Books Do Furnish a Room

5

I left London one Saturday afternoon in the autumn to make some arrangement about a son going to school. Owing to the anomalies of the timetable, the train arrived an hour or so early for the appointment. There was an interval to kill. After a hot summer the weather still remained warm, but, not uncommon in that watery region, drizzle descended steadily, while a feeble sun shone through clouds that hung low over stretches of claret-coloured brick. It was too wet to wander about in the open. For a time I kicked my heels under a colonnade. A bomb had fallen close by. One corner was still enclosed by scaffolding and a tarpaulin. Above the arch, the long upper storey with its row of oblong corniced windows had escaped damage. The period of the architecture — half a century later, but it took little nowadays to recall him — brought Burton to mind; Burton, by implication the art of writing in general. On this subject he knew what he was talking about:

‘ ’Tis not my study or intent to compose neatly … but to express myself readily & plainly as it happens. So that as a River runs sometimes precipitate and swift, then dull and slow; now direct, then winding; now deep, then shallow, now muddy, then clear; now broad, then narrow; doth my style flow; now serious, then light; now comical, then satirical; now more elaborate, then remiss, as the present subject required, or as at the time I was affected.’

Even for those with a prejudice in favour of symmetry, worse rules might be laid down. The antithesis between satire and comedy was especially worth emphasis; also to write as the subject required, or the author thought fit at the moment. One often, when writing, felt a desire to be ‘remiss’. It was good to have that recommended. An important aspect of writing unmentioned by Burton was ‘priority’; what to tell first. That always seemed one of the basic problems. Trapnel used to talk about its complexities. For example, even to arrange in the mind, much less on paper, the events leading up to the demise of Fission after a two-year run, the swallowing up (by the larger publishing house of which Clapham was chairman) of the firm of Quiggin & Craggs, demanded an effective grasp of narrative ‘priorities’.

Looking out between the pillars at the raindrops glinting on the cobbles of a broad open space, turning the whole thing over in the mind, much seemed to me inevitable, as always contemplating the past. At the same time, although many things had gone wrong, several difficulties had been successfully surmounted. For instance, the prosecution of Sweetskin had been parried; the verdict, ‘Not Guilty’. Nevertheless, the case had cost money, caused a lot of worry to the directors. Alaric Kydd himself had been so certain that he would be sent to prison for uttering an obscene work that he let his flat on rather good terms for eighteen months; later finding difficulty in obtaining satisfactory alternative accommodation. He was also wounded by the tone of voice — certainly a very silly one — in which prosecuting counsel read aloud in court certain passages from his novel.

More damaging to the firm in a way, though morally rather than financially, was the Sad Majors affair. Bagshaw leaked an account of that. He had come back to the office in a restless, resentful mood after his bout of flu, according to Ada, spending the first forty-eight hours of convalescence drinking, then retiring to bed again for a further day before settling down. Whether or not he had deliberately kept the Trapnel parody ‘on the spike’ for use at the most appropriate occasion was never cleared up. Most probably, as in previous episodes of Bagshaw’s history, an infallible instinct for causing trouble had brought guidance without need of exact knowledge. Widmerpool appeared to have made no complaint to the board. He remained out of touch with Quiggin & Craggs long after the Court Circular announced his return from the People’s Republic, where he had been paying his visit. No doubt he was busy with parliamentary affairs. There was in any case not much he could do. If Fission had not ceased publication, Bagshaw’s contract would in any case have run out. He had dropped hints that he himself wanted to move. No one was going to stand in his way. The fact was that Bagshaw was by now attracted by the promise of helping to open up the still mainly unexplored eldorado of television.

