‘I warned her that old fool Craggs, whose firm she’s joining, is as randy as a stoat. I threw a glass of Algerian wine over him once when he was trying to rape me. Christ, his wife’s a bore. I thought I’d strangle her on the way here. Look at her now.’
Gypsy, followed by Craggs, Quiggin and Widmerpool, had just arrived, ushered in by Siegfried, to whom Widmerpool was talking loudly in German. Whatever he had been saying must have impressed Siegfried, who stuck out his elbows and clicked his heels before once more leaving the room. Widmerpool missed this mark of respect, because he had already begun to look anxiously round for his wife. Frederica went forward to receive him, and the others, but Widmerpool scarcely took any notice of her, almost at once marking down Pamela’s location and hurrying towards her. To run her to earth was obviously an enormous relief. He was quite breathless when he spoke.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Why should I be all right?’
‘I meant no longer feeling faint. How did you find your way here? It was sensible to come and lie down.’
‘I didn’t fancy dying of exposure, which was the alternative.’
‘Is it one of your nervous attacks?’
‘I told you I’d feel like bloody hell if I came on this ghastly party—you insisted.’
‘I know I did, dear, I didn’t want to leave you alone. We’ll be back soon.’
‘Back where?’
‘Home.’
‘After another lovely journey with your friends.’
Widmerpool was not at all dismayed by this discouraging reception. What he wanted to know was Pamela’s whereabouts. Having settled that, all was well. The physical state she might or might not be in was in his eyes a secondary matter. In any case he was probably pretty used to rough treatment by now, would not otherwise have been able to survive as a husband. Barnby used to describe the similar recurrent anxieties of the husband of some woman with whom he had been once involved, the man’s disregard for everything except ignorance on his own part of his wife’s localization. Having her under his eye, no matter how ill-humoured or badly-behaved, was all that mattered. Widmerpool seemed to have reached much the same stage in married life. Anything was preferable to lack of information as to what Pamela might be doing. His tone now altered to one of great relief.
‘You’d better lie still. Rest while you can. I must go and talk business.’
‘Do you ever talk anything else?’
Disregarding the question, he turned to me.
‘Why is that Tory MP Cutts here?’
‘He’s another brother-in-law.’
‘Of course, I’d forgotten. Retained his seat very marginally. I must have a word with him. That’s Hugo Tolland he’s talking to, I believe?’
‘I haven’t had an opportunity yet to congratulate you on winning your own seat.’
Widmerpool grasped my arm in the chumminess appropriate to a public man to whom all other men are blood brothers.
‘Thanks, thanks. It showed the way things are going. A colleague in the House rather amusingly phrased it to me. We are the masters now, he said. The fight itself was a heartening experience. I used to meet Cutts when I was younger, but we have not yet made contact at Westminster. He had a sister called Mercy, I remember from the old days. Rather a plain girl. There are some things I’d like to discuss with him.’
He left the area of the sofa. Now the war was over one constantly found oneself congratulating people. In a mysterious manner almost everyone who had survived seemed also to have had a leg up. For example, books written by myself, long out of print, appeared better known after nearly seven years of literary silence. This was a more acceptable side of growing older. Even Quiggin, Craggs and Bagshaw had the air of added stature. Craggs was talking to Norah. Either to get away from him, or because she had decided that contact with Pamela was unavoidable, better to be faced coolly, she made some excuse, and came towards us. She may also have felt the need to restore her own reputation for disregarding commonplaces of sentiment in relation to such things as love and death. A brisk talk to Pamela offered opportunity to cover both elements with lightness of touch.
‘Hullo, Pam.’
Norah’s manner was jaunty.
‘Hullo.’
‘I never expected to see you here today.’
‘You wouldn’t have done, if I’d had my way.’
‘Unlike you not to have your way, Pam.’
‘That’s good from you. You were always wanting me to do things I hated.’
‘But didn’t succeed.’
‘It didn’t look like that to me.’
‘How have you been, Pam?’
‘Like hell.’
After saying that Pamela picked up the book from the floor—revealed as Hugo’s copy of Camel Ride to the Tomb, which he had brought down with him—smoothed out the crumpled pages, and began to turn them absently. Conceiving Norah well qualified by past experience to contend with manoeuvring of this particular kind, in which emotional undercurrents were veiled by unpromising mannerisms, I moved away. Their current relationship would be better hammered out unimpeded by male surveillance. Craggs, left on his own by Norah, had joined Quiggin and Frederica, who were talking together. In his elaborately refined vocables, reminiscent of a stage clergyman in spite of his anti-clericalism, he began to speak of Erridge.
‘Such satisfying recollections of your brother were brought home to us—JG and myself, I mean—by the letter you are discussing. It revealed the man, the humanity under a perplexed, one might almost say headstrong exterior.’
Quiggin nodded judiciously. He may have felt a follow-up by Craggs would be helpful after whatever he had himself been saying, because he led me away from the other two. He had been looking rather fiercely round the room while engaged with Frederica. Now his manner became jocular.
‘Only through me you infiltrated this house.’
