Books Do Furnish a Room (5 page)

‘There was a chap called Max
Stirner … You’ve probably none of you ever heard of
Der
Einzige und sein Eigentum
… You know,
The
Ego and his Own
… Well, I don’t really know German either, but
Stirner believed it would be all right if only we could get away from the
tyranny of abstract ideas… He taught in a girls’ school. Probably what gave him
the notion. Abstract ideas not a bit of use in a girls’ school…’

Whatever Bagshaw thought about
abstract ideas when drunk – he never reached a stage when unable to argue – he
was devoted to them when sober. He resembled a man long conversant with racing,
familiar with the name of every horse listed in
Ruff’s Guide to the Turf
, who
has now ceased to lay a bet, even feel the smallest desire to visit a
racecourse; yet at the same time never lost his taste for talking about racing.
Bagshaw was for ever fascinated by
revolutionary techniques, always prepared to explain everybody’s standpoint, who was a party-member, fellow-traveller, crypto, trotskyist, anarchist, anarcho-syndicalist,  every
refinement of marxist theory, every subtle distinction within groups. The ebb
and flow of subversive forces wafted the breath of life to him, even
if he no longer believed in the beneficial qualities of that tide.

Bagshaw’s employment at the BBC
lasted only a few years. There were plenty of other professional rebels there,
not to mention Party Members, but somehow they were not his sort. All the same,
the Corporation left its mark. Even after he found more congenial occupations,
he always spoke with a certain nostalgia of his BBC days, never entirely losing
touch. After abdicating the air, he plunged into almost every known form of
exploiting the printed word, where he always hovered between the sack and a
much more promising offer on the horizon. He possessed that opportune facility
for turning out several thousand words on any subject whatsoever at the shortest
possible notice: politics: sport: books: finance: science: art: fashion – as he
himself said, ‘War, Famine, Pestilence or Death on a Pale Horse’. All were
equal when it came to Bagshaw’s typewriter. He would take on anything, and – to
be fair – what he produced, even off the cuff, was no worse than what was to be
read most of the time. You never wondered how on earth the stuff had ever
managed to be printed.

All this suggests Bagshaw had a
brilliant journalistic career ahead of him, when, as he described it, he set
out ‘with the heart of a boy so whole and free’. Somehow it never came off. A
long heritage of awkward incidents accounted for much of the furtiveness of
Bagshaw’s manner. There had been every sort of tribulation. Jobs changed; wives
(two at least) came and went; once DT was near at hand; from time to time there
were periods ‘on the waggon’; all the while legend accumulating round this
weaker side, which Bagshaw’s nickname celebrated. Its origin was lost in the
mists of the past, but the legend emphasized aspects of Bagshaw that could make
him a liability.

There were two main
elucidations. One asserted that, the worse for drink, trying to abstract a copy
of
The GoldenTreasury
from a large glass-fronted
bookcase in order to verify a quotation required for a radio programme, Bagshaw
overturned on himself this massive piece of furniture. As volume after volume
descended on him, it was asserted he
made the comment: ‘Books do furnish a room.’

Others had a different story.
They would have it that Bagshaw, stark naked, had spoken the words
conversationally as he approached the sofa on which lay, presumably in the same
state, the wife of a well-known dramatic critic (on duty at the theatre that
night appraising the First Night of
The Apple Cart
), a
clandestine meeting having reached emotional climax in her husband’s book-lined
study. Bagshaw was alleged to have spoken the words, scarcely more than
muttered them – a revolutionary’s tribute to bourgeois values – as he rapidly
advanced towards his prey: ‘ Books do furnish a room.’

The lady, it could have been
none other, was believed later to have complained to a third party of lack of
sensibility on Bagshaw’s part in making such an observation at such a juncture.
Whichever story were true – probably neither, the second had all the flavour of
having been worked over, if not invented, by Moreland – the nickname stuck.

‘There’ll be a stampede of dons’
wives,’ said Bagshaw, as we watched the train come in ‘Let’s be careful. We don’t
want to be injured for life.’

We found a compartment, crowded
enough, but no impediment to Bagshaw’s flow of conversation.