Bagshaw took pleasure in elaborating the Odo Stevens story. He did not like Stevens as a man, but admired him as an adventurer. They used to meet when Stevens from time to time looked into the Fission office to see if there were a book to review. Stevens had developed an additional contact with the magazine on account of his association with Rosie Manasch. Never backward at publicizing his successes, he did not at present convey more than that he had an ally in that quarter. If Rosie had decided she needed relaxation with a man considerably younger than herself, she was agreed to have had a distressing time in many ways, and Stevens, whatever his failings, had the advantage of being a figure not to be taken too seriously. Both parties were judged well able to look after themselves. That was how it seemed at the time. However, even at an early stage the relationship was sufficiently strong to play a part in the Quiggin & Craggs upheaval. This came about when the Sad Majors controversy, simmering for some little while, took aggressive shape. Bagshaw, always interested in a row of this sort, was ravished by a move now made.

‘You can’t help admiring the way Gypsy does things. Good old hard-core stuff. You know the trouble about the Stevens book — thought to bring discredit on the Party. Gypsy’s performed one of those feats that most people don’t think of on account of their ruthless simplicity. She has quite simply liquidated the manuscript. Both copies.’

‘Aren’t there more than two copies?’

‘Apparently not.’

‘How did she get hold of them?’

‘After much argument, the original MS had been sent to the printer to be cast off. It was to be allowed to go ahead anyway as far as proof. Then Howard said he’d like to reread the book in peaceful surroundings, so he borrowed the carbon, and took it home with him. A day or two later, Gypsy, that’s her story, thought it was another manuscript Howard had asked her to post to Len Pugsley — who sometimes does reading for the firm, he poked Gypsy briefly — and Len says the parcel never arrived. He was moving house at the time. Stevens’s carbon seems to have gone astray between the Oval and Chalk Farm. Meanwhile, the printers got a telephone message, the origins of which no one can trace, to send back the MS they were to cast off. There was some question about it to be settled editorially. Now that copy can’t be found either.’

‘Stevens will have to write it again?’

‘That’s where the neatness of the sabotage comes in. Rewriting will take a longish time. By the time it’s finished the poor impression Stevens gives of the Comrades and their behaviour will, with any luck, be out of date — anyway in the eyes of the reading public. At worst, all ancient history.’

‘How’s Stevens taking the loss?’

‘He’s pretty cross. Can you blame him? The more interesting point is that Rosie Manasch is very cross too. In fact she’s withdrawn her support from the mag in consequence of her crossness with Quiggin & Craggs as a firm. That’s awkward, because — though personally I think a lot of unnecessary fuss was made about the Trapnel parody — the rest of the board don’t feel it a good moment to stir up Widmerpool.’

‘Is Stevens getting compensation?’

‘You haven’t studied the writing paper. The greatest care is taken of manuscripts, but no responsibility. However, they’ve allowed the contract to be cancelled.’

‘That was handsome.’

Compared with the Stevens row, the disappointment caused by Sillery’s Diary, after all the haggling about terms, and high advance, was a minor blow, though again there were repercussions. The extracts were called Garnered at Sunset: Leaves from an Edwardian Journal.

‘A masterpiece of dullness,’ said Bagshaw. ‘JG read it. Howard read it. For once they were in complete agreement. The only thing to do will be to publish, and hope for the best. I’m surprised at Ada. She’s strung them along over Sillery.’

Ada’s policy in the matter, as not seldom, was enigmatic, probably dictated by a mixture of antagonistic considerations. The Diary, seen as one of the paths to a career, had not been truly subjected to her usually sharp judgment. Its lack of interest had been obscured by inner workings of the curious kind of flirtation she and Sillery had shared. Those elements might be put forward as excuse for the recommendation. It was also possible, knowing Sillery as she did, that Ada had genuinely found Garnered at Sunset absorbing. Publishers’ readers, as Quiggin remarked, are no less subjective than other animals. It might be thought that this critical lapse on Ada’s part would have prejudiced her position in the firm. On the contrary, nothing more retributive was visited on her than that Quiggin proposed marriage.