Notwithstanding fairly powerful efforts on his own part to prevent any such ingress, that was broadly speaking true. Obstructive tactics at such a distant date could be overlooked in the light of subsequent events. In any case Quiggin seemed to have forgotten this obverse side of his own benevolence. I supposed he was going to explain whatever dispositions Erridge had left which affected the new publishing firm, but something else was on his mind.
‘You saw Mona?’ he asked.
‘I had quite a talk with her.’
‘She was looking very prosperous.’
‘She’s married to an Air Vice-Marshal.’
‘Good God.’
‘She appears to like it.’
‘Rather an intellectual comedown.’
‘You never can tell.’
‘Did she ask about me?’
‘Said she’d sighted you outside the church and waved.’
‘Not particularly good taste her coming, I thought. But listen—I understand you met Bagshaw, and he talked about Fission?’
‘Not in detail. He said Erry had an interest—that to some extent the magazine would propagate his ideas.’
‘Unfortunately that will be possible only in retrospect, but the fact Alf is no longer with us does not mean the paper will not be launched. In fact it will be carried forward much as he would have wished, subject to certain modifications. Kenneth Widmerpool is interested in it now. He wants an organ for his own views. There is another potential backer keen on the more literary, less political side. We have no objection to that. We think the magazine should be open to all opinion to be looked upon as progressive, a rather broader basis than Alf envisaged might be advantageous.’
‘Why not?’
‘Bagshaw was in Alf’s eyes editor-designate. He has had a good deal of experience, even if not of actually running a magazine. I think he should make a tolerable job of it. Howard does not altogether approve of his attitude in certain political directions, but then Howard and Alf did not always see eye to eye.’
I could not quite understand why I was being told all this. Quiggin’s tone suggest
ed he was leading up to some overture.
‘There will be too much for Bagshaw to keep an eye on with books coming in for review. We’d have liked Bernard Shernmaker to do that, but everyone’s after him. Then we tried L. O. Salvidge. He’d been snapped up too. Bagshaw suggested you might like to take the job on.’
The current financial situation was not such as to justify turning down out of hand an offer of this sort. Researches at the University would be at an end in a week or two. I made enquiries about hours of work and emoluments. Quiggin mentioned a sum not startling in its generosity, none the less acceptable, bearing in mind that one might ask for a rise later. The duties he outlined could be fitted into existing routines.
‘It would be an advantage having you about the place as a means of keeping in touch with Alf’s family. Also you’ve known Kenneth Widmerpool a long time, he tells me. He’s going to advise the firm on the business side. The magazine and the publishing house are to be kept quite separate. He will contribute to Fission on political and economic subjects.’
‘Do Widmerpool’s political views resemble Erry’s?’
‘They have a certain amount in common. What’s more important is that Widmerpool is not only an MP, therefore a man who can to some extent convert ideas into action—but also an MP untarnished by years of back-benching, with all the intellectual weariness that is apt to bring—I say, look what that girl’s doing now.’
On the other side of the room Widmerpool had been talking for some little time to Roddy Cutts. The two had gravitated together in response to that law of nature which rules that the whole confraternity of politicians prefers to operate within the closed circle of its own initiates, rather than waste time with outsiders; differences of party or opinion having little or no bearing on this preference. Paired off from the rest of the mourners, speaking rather louder than the hushed tones to some extent renewed in the house after seeming befitted to the neighbourhood of the church, they were animatedly arguing the question of interest rates in relation to hire-purchase; a subject, if only in a roundabout way, certainly reconcilable to Erridge’s memory. Widmerpool was apparently giving some sort of an outline of the Government’s policy. In this he was interrupted by Pamela. For reasons of her own she must have decided to break up this tête-à-tête. Throwing down her book, which, having freed herself from Norah, she had been latterly reading undisturbed, she advanced from behind towards her husband and Roddy Cutts.
‘People refer to the suppressed inflationary potential of our present economic situation,’ Widmerpool was saying. ‘I have, as it happens, my own private panacea for—’
He did not finish the sentence because Pamela, placing herself between them, slipped an arm round the waists of the two men. She did this without at all modifying the fairly unamiable expression on her face. This was the action to which Quiggin now drew attention. Its effect was electric; electric, that is, in the sense of switching on currents of considerable emotional force all round the room. Widmerpool’s face turned almost brick red, presumably in unexpected satisfaction that his wife’s earlier ill-humour had changed to manifested affection, even if affection shared with Roddy Cutts. Roddy Cutts himself—who, so far as I know, had never set eyes on Pamela before that afternoon—showed, reasonably enough, every sign of being flattered by this unselfconscious demonstration of attention. Almost at once he slyly twisted his own left arm behind him, no doubt the better to secure Pamela’s hold.