‘You know, Nicholas, whenever I
come away from this place, I’m always rather glad I skipped a novitiate at a
university. My university has been life. Many a time I’ve put that in an
article. Tell me, have you read a novel called
Camel
Ride to the Tomb
?’

‘I thought it good – who is X.
Trapnel? Somebody else mentioned him.’

‘The best first novel since
before the war,’ said Bagshaw.

‘Not that that’s in itself
particularly high praise. Trapnel was a clerk in one of our New Delhi outfits –
the people who used to hand out those pamphlets about Civics and The Soviet
Achievement, all that sort of thing. I was always rapt in admiration at the way
the Party arranged to have its propaganda handled at an official level. As a
matter of fact Trapnel himself wasn’t at all interested in politics, but he was
always in trouble with the authorities, and I managed to help him one way and
another.’

Although not in the front rank
of literary critics – there might have been difficulty in squeezing him into an
already overcrowded and grimacing back row – Bagshaw had reason in proclaiming
Trapnel’s one of the few promising talents thrown up by the war; in contrast
with the previous one, followed by no marked luxuriance in the arts.

‘Then he got a poisoned foot.
Trapnel was a low medical category anyway, that’s why he was doing the job at
his age. He got shipped back to England. By the end of the war he’d winkled
himself into a film unit. He’s very keen on films. Wants to get back into them,
I believe, writing novels at the same time – but what about your own novels,
Nicholas? Have you started up at one again?’

I told him why I was staying at
the University, and how work was going to be disrupted during the following
week owing to Erridge’s funeral. The information about Erridge at once
disturbed Bagshaw.

‘Lord Warminster is no more?’

‘Heard it last night.’

‘This is awful.’

‘I’d no idea you were a close
friend.’

Bagshaw’s past activities,
especially at the time when he was seeing a good deal of Quiggin, might well
have brought him within Erridge’s orbit, though I had never connected them in
my mind.

‘I didn’t know Warminster well.
Always liked him when we met, and of course sorry to hear the sad news, but why
it might be ominous for me was quite apart from personal feelings. The fact was
he was putting up the money for a paper I’m supposed to be editing. I was on
the point of telling you about it.’

At this period there was
constant talk of ‘little magazines’ coming into being. Professionally speaking,
their establishment was of interest as media for placing articles, reviewing
books, the various pickings of literary life. Erridge had toyed with some such
project for years, although the sort of paper he contemplated was not likely to
be of much use to myself. It was no great surprise to hear he had finally
decided to back a periodical of some sort. The choice of Bagshaw as editor was
an adventurous one, but, if they knew each other already, Bagshaw’s recommendation
of himself as a ‘professional rebel’ might well have been sufficient to get a
job in Erridge’s gift.

‘A new publishing firm, Quiggin
& Craggs, is going to produce the magazine. Warminster – Erry, as you call
him – was friends with both directors. You must know J. G. Quiggin. Doubt if he’s
ever been CP, but Craggs has been a fellow-traveller for years, and my old
friend Gypsy toes the Party line as consistently as anyone could.’

‘What’s Gypsy got to do with
it?’

‘As Craggs’s wife.’

‘Gypsy married to Craggs?’

‘Has been for a year or two.
Quiggin’s an interesting case. He’s always had Communist leanings, but afraid
to commit himself. JG doesn’t like too many risks. He feels he might get into
more trouble as a Party Member than outside. He hasn’t got Craggs’s staying
power.’

‘But Erry wasn’t a Communist at
all. In many ways he disapproved, I believe, though he never came out in the
open about it.’

‘No, but he got on all right
with JG and Howard Craggs. There was even a suggestion he did more than get on
well with Gypsy at one time. He was going to back the publishing firm too,
though they are to be run quite separately.’

‘What’s the magazine to be
called?’

‘
Fission
.
That was thought to strike the right note for the Atomic Age. Something to
catch the young writers coming out of the services – Trapnel, for example. That
was why I mentioned him. The firm would, of course, be of a somewhat Leftward
tendency, given its personnel, but general publishing, not like Boggis &
Stone. The magazine was to be Warminster’s toy to do more or less what he liked
with. I hope his demise is not going to wreck things. It was he who wanted me
to edit it There were one or two others after the job. Gypsy wasn’t all that
keen for me to get it, in spite of old ties. I know a bit too much.’