Bagshaw suggested that an emotional scene contingent on some sort of reprimand on the subject of the Sillery Journal, had brought things to a head, but there can be no doubt an offer of marriage was already at the back of Quiggin’s mind. The fact that the firm was moving towards a close had nothing to do with it. He was accepted. As a married man, the place he had found on the board of Clapham’s firm would be advantageous; on the whole a step forward in a publishing career. The two of them were quietly married one August afternoon before the Registrar; Mark Members and L. O. Salvidge, witnesses. Craggs and Gypsy were not asked. Craggs had announced he was going into semi-retirement when the firm closed down, but it seemed likely that he would continue his activities, at least in an inconspicuous manner, with many little interests of a political sort that had always engrossed him. All these things played a part, others too, in the winding up of Quiggin & Craggs, representative of common enough impediments to running a publishing house; exceptional, in as much as they were exceptional, only on account of the individuals concerned. The climax, in an odd way, seemed to be the night spent with Trapnel and Bagshaw. That had been rather different. By then, in any case, both magazine and publishing business had received the death sentence. All the same that night — the symbolic awfulness of its events — was something to put a seal on the whole affair. It confirmed several other things too.

Matters had begun with a telephone call from Bagshaw at about half-past nine one evening four or five weeks before. From the opening sentences it was clear he was drunk, less clear what he wanted. At first the object seemed no more than a chat about the sadness of life, perhaps a long one, but entailing merely a sympathetic hearing. That was too good to be true. It soon grew plain some request was going to be made. Even then, what the demand would be became only gradually apparent.

‘As the mag’s closing down, I thought a small celebration would be justified.’

‘So you said, Books. You’ve said that twice.’

‘Sorry, sorry. The fact is everything always comes at once. Look, Nicholas, I want your help. I’d already decided on this small celebration, when Trappy got in touch with me at the office. He rang up himself, which, as you know, he doesn’t often do. He’s in a lot of trouble. This girl, I mean.’

‘Pamela Widmerpool?’

It was as well to make sure.

‘That’s the one.’

The fact that Pamela might be Widmerpool’s wife had made, from his tone of voice, little or no serious impact on Bagshaw. He clearly thought of her as one, among many, of Trapnel’s girls … Tessa … Pat … Sally … Pauline … any of the Trapnel girls Bagshaw himself had known in the course of their acquaintance.

‘What’s happened?’

‘They’ve had some row about his novel — you know the one — what — can’t quite — ’

He made a tremendous effort, but I had to intervene.

‘Profiles in String?’

‘That’s the book. He’s tremendously pleased with it, but can’t decide about an ending. He wants one, she wants another.’

‘Trapnel’s writing the bloody book, isn’t he?’

Bagshaw was shocked at this disregard for authority conferred by a love attachment.

‘Trappy was upset. They had a row. Now he doesn’t want to go back and find she’s left. She may have done. He wants someone to go back with him. Soften the blow. I said I’d do that.’

‘Look, Books, why are you telling me all this?’

‘I was quite willing to do that. See him home, I mean. Trappy and I went to the pub to talk things over. You know how it is. I’m not quite sure I can get him back unaided.’

‘Do you mean he’s passed out?’

Bagshaw was insulted at the suggestion that such a fate might have overtaken any friend of his.

‘Not in the least. It’s just he’s in a bit of a state. Sort of nervous condition. That’s what I’m coming to. It’s really an awful lot to ask. Would it be too great an infliction for you to come along and lend a hand?’

‘Is it those pills?’

‘Might be.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Not far from Trappy’s flat. Once we’ve got him under way there’ll be nothing to it.’

Bagshaw named a pub I had never heard of, but, from the description of its locality, evidently not far from Trapnel’s base, assuming that unchanged from the night I had visited him. Since that night I had heard nothing of him or Pamela. She had not rung up to ask for further books to review. The L. O. Salvidge notice had never been sent in. Salvidge was aggrieved. Trapnel ceased altogether to be a contributor to Fission in its latter days.

‘Can he walk?’

