Anthony Powell - Books Do Furnish a Room

This speech indicated that Widmerpool might not have it all his own way, if he made too much fuss. It also confirmed indirectly the resentment of Widmerpool’s domination that, according to Bagshaw, Quiggin had begun increasingly to show. Judy, the secretary, feeling that some of these recriminations were directed against herself, or, more probably envious of the attention Quiggin was devoting to Ada, now began to protest.

‘How on earth was I to know one man had run away with the other man’s wife? Books just handed the copy over to me, saying he had a temperature of a hundred-and-two, and told me to get on with the job.’

‘Grown-up people always check on that particular point, my girl,’ said Quiggin. ‘Don’t worry. We’re not blaming you. Calm down. Take an aspirin. Isn’t it time for coffee? I admit I could have done without Bagshaw arranging this just at the moment the Sweetskin case is coming on, and all the to-do about Sad Majors .

I enquired as to Quiggin’s version of the Stevens trouble.

‘Odo’s written an excellent account of his time with the Partisans. Adventurous, personal, but a lot of controversial matter. Readers don’t want controversy. Why should they? Besides, it would be awkward for the firm to publish a book hinting some of the things Odo’s does, with Kenneth Widmerpool on the board. All his support for societies trying to promote good relations with that very country. You want to keep politics out of a book like that.’

‘Odo isn’t very interested in politics, is he?’

‘Not in a way, but he’s very obstinate.’

I left them still in a flutter about the parody. There was not much Widmerpool could do. It would increase his opposition to Bagshaw, but Bagshaw probably had a contract of some sort. At the end of that, if the magazine survived, Widmerpool was likely to try and get him sacked anyway. It was a typical Bagshaw situation. Meanwhile, he showed no sign of returning to the office. The message came that his flu was no better. Some evenings later there was a telephone call at home. A female voice asked for me.

‘Speaking.’

‘It’s Pamela Widmerpool.’

‘Oh, yes?’

She must have known I was answering, but for some reason of her own preferred to go through the process of making absolutely sure.

‘X is not well.’

‘ I’m very sorry —’

‘I want you to come and see him. He needs some books and things.’

‘But — ’

‘It’s really the only way — for you to come yourself.’

She spoke the last sentence irritably, as if the question of my bringing Trapnel aid in person had already arisen in the past, and, rather contemptibly, I had raised objections to making myself available. Now, it seemed, I was looking for a similar excuse again. She offered no explanation or apology for thus emerging as representative of the Trapnel, rather than Widmerpool, ménage. In taking on the former position there was not the smallest trace of self-consciousness.

‘This man Bagshaw has flu still. I can’t get any sense out of the half-witted girl left in charge at the Fission office. That’s why you must come.’

‘I was only going to say that I don’t know where you — where X is living.’

‘Of course you don’t. No one does. I’m about to tell you. Do you know the Canal at Maida Vale?’

‘Yes.’

‘We’re a bit north of there.’

She gave the name of a street and number of the house. I wrote them down.

‘The ground-floor flat. Don’t be put off by the look of the place outside. It’s inhabited all right, though you might not think so. When can you come? Tonight?’

She added further instructions about getting there.

‘What’s wrong with X?’

‘He’s just feeling like hell.’

‘Has he seen a doctor?’

‘He won’t.’

‘Wouldn’t it be wiser to make him?’

‘He’ll be all right in a day or two. He’s got quite a store of his pills. He just wants to talk to somebody. We don’t see anybody as a rule. You just happen to know both of us. That’s why you must come. Have you got a book to bring? Something for him to review?’

I had taken some review copies from the Fission shelves to look through at home. L. O. Salvidge’s collection of essays, Paper Wine , might do for Trapnel. I told Pamela I would produce something. She rang off without comment.

‘Don’t get robbed and murdered,’ said Isobel.

To visit Trapnel in one of his lairs was a rare experience at the best of times. Once we had both been allowed to have a drink with him at a flat in Notting Hill, within range of the Portobello Road, where he liked to wander among the second-hand stalls. He was then living with a girl called Sally. The invitation had been quite exceptional, possibly intended to establish some sort of an alibi for reasons never revealed. The present expedition was more adventurous. The Paddington area, and north of it, supplied one of the traditional Trapnel areas of bivouac. It was surprising that he and Pamela were to be found no farther afield. Their total disappearance suggested withdrawal from such ground to less established streets. It was of course true to say that, even when not specifically retired to the outer suburbs, one rarely knew for certain where Trapnel was living. The absence of news about him from pub sources indicated experiment with hitherto unfrequented taverns. Such investigation would not be unwelcome; by no means out of character. A fresh round of saloon bars would hold out promise of new disciples, new eccentrics, new bores, new near-criminals. Pamela herself might well have objected to a really radical retreat from the approaches to central London. The part she played was hard to imagine.

At this period the environs of the Canal had not yet developed into something of a quartier chic , as later incarnated. Before the war, the indigenous population, time-honoured landladies, inveterate lodgers, immemorial whores, long undisturbed in surrounding premises, had already begun to give place to young married couples, but buildings already tumbledown had now been further reduced by bombing. The neighbourhood looked anything but flourishing. Leaving Edgware Road, I walked along the north bank of the Canal. On either side of the water gaps among the houses marked where direct hits had reduced Regency villas to rubble. The street Pamela had described was beyond this stucco colony. It was not at all easy to find. When traced, the exterior bore out the description of looking uninhabited.

The architecture here had little pretension to elegance. Several steps led up to the front door. No name was quoted above the bell of the ground floor flat. I rang, and waited. The door was opened by Pamela. She was in slacks. I said good-evening. She did not smile.

‘Come in.’

Lighted only by a ray from the flat doorway left open, the hall, so far as could be seen in the gloom, accorded with the derelict exterior of the house; peeling wallpaper, bare boards, a smell of damp, cigarette smoke, stale food. The atmosphere recalled Maclintick’s place in Pimlico, when Moreland and I had visited him not long before his suicide. By contrast, the fairly large room into which I followed Pamela conveyed, chiefly on account of the appalling mess of things that filled it, an impression of rough comfort, almost of plenty. There were only a few sticks of furniture, a table, two kitchen chairs, a vast and hideous wardrobe, but several pieces of luggage lay about — including two newish suitcases evidently belonging to Pamela — clothes, books, cups, glasses, empty Algerian wine bottles. The pictures consisted of a couple of large photographs of Pamela herself, taken by well-known photographers, and, over the mantelpiece, the Modigliani drawing. Trapnel lay on a divan under some brown army blankets.