Bagshaw’s lack of orthodoxy,
while at the same time soaked in Left-Wing lore, was something to make
immediate appeal to Erridge, once considered. Then another idea occurred to me.
It was worth firing a shot at random.

‘You’ve been seeing Miss Ada Leintwardine
about all this?’

Bagshaw was not in the least
taken aback. He stroked his moustache, an utterly unsuitable appendage to his
smooth round somewhat priest-like face, and smiled.

‘You know Ada? I thought she
was my secret. Where did you run across her?’

He listened to an account of
what had taken place in Sillery’s rooms; then nodded, as if understanding all.

‘Sillery’s an interesting case
too. I’ve heard it suggested he’s been in the Party himself for years. Myself I
think not, though there’s no doubt he’s given quite a bit of support from time
to time in his day. I’d be interested to know where he really stands. So the
little witch has ensnared this venerable scholar?’

‘She’s kept that to herself so
far as you were concerned?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Is she a Party Member too?’

Bagshaw
laughed heartily.

‘Ada’s ambitions are primarily
literary. Within that area she’ll take any help she can get, but I doubt if she’d
get much from the Party. What did you think of her?’

‘All right.’

‘She’s got a will of her own.
Quiggin & Craggs did right to sign her up. JG was much taken.’

‘You produced her?’

‘We met during the war – all
too briefly – but have remained friends. She’s to be on the publishing side,
not
Fission
. I’d
like you to meet Trapnel. I really do think there’s promise there. I’ll call
you up, and we’ll have a drink together. I won’t be able to arrange anything
next week, as I’m getting married on Tuesday – thanks very much, my dear
fellow, thanks very much… yes, of course… nice of you to put it that way… I
just didn’t want to be a bore about a lot of personal matters …’

RATHER
UNEXPECTEDLY, ERRIDGE WAS FOUND to have paid quite
recent attention to his will. He had replaced George Tolland (former executor
with Frederica) by their youngest, now only surviving brother, Hugo.
Accordingly, by the time I reached London, Hugo and Frederica had already gone
down to Thrubworth. Accommodation in Erridge’s wing of the house was limited.
The rest of the family, as at George’s funeral, had to make up their minds
whether to attend as a day’s expedition, or stay at The Tolland Arms, a
hostelry considerably developed from former times, since the establishment in
the neighbourhood of an RAF station. Norah, Susan and her husband Roddy Cutts,
with Isobel and myself, chose The Tolland Arms. As it happened Dicky Umfraville
had just arrived on leave from Germany, where he was serving as
lieutenant-colonel on the staff of the Military Government (a job to which he
was well disposed), but he flatly refused to accompany Frederica.

‘I never met your brother,’ he
said. ‘Therefore it would be an impertinence on my part to attend his funeral.
Besides – in more than one respect the converse of another occasion – there’s
room at the inn, but none at the stable. Nobody would mind one of the
Thrubworth loose-boxes less than myself, but we should be separated, my love,
so near and yet so far, something I could not bear. In addition – far more
important – I don’t like funerals. They remind me of death, a subject I always try to avoid. You will have to
represent me, Frederica, angel that you are, and return to London as soon as possible to make my leave a heaven upon earth.’

Veronica, George Tolland’s widow, was not present either. She was likely to give birth any day now.

‘Pray God it will be a boy,’
Hugo said. ‘I used to think I’d like to take it all on, but no longer – even
though I’d hardly make a scruffier earl than poor old Erry.’

His general demeanour quietened
by the war, Hugo’s comments tended to become grimmer. He had remained
throughout his service bombardier in an Anti-Aircraft battery, not leaving
England, but experiencing a reasonably lively time, for example, one night the
only man on the gun not knocked out. Now he had returned to selling antiques, a
trade at which he became increasingly proficient, recently opening a shop of
his own with a former army friend called Sam – he seemed to possess no surname
– not a great talker, but good-natured, of powerful physique, and said to be
quick off the mark when a good piece came up at auction.