‘Of course he can walk — at least I think so. It’s not walking I’m worried about, just I don’t know how he’ll behave when he gets into the open. After all, which of us does? You’d be a great support, Nicholas, if you could manage to come along. You always get on all right with Trappy, which is more than some do. I’m full of apologies for asking this.’

Although in most respects quite different, the situation seemed to present certain points in common with conducting Bithel, collapsed on the pavement, back to G Mess; restoring Stringham to his flat after the Old Boy dinner. In some sense history was repeating itself, though incapacity to walk seemed not Trapnel’s disability.

‘All right, I’ll be along as soon as I can.’

Isobel was unimpressed by this call for help. There was much to be said for her view of it. Now that Bagshaw was off the line, compliance took the shape of moral weakness, rather than altruism or benevolence.

‘Looking after Trapnel’s becoming monotonous. Is Mrs Widmerpool still his true-love?’

‘She’s what the trouble’s about.’

The pub turned out to be another of Bagshaw’s obscure, characterless drinking places, this time off the Edgware Road. It was fairly empty. Bagshaw and Trapnel were at a table in the corner, both perfectly well behaved. Closer investigation showed Bagshaw as drunk in his own very personal manner, that is to say he would become no drunker however much consumed. There was never any question of going under completely, or being unable to find his way home. Trapnel, on the other hand, did not at first show any sign of being drunk at all. He had abandoned his dark lenses. Possibly he only wore them in hard winters. He was sitting, quietly smiling to himself, hunched over the death’s-head stick.

‘Hullo, Nick. I’ve just been talking to Books about a critical work I’m planning. It’s to be called The Heresy of Naturalism. People can’t get it right about Naturalism. They think if a writer like me writes the sort of books I do, it’s because that’s easier, or necessary nowadays. You just look round at what’s happening and shove it all down. They can’t understand that’s not in the least the case. It’s just as selective, just as artificial, as if the characters were kings and queens speaking in blank verse.’

‘Some of them are queens,’ said Bagshaw.

‘Do listen, Books. You’ll profit by it. What I’m getting at is that if you took a tape-recording of two people having a grind it might truly be called Naturalism, it might be funny, it might be sexually exciting, it might even be beautiful, it wouldn’t be art. It would just be two people having a grind.’

‘But, look here, Trappy — ’

‘All right, they don’t have to be revelling in bed. Suppose you took a tape-recording of the most passionate, most moving love scene, a couple who’d — oh, God, I don’t know — something very moving about their love and its circumstances. The incident, their words, the whole thing, it gets accidentally taped. Unknown to them the machine’s been left on by mistake. Anything you like. Some wonderful objet trouvé of that sort. Do you suppose it would come out as it should? Of course it wouldn’t. There are certain forms of human behaviour no actor can really play, no matter how good he is. It’s the same in life. Human beings aren’t subtle enough to play their part. That’s where art comes in.’

‘All I said was that Tolstoy —’

‘Do keep quiet, Books. You’ve missed the point. What I mean is that if, as a novelist, you put over something that hasn’t been put over before, you’ve done the trick. A novelist’s like a fortune-teller, who can impart certain information, but not necessarily what the reader wants to hear. It may be disagreeable or extraneous. The novelist just has to dispense it. He can’t choose.’

‘All I said was, Trappy, that personally I preferred Realism — Naturalism, if you wish — just as I’ve a taste for political content. That’s how Tolstoy came in. It’s like life.’

‘But Naturalism’s only “like” life, if the novelist himself is any good. If he isn’t any good, it doesn’t matter whether he writes naturalistically or any other way. What could be less “like” life than most of the naturalistic novels that appear? If he’s any good, it doesn’t matter if his characters talk like Disraeli’s, or incidents occur like Vautrin, smoking a cigar and dressed up as a Spanish abbé, persuades Lucien de Rubempré not to drown himself. Is Oliver Twist a failure as a novel because Oliver, a workhouse boy, always speaks with exquisite refinement? As for politics, who cares which way Trimalchio voted, or that he was a bit temperamental towards his slaves?’

