Books Do Furnish a Room (17 page)

‘There may be trouble about
certain passages in Kydd’s book – two especially. If it has to be toned down
through fear of prosecution, I’d like you to have read what the author
originally wrote.’

Shernmaker continued his stern
silence. If he allowed his face to relax at all, it was only to register deeper
suspicion of publishers and all their works. Quiggin was by no means to be put
off by such severity. He smiled encouragingly. Although not by nature
ingratiating, he could be industrious at the process if worth while.

‘Don’t tell me you’ve washed
your hands of Kydd’s work, Bernard – like Pilate?’

Shernmaker did not return the
smile. He thought for a time. Quiggin, unlike Pilate for his part, awaited an
answer. Shernmaker brought his own out at last.

‘Pilate washed his hands – did
he wash his feet?’

It was now Quiggin’s turn to
withhold a smile. He was as practised a punch-line killer and saboteur of other
people’s witticisms as Shernmaker himself. This disrespect for one of the firm’s
new authors must also have annoyed him. A lot was expected from Kydd. Before
further exchanges could take place, Quiggin’s old friend Mark Members arrived.
With him was a young man whose khaki shirt, corduroy trousers, generally
buccaneering aspect, suggested guerrilla warfare in the Quiggin manner, though
far more effectively. This was appropriate enough in Odo Stevens, an unlikely
figure to turn up at a publisher’s party, though apparently an already accepted
acquaintance of Members. As Sillery had remarked, white locks suited Members.
He allowed them to grow fairly long, which gave him the rather dramatic air of
a nineteenth-century literary man who had loved and suffered, the mane of hair
weighing down his slight, spare body. Stevens made a face expressing
recognition, but, before we could speak, was at once buttonholed by Quiggin,
with whom he also appeared on the best of terms. Members now introduced Stevens
to Shernmaker.

‘I don’t know whether you’ve
met Odo Stevens, Bernard? You probably read his piece the other day about life
with the Army of Occupation. Odo and I have just been discussing the most
suitable European centre for cultural congress – you know my organization is
trying to get one on foot. Do you hold any views? Your own co-operation would,
of course, be valuable.’

Shernmaker was still giving
nothing away. Frowning, moving a little closer, he watched Members’s face as if
trying to detect potential insincerities; allowing at the same time a rapid
glance at the door to make sure no one of importance was arriving while his
attention was thus occupied. Shernmaker’s party personality varied a good deal
according to circumstance; this evening a man of iron, on guard against
attempts to disturb his own profundities of thought by petty everyday concerns.
His duty, this manner implied, was with a wider world than any offered by
Quiggin & Craggs and their like; if a trifle sullen, he must be forgiven.
He had already shown that, once committed to such inanities, the best defence was epigram. Members, who had known Shernmaker
for years – almost as long as he had
known Quiggin – evidently wanted to get something out
of him, because he showed himself quite prepared to put up, anyway within
reason, with the Shernmaker personality as then exercised.

‘You’ll agree, Bernard, that
effective discussion of the Writer’s Position in Society is impractical in
unsympathetic surroundings. Artists are vulnerable to circumstance, never more
so than when compulsorily confined to their native shores.’

Still Shernmaker did not
answer. Members became more blunt in exposition.

‘We’re none of us ever going to
get out of England again, except as emissaries of culture. That’s painfully
clear. We’re caught in a trap. Unless something is done, we’ll none of us ever
see the Mediterranean again.’

Evadne Clapham, L. O. Salvidge
and Malcolm Crowding, the last of whom had a poem in
Fission
,
had joined the group. All agreed with this deduction. Evadne Clapham went
further. She clasped her hands together, and quoted:

‘A Robin Redbreast in a Cage
Puts all Heaven in a Rage.’

The lines suddenly brought
Shernmaker to life. He stared at Evadne Clapham as if outraged. She smiled
invitingly back at him.

‘Rubbish.’

‘You think Blake rubbish, Mr
Shernmaker?’

‘I disagree with him in this
particular case.’

‘How so?’

‘A robin redbreast in a rage
Puts all heaven in a cage.’

Evadne Clapham now unclasped
her hands, and brought them together several times in silent applause.

