Books Do Furnish a Room (23 page)

Roddy was determined not to be
outdone in detestation of pomposity and superfluous formality. For a moment the
two MPs were in sharp competition as to whose passion for directness and
simplicity was the more heartfelt, at least could be the more forcibly
expressed. At the end of this contest Widmerpool carried his point.

‘Therefore I suggest you forget
the official executors for the moment, and accompany me back to my flat for the
space of half an hour, where we can deal with the Warminster file, also discuss
the small non-party committee I propose to form. No, no, Cutts, I brook no
refusal. You can both be of inestimable help in confirming the right line is
being taken regarding post-mortem wishes, I mean a line acceptable to the
family. As a matter of fact you may both be interested to learn more of your
late brother-in-law’s
system of opinion, his intellectual quirks, if I may use the phrase.’

Curiosity on
that last point settled the matter. Roddy enjoyed nothing better than having a
finger in any pie that happened to be cooking. Here were at least two. It was agreed that we should do as Widmerpool wished.

‘Come along then. It’s just
round the corner. Only a step. We may as well walk – especially as there are
likely to be no taxis.’

Along the first stretch of
Victoria Street, dimly lighted and slippery, Roddy and Widmerpool discussed 2½%
Treasury Stock Redeemable after 1975; by the time we reached the flats, they
had embarked on the topic of whether or not, as Governor of the Bank of
England, Montagu Norman had adequately controlled the ‘acceptance houses’. The
entrance, rather imposing, was a high archway flanked by gates. This led into a
small courtyard, on the far side of which stood several associated masses of
heavy Edwardian building. It was a cheerless spot. I asked if Short still lived
here.

‘You know Leonard Short? He’s
just below us. Very convenient it should be so. He’s a good little fellow,
Short. My Minister has a high opinion of him.’

‘Who is your Minister?’

Even Roddy was rather appalled
by this ignorance, hastening to explain that Widmerpool had been appointed not
long before Personal Private Secretary to a member of the Cabinet; the one, in
fact, who had attended the Quiggin & Craggs party, the Minister responsible
for the branch of the civil service to which Short belonged. Widmerpool himself
showed no resentment at this lapse, merely laughing heartily, and enlarging on
his own duties.

‘As PPS one’s expected to take
an intelligent interest in the ministry concerned. The presence there of
Leonard Short oils the wheels for me. We’re quite an intellectual crowd here. I
expect you’ve heard of Clapham, the publisher, who lives in another of the
flats. You may even know him. He is a good type of the old-fashioned publishing
man. I find his opinions worthy of attention now I have a stake in that
business myself. There’s nothing flashy about Clapham, neither intellectually
nor socially. He was speaking to me about St John Clarke the other night, whom
he knew well, and, so he tells me, still enjoys a very respectable sale.’

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.

‘How long ago did you say this
was?’

‘About an hour or two, as I
told you. The message was just as I passed it on.’

Short was infinitely,
unspeakably embarrassed. Widmerpool looked at him for a moment, then turned
away. He walked hurriedly up the passage, lost to sight at the right-angle of
its end. A door opened noisily from the direction of the running water. The
sound of the flow ceased a moment later. The taps had been turned off sharply.
Another door was opened. There came the noise of things being thrown about.
Short blew his nose. Roddy got his overcoat and handed me mine. I asked Short
what had hap-

‘It was just a message left for
Kenneth by his wife. She rang the bell of my flat about an hour ago, and asked
me to deliver it.’

Short stopped. Whatever the
message was had seriously upset him. That left us none the wiser. Short seemed
for a moment uncertain whether or not to reveal his secret. Then it became too
much for him. He cleared his throat and lowered his voice.

‘As a matter of fact the
message was – ”I’ve left”. We don’t know each other at all well. I thought she
must mean she was going to catch a train, or something of that sort. Had been
delayed, and wanted her husband to know the time of her departure.’

‘You mean left for good?’

Short nodded once or twice,
almost to himself, in a panic-stricken manner. There could be no doubt that one
side of his being had been immensely excited by becoming so closely involved in
such a drama; another, appalled by all the implications of disorganization,
wrongdoing and scandal. Before more could be told, Widmerpool returned.

‘It was very thoughtless of her
to have forgotten to turn the bath tap off. The hot one too. Nobody in the
place will get any hot water for weeks. You know, Leonard, she must have made
this arrangement to go away on the spur of the moment.’

‘That’s just what it looked
like.’

Short spoke as if he saw a
gleam of hope.

‘She often acts like that. I
deprecate it, but what can I do? I see she has taken both her suitcases. They
must have been quite heavy, as most of her clothes have gone too. Did you help
carry them down?’

‘The man was carrying them.’

‘Do you mean the porter? I
thought he was having flu?’

‘Not the regular porter. It
might have been the taxi-driver or someone driving a hired car. Perhaps they
have a temporary man downstairs.’

‘I mean it was not just a
friend?’

‘He hardly looked like a
friend.’

‘What was he like?’

‘He had a beard. He was
carrying the two bags. Your wife had a stick or umbrella under her arm, and two
or three pictures.’

This piece of information
agitated Widmerpool more than anything that had gone before. Short appeared
unable to know what to think. Before Widmerpool’s return his words certainly
suggested that he himself supposed Pamela had left for good; then Widmerpool’s
demeanour seemed almost to convince him that this was no more than a whim of
the moment to go off and visit friends. Now he was back where he started.