‘Trappy — no, wait, let me speak — all this started by my saying that, just as masochism’s only sadism towards yourself, revolutions only reconcentrate the centre of gravity of authority, and, if you wish, of oppression. The people who feel they suffer from authority and oppression want to be authoritative and oppressive. I was just illustrating that by something or other I thought came in Tolstoy.’

‘But, Books, you said Tolstoy wrote “like” life, because he was naturalistic. I contend that his characters aren’t any more “like” — in fact aren’t as “like” — as, say, Dostoevsky’s at their craziest. Of course Tolstoy’s inordinately brilliant. In spite of all the sentimentality and moralizing, he’s never boring — at least never in one sense. The material’s inconceivably well arranged as a rule, the dialogue’s never less than convincing. The fact remains, Anna Karenin’s a glorified magazine story, a magazine story of the highest genius, but still a magazine story in that it tells the reader what he wants to hear, never what he doesn’t want to hear.’

‘Trappy, I won’t have you say that sort of thing about Tolstoy, though of course Dostoevsky’s more explicit when it comes to exhibiting the Marxist contention that any action’s justified—’

‘Do stop about Marxism, Books. Marxism has nothing to do with what I’m talking about. I’m talking about Naturalism. I’m in favour of Naturalism. I write that way myself. All I want to make clear is that it’s just a way of writing a novel like any other, just as contrived, just as selective. Do you call Hemingway’s impotent good guy naturalistic? Think what Dostoevsky would have made of him. After all, Dostoevsky did deal with an impotent good guy in love with a bitch, when he wrote The Idiot.’

Bagshaw was silenced for the moment. Trapnel was undoubtedly in an exceptionally excited state, unable to stop pouring out his views. He took a gulp of beer. The pause made comment possible.

‘We don’t know for certain that Myshkin was impotent.’

‘Myshkin was as near impotent as doesn’t matter, Nick. In any case Hemingway would never allow a hero of his to be made a fool of. To that extent he’s not naturalistic. Most forms of naturalistic happening are expressed in grotesque irrational trivialities, not tight-lipped heroisms. Hemingway’s is only one special form of Naturalism. The same goes for Scott Fitzgerald’s romantic-hearted gangster. Henry James would have done an equally good job on him in non-naturalistic terms. Most of the gangsters of the classic vintage were queer anyway. James might have delicately conveyed that as an additional complication to Gatsby’s love.’

Before literary values could be finally hammered out in a manner satisfactory to all parties, the pub closed. We moved from the table, Trapnel still talking. In the street his incoherent, distracted state of mind was much more apparent. He was certainly in a bad way. All the talk about writing, its flow not greatly different from the termination of any evening in his company, was just a question of putting off the evil hour of having to face his own personal problems. No doubt he had gone into these to some extent with Bagshaw earlier. They had then started up the politico-literary imbroglio in progress when I arrived at the pub. Now, even if nothing were said about Pamela, the problem of getting him home was posed. He was, as Bagshaw so positively believed, perfectly able to walk. There was no difficulty about that. His manner was the disturbing element. An air of dreadful nervousness had descended on him. Now that he had ceased to argue about writing, he seemed to have lost all powers of decision in other matters. He stood there shaking, as if he were afraid. This could have been the consequence of lack of proper food, drinking, pills, or the mere fact of being emotionally upset. Burton had noticed such a condition. ‘Cousin-german to sorrow is fear, or rather sister, fidus Achates, and continual companion.’ That was just how Trapnel looked, a man weighed down by sorrow and fear. Suddenly he reeled. Bagshaw stepped towards him.

‘Hold up, Trappy. You’re tight.’

That was a fatal remark. Not only did open expression of that opinion make Trapnel very indignant, it also had the effect of physically increasing, anyway for the moment, the lack of control that was overcoming him. Trapnel always hated any suggestion that limits existed to his own powers of alcoholic assimilation. Bagshaw must already have known that. The fact that his comment was true made it no more excusable, except for being equally applicable to Bagshaw himself.