‘Very good, very good. You are
quite right, Mr Shernmaker. I often notice what aggressive birds they are when
I’m gardening. Your conclusion is, of course, that writers must not be held in
check. Don’t you agree, Mark? We must make ourselves heard. Do tell me about
the young man you came in with. Isn’t it true he’s had a very glamorous war
career, and is terribly naughty?’

This question was answered by
Quiggin introducing Odo Stevens all round as the man who was writing a war book
to make all other war books seem thin stuff. It was to be about Partisans in
the Balkans. Quiggin was a little put out to find that Stevens and I had
already met, but we were again prevented from talking by an incident taking
place that was in a small way dramatic. Pamela Widmerpool, followed by her
husband, had come into the room. Quiggin turned to greet them. Stevens was
obviously as surprised to see Pamela at this party as I had been myself to find
him there. As they came past he spoke to her.

‘Why, hullo, Pam.’

She looked straight at, and
through, him. It was not so much that she ignored what Stevens had said, as
that she behaved as if he had never spoken, was not even there. She seemed to
be looking at someone or something beyond him, unable to see Stevens himself at
all. Stevens, by nature as sure of himself as a man could well be, was not in
the least embarrassed, but certainly taken aback. When he grasped what had
happened, he turned towards me and grinned. We were not near enough for
comment.

‘There’s someone I’d like you
to meet, dear heart,’ said Widmerpool. ‘We’ll talk business later, JG. There
are two misprints in my own article, but on the whole Bagshaw must be agreed to
have made a creditable job of the first number.’

Apart from her treatment of
Stevens – or signalizing it by that – Pamela
gave the impression of being on her best behaviour. She
allowed herself to be piloted across to the Cabinet Minister. Cutting Stevens might be explained by the fact that, when last seen with him,
she had slapped his face. It
was quite possible that night, the first of the flying-bombs, had been also the
last she had seen of him. To start again as
total strangers was one way of handling such matters. The
most recent news of her had been from Hugo Tolland. Pamela had appeared at his
antique shop in the company of an unidentified man, who had paid cash for an Empire
bidet
, later delivered to the Widmerpool flat in Victoria Street; a highly decorative
piece of furniture, according to Hugo. Inevitably her sickness at Thrubworth
had developed into a legend of pregnancy, cut short artificially and not
occasioned by her husband, but that was probably myth.

Widmerpool’s demeanour gave no
impression of having emerged from a trying domestic experience, though it could
be argued the truth had been kept from him. Not long before, a speech of his in
a parliamentary debate on the reduction of interest rates had been the subject
of satirical comment in a
Daily Telegraph
leader, but, at the stage of public life he had reached, no doubt any mention
in print was better than none. Certainly he appeared well satisfied with
himself, clapping Craggs on the back, and giving an
amicable greeting to Gypsy, with whom he must have established some sort of
satisfactory adjustment. The article he had written for
Fission
had been called
Affirmative Action and Negative
Values
. Stevens came over to talk.

‘Did you notice Pam’s lack of
recognition? Her all over. What the hell’s she doing here?’

He laughed heartily.

‘Her husband’s part of the
Quiggin & Craggs set-up. Why did you hit on them for your book?’

‘My agent thought they’d be the
right sort of firm, as I was operating with the Commies most of the time I was
in the Balkans. The publishers have only seen a bit of it. It’s not finished
yet. Will be soon. I’m spreading culture with Mark Members at the moment, but I
hope to get out of an office – if the book sells, and it will.’

‘All about being “dropped”?’

‘A murder or two. Some rather
spicy political revelations. One of the former incidents mucked up my affairs
rather – lost me a DSO.’

‘What did you haul in finally?’

‘MC and bar, also one of the
local gongs from the new regime. Don’t know yet whether I’ll be permitted to
put it up. I shall anyway.’

‘When did you get out of the
army?’

‘It was rather premature. I was
never much of a hand at regimental life, even though I wasn’t sure at one
moment I wouldn’t take up soldiering as a trade. So many temptations in
Germany. The Colonel didn’t behave too badly, but in the end he said I’d have
to go. I agreed, so far as it went. I scrounged round for a bit selling space
and little articles, then got myself fixed up in this culture-toting outfit. At
the moment I’m in liaison with Mark Members and his conference project. I hear
you’re doing the books on this mag. What about some reviewing for Odo?’

