Books Do Furnish a Room (4 page)

‘You’re sure you’ve got the
right notebooks now, Ada? I’m putting away the ones you brought back, ere worse
befall. Don’t want to lose them, do we?’

Miss Leintwardine chose this
moment of Sillery’s comparative detachment on the floor to announce something
probably intended to take a less abrupt form. Possibly she had even paid the
visit for this purpose, the diaries only an excuse. Since she had not found
Sillery alone, she had to take the best opportunity available.

‘Talking of J. G. Quiggin, you’ve
heard about this new publishing firm of his?’

She spoke rather
self-consciously. Sillery, swivelling round where he squatted orientally on a
hole in the carpet, was attentive to this.

‘Have you any piquant details,
Ada? I should like to know more
of JG’s publishing venture.’

‘I’m rather committed myself. Perhaps you heard that too, Sillers?’

Whatever this
meant, clearly Sillery had not heard. He sat up sharply. Miss
Leintwardine’s manner of asking the question strongly suggested he had been
given no opportunity to hear anything of the sort

‘How so, Ada?’

‘As it happens, I’m joining the
firm myself. I’ve been reading manuscripts for them since they started. I
thought I told you.’

‘No, Ada, no. You never told
me.’

‘I thought I had.’

This showed Sillery in the
plainest terms he was not the only one to discharge bombshells. He took it
pretty well, though there could be no doubt he was shaken. His eyes showed
that.

‘Craggs brought in the goodwill
of Boggis & Stone, together with such Left-Wing steadies as survive. Of
course the new firm won’t be nearly so limited as Boggis & Stone. We’re
hoping to get the young writers. We’ve signed up X. Trapnel, for example.’

She spoke all this quickly,
more than a little embarrassed, even upset, at having to break the news to
Sillery. He did not say anything. She continued in the same hurried tone.

‘I was wondering whether the
possibility wasn’t worth exploring for publication of your own Journal,
Sillers. You haven’t decided on a publisher yet, have you? There’s often
something to be said for new and enterprising young firms.’

Sillery did not pledge himself
on that point.

‘Does this mean you’re going to
live in London, Ada?’

‘I suppose so, Sillers. I can’t
very well commute from here. Of course it won’t make any difference to my work
for you. I shall always have time for that. I do think it should be an
interesting job, don’t you?’

Again Sillery made no
pronouncement on such expectations. His face provisionally suggested that the
future for those entering publishing offices was anything but optimistic. There
could be no doubt the whole matter was intensely displeasing to him. His
annoyance, together with Miss Leintwardine’s now very definitely troubled
manner, confirmed that
in a peculiar way they must have been having some sort
of flirtation, an hypothesis scarcely to be guessed by even the most seasoned
Sillery experts. The girl’s nervousness now confession had been made, well
illustrated that odd contradictory feminine lack of
assurance so typical of the moment when
victory has been won – for there could be little doubt that progression on to
the staff of Quiggin & Craggs represented a kind of victory over Sillery on
her part, escape from his domination. It looked as if she had half dreaded
telling him, half hoped to cause him to suffer. Sillery had been made the
object of a little affectionate feminine sadomasochism. That was the grotesque
presumption. She jumped up.

‘I must go now, Sillers. I’ve
got an awful lot of work waiting at home. I thought I’d just bring those wrong
notebooks along as they were worrying me.’

She laughed, almost as though
near tears. This time Sillery made no effort to detain her.

‘Goodnight, Ada.’

‘Goodnight, Mr Short.
Goodnight, Mr Jenkins. Goodnight, Sillers.’

However much put out by her
unexpected arrival, refusal to discuss the Widmerpools, final news that she was
abandoning him, Sillery’s usual resilience, his unyielding capacity for making
the best of things, was now displayed, though he could not conceal relief at
this withdrawal. He grinned at Short and myself after the door closed, shaking
his head whimsically to show he still retained a sense of satisfaction in
knowing such a wench. Short, on the other hand, was anxious to forget about
Miss Leintwardine as soon as possible.

‘Tell us something about your
diaries, Sillers. I’m more interested than I can say.’

Sillery, anyway at that moment, did not want to talk about the diaries. Ada Leintwardine
was still his chosen theme. If she had displeased him, all the more reason to
get full value out of her as an attendant personality of what remained
of the Sillery court.