‘Tight? I’m always being asked by people how it is I’m never drunk, however much I put back. They can’t make it out. I can finish a bottle of brandy at a sitting, get up sober as when I started. Drink just doesn’t have any effect on me. You don’t suppose the few halves of bitter we’ve had tonight made me drunk, Books, do you? It’s you who are a little tipsy, my boy. You’ve rather a weak head.’

He waved his stick. If the contrast had to be made, this described their capacities in reverse. Bagshaw took it well, having made the initial error by his comment.

‘Drunk or sober, we can none of us stand here all night. Shall we head for your place, Trappy?’

This suggestion had a steadying, immediately subduing effect on Trapnel. He seemed to remember suddenly all he had been trying to forget. The outward appearance of drunkenness left him at once. He might have swallowed an instant sedative. The state of utter dejection returned. He spoke to Bagshaw quietly, almost humbly.

‘Does Nicholas know what’s happened?’

‘Roughly.’

‘I’d like to be a bit clearer about what’s up.’

‘There’s been some trouble with Pam. It was all over my new book. We never seem to agree about writing, especially my writing. It’s almost as if she hates it, doesn’t want me to do it, and yet she thinks about my work all the time, knows just where the weak places are. We have a lot of rows about it. We had one this morning. I left the house in a rage. I told her she was mad on Naturalism. That’s why the subject was on my mind. Books and I began talking about it. I’m for it too. I told her I was. I’ve told everyone, and written it. What I can’t stand is people giving it their own exclusive meaning. That’s what Pam does. She just uses it to pick on the way I write. She brings up all my own arguments against me. Then when I half agree, she takes an absolutely opposite line. It’s like Pavlov’s dogs. I think sometimes I’ll go up the wall.’

‘Why discuss your work with her?’ said Bagshawe inconsistently. ‘Tell her to get on with the washing-up.’

‘It’s not the first row we’ve had by a long chalk. Christ, I don’t want her to leave me. I know it’s pretty awful living the way we do, but I can’t face the thought of her leaving. You know I’m not sure there isn’t going to be a film in Profiles in String. It was the last thing I thought about when I started, but now I believe there might be. It would go over big, if it went over at all.’

At one moment it looked as if Trapnel were going to break down, at the next, that he was about to indulge in one of his fantasies about making money, which overwhelmed him from time to time. These sudden changes of gear were going to require careful handling, if he were to be conveyed back to the flat. It was much more likely that he would want to go to a drinking club of some sort. He usually knew the address of one that would admit him. Bagshaw, grasping the fact that Trapnel needed soothing, now took charge quite effectively. He must have had long experience in persuading fellow-drunks to do what he, rather than they themselves, wanted. He was ruthless about getting his own way when he thought that necessary, showing total disregard for other people’s wishes or convenience. That was now all to the good.

‘We know what you feel, Trappy. Come on. We’ll go back and see how things are. She’s probably longing to see you.’

‘You don’t know her.’

‘I admit that, but I’ve seen her. They’re all the same.’

‘There’s not a drop to drink.’

‘Never mind. Nick and I will just see you home.’

‘Will you really? I couldn’t face it otherwise.’

Trapnel was like a child who suddenly decides to be fretful no longer. Now he was even full of gratitude. We reached Edgware Road with him still in this mood. There was a small stretch of the main highway to negotiate before turning off by the Canal. The evening was warm, stuffy, full of strange smells. For once Trapnel seemed suitably dressed in his tropical suit. We turned down the south side of the Canal, walking on the pavement away from the houses. Railings shut off a grass bank that sloped down to the tow-path. Trapnel had now moved into a pastoral dream.

‘I love this waterway. I’d like to have a private barge, and float down it waving to the tarts.’

‘Do you get a lot down here?’ asked Bagshaw, interested.

‘You see the odd one. They live round about, but tend to work other streets. What a mess the place is in.’