‘Why not, Odo? Why should you
be the only man in England who’s not going to review for
Fission
?’

‘Who’s the small dark lady
talking to Sir Howard Craggs?’

‘Rosie Manasch. She too has an
interest in the mag.’

‘Rather attractive. I think I’ll
meet her.’

The war had washed ashore all
sorts of wrack of sea, on all sorts of coasts. In due course, as the waves
receded, much of this flotsam was to be refloated, a process to continue for
several years, while the winds abated. Among the many individual bodies
sprawled at intervals on the shingle, quite a lot resisted the receding tide.
Some just carried on
life where they were on the shore; others – the more determined – crawled inland. Stevens belonged to the latter category. He knew
where his future lay.

‘Any books you can spare. Army
matters, travel, jewellery – as you know, I’m interested in verse too. HQ, my cultural
boys, always finds me.’

He strolled away. Widmerpool
appeared.

‘I’ve been having a lot to do
with your relations lately. It turned out your late brother-in-law was on bad
terms with the family solicitor. I’ve managed to arrange that some of the work
should be transferred to Turnbull, Welford & Puckering – my old firm, you
remember I started the struggle for existence in Lincoln’s Inn – has the
advantage of my being able to keep a weather eye on things from time to time.
The Quiggin & Craggs interests will need a certain amount of attention.
Hugo Tolland tells me he did not at all mind Mrs George Tolland giving birth to
a son – one Jeremy, I understand – told me he was far from anxious to inherit
responsibilities, myriad these days, of becoming head of the family. Titles are
a survival one must deplore, but they can be a worry, as Howard Craggs was
remarking last week. I see Hugo Tolland’s point. He is a sensible young man, in
spite of what at first appears a foolish manner. I understand that, as mother
of the little earl, Mrs George Tolland – who has two children of her own by an
earlier marriage – is going to live in the wing of Thrubworth Park formerly
occupied by the late Lord Warminster. Modest premises in themselves, and a good
idea. Lady Blanche Tolland is to remain there as before. An excellent
arrangement for one of her retiring nature. I talked to her, and greatly
approved what she had to say for herself.’

Abandoning for a moment the intense
pleasure people find in explaining in detail to someone the characteristics and
doings of their own relations, he paused and glanced round the room. This could
have been a routine survey to be taken wisely at regular intervals with the
object of keeping check on his wife’s doings. She was at that particular moment
revealed as listening to some sort of a harangue being given by a dark
bespectacled personage in his thirties, whom I recognized as Werner Guggenbühl,
now Vernon Gainsborough. There could be no doubt there was a look of Siegfried.
Widmerpool marked them down.

‘I see Pam’s got caught up with
Gainsborough. I don’t know whether you’ve come across him? He’s a German – a “good”
German – a close friend of Lady Craggs, as a matter of fact. They go about a
lot together. I’m giving away no secret. Craggs, very sensibly, takes an
understanding view. He is a man of the world, though you might never guess that
to look at him. Gainsborough is not a bad fellow. A little pedantic.’

‘He used to be a Trotskyist.’

‘No longer, I think. In any
case I disapprove of witch-hunting. He stands, of course, considerably to the
left of centre. I am not sure he is quite the sort of person Pam likes – she is
easily bored – so perhaps it would be wise to come to her rescue.’

He gave the impression that
Gainsborough’s relationship with Gypsy, however little Craggs might resent it,
and however ‘good’ a German he might be, was not one to recommend sustained
conversation with a wife like his own. Widmerpool was about to move off and
break up the tête-à-tête. However, Trapnel came up at that moment. Rather to my
surprise, he addressed himself to Widmerpool with a formal cordiality not at
all like his usual manner. It looked as if he were playing one of his roles, a
habit now becoming familiar.

‘It’s Mr Widmerpool, isn’t it?
Do forgive my introducing myself. My name’s X. Trapnel. I’m a writer. JG was
talking about you the other day. He said you were one of the few MPs who are
trying to make the Government get a move on. I do hope you’ll do something
about the laws defining certain kinds of writing as obscene, when it’s nothing
of the sort. They really ought to be looked into. As a writer I can speak. You
won’t have heard of me, but I’m published by Quiggin & Craggs. I’ve a short
story in this opening number of
Fission
.’