‘Local doctor’s daughter.
Clever girl. Keen on making a career in – what shall we say? – the world of
letters. Writing a novel herself. All that sort of thing. Just the person I was
looking for. Does the work splendidly. Absolutely reliable. We mustn’t have
pre-publication leaks, must we? That would never do. I hope she’s aware of
Howard Craggs’s little failings. Just as bad as ever, even at the age he’s
reached, so I’m told. All sorts of stories. She must know. Everyone knows that.’

His manner of enunciating the
remark about pre-publication leaks made one suspect Sillery meant the opposite
to what he said. Pre-publication leaks were what he aimed at, Miss Leintwardine
the ideal medium for titbits proffered to stimulate interest. The Diary was to
be Sillery’s last bid for power, imposing his personality on the public, as an
alternative to the real thing. However, he had no wish to talk to Short about
this. If the Journal was of interest, it was likely Sillery would have
published its contents, at least a selection, before now. Even if the interest
were moderate, there would be excitement in preparation and advance publicity,
whetting the appetite of the public. When, in due course, Short and I left the
rooms – Sillery admitted he went to bed now earlier than formerly – it was only
after solemn assurances we would call again. Outside, the night was mild for
the time of year.

‘I’m staying in college,’ said
Short. ‘Sillers is always talking of my becoming an Honorary Fellow, I don’t
know how serious he is. I’ll walk with you as far as the gate. Sillers is
wonderful, isn’t he? What did you make of that young woman? I didn’t much care
for her style. Too florid. Still, Sillers must need a secretary if he has all
that diary material to weld into order. Rather inconsiderate of her to give up
work for him, as she seems to be doing. Interesting your knowing Widmerpool. I
wouldn’t have thought you’d much in common. I believe myself he’s got a future.
You must lunch with me one day at the Athenaeum, Nicholas. I’m rather full of
work at the moment, but I’ll tell my secretary to make a note.’

‘Is she as pretty as Miss
Leintwardine?’

Short accepted that pleasantry
in good part, leaving the question in
the air.

‘Brightman calls Sillers the
last of the Barons. Pity there’ll be no heir to that ancient line, he says.
Brightman’s wit, as Sillers remarked, can be a shade cruel. Nice to have met in
these peaceful surroundings again.’

Traversing obscure byways on
the way back to my own college, I had to admit the evening had been enjoyable,
although there was a kind of relief in escaping from the company of Sillery and
Short, into the silent night. One had to concur, too, in judging Sillery ‘wonderful’;
wonderful anyway in categorical refusal to allow neither age nor anything else
to deflect him from the path along which he had chosen to approach life. That
was impressive, to be honoured: at least something the world honoured, capacity
for sticking to your point, whatever it might be, through thick and thin.

‘There have never been any real
salons in England,’ Moreland once said. ‘Everyone here thinks a salon is a
place for a free meal. A true salon is conversation – nothing to eat and less
to drink.’

Sillery bore out the definition
pretty well. The following day I was to knock off Burton, and go back to
London. That was a cheering thought. When I reached my own college there was a
telegram at the porter’s lodge. It was from Isobel. Erridge, her eldest
brother, had died suddenly.

This was a contingency
altogether unexpected, not only dispersing from the mind further speculation
about Sillery and his salon, but necessitating reconsideration of all immediate
plans.

Erridge, a subject for Burton
if ever there was one, had often complained of his health, in this never taken
very seriously by the rest of his family. Lately, little or nothing had been
heard of him. He lived in complete seclusion. The inter-service organization, a
secret one, which had occupied Thrubworth during the earlier years of the war
had been later moved, or disbanded, the place remaining requisitioned, but
converted into a camp for German prisoners-of-war. Administrative staff and
stores occupied most of the rooms, except the small wing at the back of the
building that Erridge, on succeeding his father, had adapted for his own use;
quarters where his sister Blanche had later joined him to keep house. This
suited Blanche well enough, because she preferred a quiet life. She undertook,
when feasible, the many local duties unwelcome to Erridge himself whose
dedication to working for the public good never mitigated an unwillingness to
burden himself with humdrum obligations. This disinclination to play a part in
local affairs owed something to his innate uneasiness in dealing with people,
together with an aversion from personal argument and opposition, unless such
contentiousness was ‘on paper’. What Erridge disliked was having to wrangle
with a lot of not very well-informed adversaries face to face. In these
attitudes poor health may well have played a part, for even unhampered by ‘pacifist’
convictions, his physical state would never have allowed any very active
participation in the war.