This was the first time I had seen her, so to speak, in attack. Hitherto she had always exhibited herself, resisting, at best tolerating, sorties of greater or lesser violence against her own disdain. Now she was to be observed in assault, making the going, preparing the ground for further devastations. The sudden coming into being of this baroque sculptural group, which was what the trio resembled, caused a second’s pause in conversation, in any case rather halting and forced in measure, the reverential atmosphere that to some extent had prevailed now utterly subverted. Susan, glancing across at her husband clasped lightly round the middle by Pamela, turned a little pink. Quiggin may have noticed that and judged it a good moment for reintroduction—when they first met he had shown signs of fancying Susan—because he brought our conversation to a close before moving over to speak to her.
‘I’ll have a further word with Bagshaw,’ he said. ‘Then he or I will get in touch with you.’
Siegfried entered with a large teapot. He set it on one of the tables, made a sign to Frederica, and, without waiting for further instructions, began to organize those present into some sort of a queue. Frederica, now given opportunity to form a more coherent impression of Widmerpool’s wife and her temperament, addressed herself with cold firmness to the three of them.
‘Won’t you have some tea?’
That broke it up. Siegfried remarshalled the party. Hugo took on Pamela. Widmerpool and Roddy Cutts, left once more together, returned to the principles of hire-purchase. Alfred Tolland, wandering about in the background, seemed unhappy again. I handed him a cup of tea. He embarked once more on one of his new unwonted bursts of talkativeness.
‘I’m glad about Mrs Widmerpool … glad she found her way … the foreign manservant here … whoever he is, I mean to say … they’re lucky to have a … footman … these days … hall-boy, perhaps … anyhow he looked after Mrs Widmerpool properly, I was relieved to find … Confess I like that quiet sort of girl. Do hope she’s better. I’m a bit worried about the train though. We’ll have to be pushing off soon.’
‘You’ll have time for a cup of tea.’
‘Please, this way,’ said Siegfried.’ Please, this way now.’
He managed to break up most of the existing conversations.
‘Just like Erry to find that goon,’ said Hugo. ‘He’s worse than Smith, the butler who drank so much, and raised such hell at Aunt Molly’s.’
In Siegfried’s reorganization of the company, Gypsy was placed next to me, the first opportunity to speak with her. All things considered, she might have been more friendly in manner, though her old directness remained.
‘Is this the first time you’ve been here?’
‘No.’
That was at any rate evidence of a sort that she had visited Erridge on his home ground at least once; whether with or without Craggs, or similar escort, was not revealed.
‘Who’s that Mrs Widmerpool?’
To describe Pamela to Gypsy was no lesser problem than the definition of Gypsy to Pamela. Again no answer was required, Gypsy supplying that herself.
‘A first-class little bitch,’ she said.
Craggs joined his wife.
‘JG and I have completed what arrangements can be made at present. We may as well be going, unless you want another cup of tea, Gypsy?’
The way he spoke was respectful, almost timorous.
‘The sooner I get out, the better I’ll be pleased.’
‘Ought to thank for the cupper, I suppose.’
Craggs looked round the room. Frederica, as it turned out, had gone to fetch some testamentary document for Widmerpool’s inspection. While they had been speaking Roddy Cutts took the opportunity of slipping away and standing by Pamela, who was listening to a story Hugo was telling about his antique shop. She ignored Roddy, who, seeing his wife’s eye on him, drifted away again. Widmerpool drummed his fingers against the window frame while he waited. Until Roddy’s arrival in her neighbourhood, Pamela had given the appearance of being fairly amenable to Hugo’s line of talk. Now she put her hand to her forehead and turned away from him. She went quickly over to Widmerpool and spoke. The words, like his answer, were not audible, but she raised her voice angrily at whatever he had said.
‘I tell you I’m feeling faint again.’
‘All right. We’ll go the minute I get this paper—what is that, my dear Tolland?—yes, of course we’re taking you in the taxi. I was just saying to my wife that we’re leaving the moment I’ve taken charge of a document Lady Frederica’s finding for me.’
He spok
e absently, his mind evidently on business matters. Pamela made further protests. Widmerpool turned to Siegfried, who was arranging the cups, most of them odd ones, in order of size at the back of the table.
‘Fritz, mein Mann, sagen Sie bitte der Frau Gräfin, dass Wir jetzt abfahren.’
‘Sofort, Herr Oberst.’
Pamela was prepared to submit to no such delays. ‘I’m going at once—I must. I’m feeling ghastly again.’
‘All right, dearest. You go on. I’ll follow—the rest of us will. I can’t leave without obtaining that paper.’
Widmerpool looked about him desperately. Marriage had greatly reduced his self-assurance. Then a plan suggested itself.
‘Nick, do very kindly escort Pam to the door. She’s not feeling quite herself, a slight recurrence of what she went through earlier. Those passages are rather complicated, as I remember from arriving. Your sister-in-law’s looking for a document I need. I must stay for that, and to thank her for her hospitality.’
Pamela had certainly gone very white again. She looked as if she might be going to faint. Her withdrawal from church, in the light of previous behaviour likely to be prompted by sheer perversity, now took on a more excusable aspect. That she was genuinely feeling ill was confirmed by the way she agreed without argument to the suggested compromise. We at once set off down the stairs together, Pamela bidding no one goodbye.
A Dance to the Music of Time: 2nd Movement Page 8
