone suggested he was leading up to some overture.

‘There will be too much for Bagshaw to keep an eye on with books coming in for review. We’d have liked Bernard Shernmaker to do that, but everyone’s after him. Then we tried L. O. Salvidge. He’d been snapped up too. Bagshaw suggested you might like to take the job on.’

The current financial situation was not such as to justify turning down out of hand an offer of this sort. Researches at the University would be at an end in a week or two. I made enquiries about hours of work and emoluments. Quiggin mentioned a sum not startling in its generosity, none the less acceptable, bearing in mind that one might ask for a rise later. The duties he outlined could be fitted into existing routines.

‘It would be an advantage having you about the place as a means of keeping in touch with Alf’s family. Also you’ve known Kenneth Widmerpool a long time, he tells me. He’s going to advise the firm on the business side. The magazine and the publishing house are to be kept quite separate. He will contribute to Fission on political and economic subjects.’

‘Do Widmerpool’s political views resemble Erry’s?’

‘They have a certain amount in common. What’s more important is that Widmerpool is not only an MP, therefore a man who can to some extent convert ideas into action — but also an MP untarnished by years of back-benching, with all the intellectual weariness that is apt to bring — I say, look what that girl’s doing now.’

On the other side of the room Widmerpool had been talking for some little time to Roddy Cutts. The two had gravitated together in response to that law of nature which rules that the whole confraternity of politicians prefers to operate within the closed circle of its own initiates, rather than waste time with outsiders; differences of party or opinion having little or no bearing on this preference. Paired off from the rest of the mourners, speaking rather louder than the hushed tones to some extent renewed in the house after seeming befitted to the neighbourhood of the church, they were animatedly arguing the question of interest rates in relation to hire-purchase; a subject, if only in a roundabout way, certainly reconcilable to Erridge’s memory. Widmerpool was apparently giving some sort of an outline of the Government’s policy. In this he was interrupted by Pamela. For reasons of her own she must have decided to break up this tête-à-tête. Throwing down her book, which, having freed herself from Norah, she had been latterly reading undisturbed, she advanced from behind towards her husband and Roddy Cutts.

‘People refer to the suppressed inflationary potential of our present economic situation,’ Widmerpool was saying. ‘I have, as it happens, my own private panacea for—’

He did not finish the sentence because Pamela, placing herself between them, slipped an arm round the waists of the two men. She did this without at all modifying the fairly unamiable expression on her face. This was the action to which Quiggin now drew attention. Its effect was electric; electric, that is, in the sense of switching on currents of considerable emotional force all round the room. Widmerpool’s face turned almost brick red, presumably in unexpected satisfaction that his wife’s earlier ill-humour had changed to manifested affection, even if affection shared with Roddy Cutts. Roddy Cutts himself — who, so far as I know, had never set eyes on Pamela before that afternoon — showed, reasonably enough, every sign of being flattered by this unselfconscious demonstration of attention. Almost at once he slyly twisted his own left arm behind him, no doubt the better to secure Pamela’s hold.

This was the first time I had seen her, so to speak, in attack. Hitherto she had always exhibited herself, resisting, at best tolerating, sorties of greater or lesser violence against her own disdain. Now she was to be observed in assault, making the going, preparing the ground for further devastations. The sudden coming into being of this baroque sculptural group, which was what the trio resembled, caused a second’s pause in conversation, in any case rather halting and forced in measure, the reverential atmosphere that to some extent had prevailed now utterly subverted. Susan, glancing across at her husband clasped lightly round the middle by Pamela, turned a little pink. Quiggin may have noticed that and judged it a good moment for reintroduction — when they first met he had shown signs of fancying Susan — because he brought our conversation to a close before moving over to speak to her.

‘I’ll have a further word with Bagshaw,’ he said. ‘Then he or I will get in touch with you.’

Siegfried entered with a large teapot. He set it on one of the tables, made a sign to Frederica, and, without waiting for further instructions, began to organize those present into some sort of a queue. Frederica, now given opportunity to form a more coherent impression of Widmerpool’s wife and her temperament, addressed herself with cold firmness to the three of them.

‘Won’t you have some tea?’

That broke it up. Siegfried remarshalled the party. Hugo took on Pamela. Widmerpool and Roddy Cutts, left once more together, returned to the principles of hire-purchase. Alfred Tolland, wandering about in the background, seemed unhappy again. I handed him a cup of tea. He embarked once more on one of his new unwonted bursts of talkativeness.

‘I’m glad about Mrs Widmerpool… glad she found her way … the foreign manservant here … whoever he is, I mean to say … they’re lucky to have a … footman … these days… hall-boy, perhaps … anyhow he looked after Mrs Widmerpool properly, I was relieved to find… Confess I like that quiet sort of girl. Do hope she’s better. I’m a bit worried about the train though. We’ll have to be pushing off soon.’

‘You’ll have time for a cup of tea.’

‘Please, this way,’ said Siegfried.’ Please, this way now.’

He managed to break up most of the existing conversations.

‘Just like Erry to find that goon,’ said Hugo. ‘He’s worse than Smith, the butler who drank so much, and raised such hell at Aunt Molly’s.’

In Siegfried’s reorganization of the company, Gypsy was placed next to me, the first opportunity to speak with her. All things considered, she might have been more friendly in manner, though her old directness remained.

‘Is this the first time you’ve been here?’

‘No.’

That was at any rate evidence of a sort that she had visited Erridge on his home ground at least once; whether with or without Craggs, or similar escort, was not revealed.

‘Who’s that Mrs Widmerpool?’

To describe Pamela to Gypsy was no lesser problem than the definition of Gypsy to Pamela. Again no answer was required, Gypsy supplying that herself.

‘A first-class little bitch,’ she said.

Craggs joined his wife.

‘JG and I have completed what arrangements can be made at present. We may as well be going, unless you want another cup of tea, Gypsy?’

The way he spoke was respectful, almost timorous.

‘The sooner I get out, the better I’ll be pleased.’

‘Ought to thank for the cupper, I suppose.’

Craggs looked round the room. Frederica, as it turned out, had gone to fetch some testamentary document for Widmerpool’s inspection. While they had been speaking Roddy Cutts took the opportunity of slipping away and standing by Pamela, who was listening to a story Hugo was telling about his antique shop. She ignored Roddy, who, seeing his wife’s eye on him, drifted away again. Widmerpool drummed his fingers against the window frame while he waited. Until Roddy’s arrival in her neighbourhood, Pamela had given the appearance of being fairly amenable to Hugo’s line of talk. Now she put her hand to her forehead and turned away from him. She went quickly over to Widmerpool and spoke. The words, like his answer, were not audible, but she raised her voice angrily at whatever he had said.