Most of London was pretty grubby at this period, the Canal no exception. On the surface of the water concentric circles of oil, undulating in the colours of the spectrum, were illuminated by moonlight. Through these luminous prisms floated anonymous off-scourings of every kind, tin cans, petrol drums, soggy cardboard boxes. Watery litter increased as the bridge was approached. Bagshaw pointed to a peculiarly obnoxious deposit bobbing up and down by the bank.

‘Looks as if someone’s dumped their unit’s paper salvage. I used to have to deal with that at one stage of the war. Obsolete forms waiting to be pulped and made into other forms. An internal reincarnation. Fitted the scene in India.’

Trapnel stopped, and leant against the railings.

‘Let’s pause for a moment. Contemplate life. It’s a shade untidy here, but romantic too. Do you know what all that mess of paper looks like? A manuscript. Probably someone’s first novel. Authors always talk of burning their first novel, I believe this one’s drowned his.’

‘Or hers.’

‘Some beautiful girl who wrote about her seduction, and couldn’t get it published.’

‘When lovely woman stoops to authorship?’

‘I think I’ll go and have a look. Might give me some ideas.’

‘Trappy, don’t be silly.’

Trapnel, laughing rather dementedly, began to climb the railings. Bagshaw attempted to stop this. Before he could be persuaded otherwise, Trapnel had lifted himself up, and was halfway across. The railings presented no very serious obstacle even to a man in a somewhat deranged state, who carried a stick in one hand. He dropped to the other side without difficulty. The bank sloped fairly steeply to the lower level of the tow-path and the water. Trapnel reached the footway. He paused for a moment, looking up and down the length of the Canal. Then he went to the water’s edge, and began to poke with the swordstick at the sheets of paper floating about all over the surface.

‘Come back, Trappy. You’re not the dustman.’

Trapnel took no notice of Bagshaw. He continued to strain forward with the stick, until it looked ominously as if he would fall in. The pieces of paper, scattered broadcast, were all just out of reach.

‘We shall have to get over,’ said Bagshaw. ‘He’ll be in at any moment.’

Then Trapnel caught one of the sheets with the end of the stick. He guided it to the bank. For a second it escaped, but was recaptured. He bent down to pick it up, shook off the water and straightened out the page. The soaked paper seemed to fascinate him. He looked at it for a long time. Bagshaw, relieved that the railings would not now have to be climbed, for a minute or two did not intervene. At last he became tired of waiting.

‘Is it a work of genius? Do decide one way or the other. We can’t bear more delay to know whether it ought to be published or not.’

Trapnel gave a kind of shudder. He swayed. Either drink had once more overcome him with the suddenness with which it had struck outside the pub, or he was acting out a scene of feigned horror at what he read. Whichever it were, he really did look again as if about to fall into the Canal. Abruptly he stopped playing the part, or recovered his nerve. I suppose these antics, like the literary ramblings in the pub, also designed to delay discovery that Pamela had abandoned him; alternatively, to put off some frightful confrontation with her.

‘Do come back, Trappy.’

Then an extraordinary thing happened. Trapnel was still standing by the edge of the water holding the dripping sheet of foolscap. Now he crushed it in his hand, and threw the ball of paper back into the Canal. He lifted the sword-stick behind his head, and, putting all his force into the throw, cast it as far as this would carry, high into the air. The stick turned and descended, death’s-head first. A mystic arm should certainly have risen from the dark waters of the mere to receive it. That did not happen. Trapnel’s Excalibur struck the flood a long way from the bank, disappeared for a moment, surfaced, and began to float downstream.

‘Now he really has become unmoored,’ said Bagshaw.

Trapnel came slowly up the bank.

‘You’ll never get your stick back, Trappy. What ever made you do it? We’ll hurry on to the bridge right away. It might have got caught up on something. There’s not much hope.’

Trapnel climbed back on to the pavement.

‘You were quite wrong, Books.’

‘What about?’

‘It was a work of genius.’

‘What was?’

