Anthony Powell - Books Do Furnish a Room

The hall was in darkness. There was a lift, but Widmerpool guided us past it.

‘I must remind you electricity is now in short supply — shedding the load, as we have learnt to call it. The Government has the matter well in hand, but our lift here, an electric one, is for the moment out of action. You will not mind the stairs. Only a few flights. A surprisingly short way in the light of the excellent view we enjoy on a clear day. Pam is always urging a move. We have decided in principle to do so, inspected a great deal of alternative accommodation, but there is convenience in proximity to the House. Besides, I’m used to the flat, with its special characteristics, some good, some less admirable. For the time being, therefore, it seems best to remain where we are. That’s what I’m always telling Pam.’

By this time we had accomplished a couple of flights.

‘How is Mrs Widmerpool?’ asked Roddy. ‘I remember she was feeling unwell at the funeral.’

‘My wife’s health was not good a year ago. It has improved. I can state that with confidence. In fact during the last month I have never known her better — well, one can say in better spirits. She is a person rather subject to moods. She changes from one moment to the next.’

Roddy, probably thinking of the cipherine nodded heartily. Widmerpool took a key from his pocket. He paused before the door. Talk about Pamela had unsettled him.

‘I don’t expect Pam will have gone to bed yet. She does sometimes turn in early, especially if she has a headache, or it’s been an exhausting day for her. At other times she sits up quite late, indeed long after I’ve retired to rest myself. We shall see.’

He sounded rather nervous about what the possibilities might be. The small hall was at once reminiscent of the flat — only a short way from here — where Widmerpool had formerly lived with his mother. I asked after her. He did not seem over pleased by the enquiry.

‘My mother is still living with relations in the Lowlands. There’s been some talk lately of her finding a place of her own. I have not seen her recently. She is, of course, not so young as she was. We still have our old jokes about Uncle Joe in our letters, but in certain other aspects she finds it hard to realize things have changed.’

‘Uncle Joe?’

‘My mother has always been a passionate admirer of Marshal Stalin, a great man, whatever people may say. We had jokes about if he were to become a widower. At the same time, she would probably have preferred me to remain single myself. She is immensely gratified to have a son in the House of Commons — always her ambition to be mother of an MP — but she is inclined to regard a wife as handicap to a career.’

Widmerpool lowered his tone for the last comment. The lights were on all over the flat, the sound of running water audible. No one seemed to be about. Widmerpool listened, his head slightly to one side, with the air of a Red Indian brave seeking, on the tail of the wind, the well-known, but elusive, scent of danger. The splashing away of the water had a calming effect.

‘Ah, Pam’s having a bath. She was expecting my return rather later than this. I’ll just report who’s here. Go in and sit down.’

He spoke as if relieved to hear nothing more ominous was on foot than his wife having a bath, then disappeared down the passage. Roddy and I entered the sitting-room. The tone of furniture and decoration was anonymous, though some sort of picture rearrangement seemed to be in progress. The central jets of a gas fire were lighted, but the curtains were undrawn, a window open. Roddy closed it. Two used glasses stood on a table. There was no sign of whatever had been drunk from them. From the other end of the passage a loud knocking came, where Widmerpool was announcing our arrival. Apparently no notice was taken, because the taps were not turned off, and, to rise above their sound, he had to shout our names at the top of his voice. Pamela’s reactions could not be heard. Widmerpool returned.

‘I expect Pam will look in later. Probably in her dressing-gown — which I hope you will excuse.’

‘Of course.’

Roddy looked as if he could excuse that easily. Widmerpool glanced round the room and made a gesture of simulated exasperation.

‘She’s been altering the pictures again. Pam loves doing that — especially shifting round that drawing her uncle Charles Stringham left her. I can never remember the artist’s name. An Italian.’

‘Modigliani.’

‘That’s the one — ah, there’s been a visitor, I see. I’ll fetch the relevant documents.’

The sight of the two glasses seemed to depress him again. He fetched some papers. Kneeling down in front of the gas fire, he tried to ignite the outer bars, but they failed to respond. Widmerpool gave it up. He began to explain the matter in hand. Erridge, among other dispositions, had expressed the wish that certain books which had ‘influenced’ him should, if out of print, be reissued by the firm of Quiggin & Craggs. To what extent such republication was practicable had to be considered in the light of funds available from the Trust left by Erridge. Nothing was conditional. Widmerpool explained that the copyright situation was being examined. At present adjudication was not yet possible in certain cases; others were already announced as to be reissued elsewhere. Subsequent works on the same subject, political or economic — even more often events — had put Erridge’s old favourites out of date. On the whole, as Widmerpool had promised, the answers could be effectively dealt with in this manner, though several required brief consideration and discussion. We had just come to the end of the business, Widmerpool made facetious reference to the propriety of canvassing Parliamentary matters, even non-party ones, in the presence of a member of the public, when the door bell rang. Widmerpool looked irritable at this.

‘Who on earth can it be? Not one of Pam’s odd friends at this hour of the night, I hope. They are capable of anything.’

He went to open the door.

‘We don’t need to waste any more time here,’ said Roddy. ‘The Erry stuff is more or less cleared up. The non-party project can be ventilated when Widmerpool and I next meet in the House. I don’t want to freeze to death. Let’s make a getaway while he’s engaged.’

I was in agreement. Widmerpool continued to talk with whoever had come to the front door of the flat. Although he had left the door of the sitting-room open, the subject of their conversation could not be heard owing to the sound of the bath water, still running, or perhaps turned on again. It occurred to me that Pamela, with her taste for withdrawal from company, might deliberately have taken refuge in the bathroom on hearing the sound of our arrival; then turned on the taps to give the impression that a bath was in progress. Such procedure might even be a matter of routine on her part to avoid guests after a parliamentary sitting. The supposition was strengthened by Widmerpool’s own lack of surprise at her continued absence. It was like a mythological story: a nymph for ever running a bath that never filled, while her husband or lover waited for her to emerge. Now Roddy was getting impatient.

‘Come on. Don’t let’s hang about.’

We went out into the passage. The visitor turned out to be Short. He looked worried. Although only come from the floor below, apparently to deliver a message, he had taken the precaution of wearing an overcoat and scarf. Whatever the message was had greatly disturbed Widmerpool. One wondered if the Government had fallen, though scarcely likely within the time that had passed since we had left the House of Commons. Our sudden appearance from the sitting-room made Short even less at ease than he was already. He muttered some sort of a good evening. I introduced Roddy, as Widmerpool seemed scarcely aware that we had joined them. Before more could be said, evidently returning to the subject in hand, Widmerpool broke in again.