However much recognized as,
anyway in his own eyes, living
in a more or less chronic convalescence, Erridge was certainly not expected to
die in his middle-forties. George Tolland,
next brother in point of age, was another matter. George,
badly wounded in the Middle East, had long been too ill
to be brought home. From the first, it seemed unlikely he would survive. Back
in England, he made some sort of recovery, then
had a relapse, almost predictable from the manner
in which Death had already cast an eye on him. The funeral had been only a few
months before. George’s wife Veronica, pregnant at the time, had not yet given
birth. The question of the baby’s sex, in the light of inheritance, added
another uncertainty to the present situation.

The following morning I set out
for London. The train was late. Waiting for it like myself was a man in a blue-grey
mackintosh, who strolled rather furtively up and down the platform. His
movements suggested hope to avoid recognition, while a not absolutely
respectable undertaking was accomplished. At first the drooping moustache
disguised him. It was an adjunct not at all characteristic. Then, a minute or two
after, the nervous swinging walk gave this figure away. There could be no
doubt. It was Books-do-furnish-a-room Bagshaw.

The cognomen dated back to the
old Savoy Hill days of the BBC, though we had not known each other in that very
remote period. A year or two older than myself, Bagshaw had been an occasional
drinking companion of Moreland’s. They shared a taste for white port. Possibly
Bagshaw had even served a brief stint as music critic. The memory persisted – at
our first encounter – of Bagshaw involved in an all but disastrous incident on
top of a bus, when we were going home after Moreland had been conducting a
performance of
Pelleas and Melisande
. If
Bagshaw, at no moment in his past, had ever written music criticism, that must
have been the sole form of journalism he had omitted to tackle. We had never
seen much of each other, nor met for seven or eight years. Bagshaw’s war turned
out to have been waged in the Public Relations branch of the RAF. He had grown
the moustache in India. Like a lot of acquaintances encountered at this period,
his talk had become noticeably more authoritative in tone, product of the war
itself and its demands, or just the ponderous onset of middle age. At the same
time he had surrendered none of his old wheedling, self-deprecatory manner,
which had procured him a wide variety of jobs, extracted him from equally
extensive misadventures. He was in the best of spirits.

‘The subcontinent has its
moments, Nicholas. It was a superlative experience, in spite of the Wingco’s
foul temper. I had to tell that officer I was not prepared to be the Gunga Din
of Royal Air Force Public Relations in India, even at the price of being
universally accepted as the better man. There were a lot of rows, but never
mind. There was much to amuse too.’

This clearcut vignette of
relations with his Wing-Commander defined an important aspect of Bagshaw’s
character, one of which he was very proud.

‘You’re a professional rebel,
Bagshaw,’ some boss-figure had remarked when sacking him.

That was true in a sense,
though not in such an entirely simple sense as might be supposed at first
sight. All the same, Bagshaw had obtained more than one subsequent job merely
on the strength of repeating that estimate of himself. The label gave potential
employers an enjoyable sense of risk. Some of them lived to regret their
foolhardiness.

‘After all, I warned him at the
start,’ Bagshaw used to say.

The roots of this revolutionary
spirit lay a long way back. Did he not boast that on school holidays he had
plastered the public lavatories of Cologne with anti-French stickers at the
time of the occupation of the Rhineland? There were all sorts of later
insurgent activities, ‘chalkings’, marchings, making policemen’s horses shy at
May Day celebrations, exertions which led, logically enough, to association
with Gypsy Jones. Bagshaw was even reckoned to have been engaged to Gypsy at
one time. His own way of life, the fact that she herself was an avowed Party
Member, made it likely he too had been ‘CP’ in his
day, possibly up to the Spanish Civil War. At that period Quiggin used to talk a lot about him, and had
probably learnt a good deal from him Then Bagshaw was employed on some sort of
eyewitness reporting assignment in Spain. Things went wrong. No one ever knew
quite what happened. There had been one of Bagshaw’s rows. He came back. Some
people said he was lucky to get home. Politically speaking, life was never the
same again. Bagshaw had lost his old enthusiasms. Afterwards, when drunk, he
would attempt to expound his changed standpoint, never
with great clarity, though he would go on by the hour together to friends like
Moreland, who detested talking politics.