‘The manuscript in the water — it was Profiles in String.’

I now agreed with Bagshaw in supposing Trapnel to have gone completely off his head. He stood looking at us. His smile was one of the consciously dramatic ones.

‘She brought the MS along, and chucked it into the Canal. She knew I should be almost bound to pass this way, and it would be well on the cards I should notice it. We quite often used to stroll down here at night and talk about the muck floating down, french letters and such like. She must have climbed over the railings to get to the water. I’d like to have watched her doing that. I’d thought of a lot of things she might be up to — doctoring my pills, arranging for me to find her being had by the milkman, giving the bailiffs our address. I never thought of this. I never thought she’d destroy my book.’

He stood there, still smiling slightly, almost as if he were embarrassed by what had happened.

‘You really mean that’s your manuscript over there in the water?’

Trapnel nodded.

‘The whole of it?’

‘It wasn’t quite finished. The end was what we had the row about.’

‘You must have a copy?’

“Of course I haven’t a copy. Why should I? I told you, it wasn’t finished yet.’

Even Bagshaw was appalled. He began to speak, then stopped, something I had never seen happen before. There was certainly nothing to say. Trapnel just stood there.

‘Come and look for the stick, Trappy.’

Trapnel was not at all disposed to move. Now the act had taken place, he wanted to reflect on it. Perhaps he feared still worse damage when the flat was reached, though that was hard to conceive.

‘In a way I’m not surprised. Even though this particular dish never struck me as likely to appear on the menu, it all fits in with the cuisine. Christ, two years’ work, and I’ll never feel the same as when I was writing it. She may be correct in what she thinks about it, but I’ll never be able to write it again — either her way or my own.’

Bagshaw, in spite of his feelings about the manuscript, could not forget the stick. The girl did not interest him at all.

‘You’ll never find a swordstick like that again. It was a great mistake to throw it away.’

Trapnel was not listening. He stood there musing. Then all at once he revealed something that had always been a mystery. Being Trapnel, an egotist of the first rank, he supposed this disclosure as of interest only in his own case, but a far wider field of vision was at the same time opened up by what was unveiled. In a sense it was of most interest where Trapnel was concerned, because he seems to have reacted in a somewhat different fashion to the rest of Pamela’s lovers, but, applicable to all of them, what was divulged offered clarification of her relations with men. Drink, pills, the strain of living with her, the destruction of Profiles in String, combination of all those, brought about a confession hardly conceivable from Trapnel in other circumstances. He now spoke in a low, confidential tone.

‘You may have wondered why a girl like that ever came to live with me?’

‘Not so much as why she ever married that husband of hers,’ said Bagshaw. ‘I can understand all the rest.’

‘I doubt if you can. Not every man can stand what’s entailed.’

‘I don’t contradict that.’

‘You don’t know what I mean.’

‘What do you mean?’

Trapnel did not answer for a moment. It was as if he were thinking how to phrase whatever he intended to say. Then he spoke with great intensity.

‘It’s when you have her. She wants it all the time, yet doesn’t want it. She goes rigid like a corpse. Every grind’s a nightmare. It’s all the time, and always the same.’

Trapnel said this with absolute simplicity. Irony, melodrama, narcissism, fantasy, all his accustomed tendency to. play a role had been this time completely eliminated. The curtain was at least partially drawn aside. A little light had been let in, Stevens had not told all the truth.

‘I could take it, because — well, I suppose because I loved her. Why not admit it? I’m not sure I don’t still.’

Bagshaw could not stand that. Excessive displays of amative sensibility always disturbed him.

‘Even Sacher-Masoch drew the line somewhere, Trappy — true we don’t know where. What did her husband think about this, I’d like to know.’

‘She told me he only tried a couple of times. Gave it up as a bad job.’

‘So that’s how things are?’

‘For certain reasons it suited him to be married to her.’

‘And her to him?’

‘She stopped that, if ever true, when she came to live with me.’

Even after what had taken place, Trapnel spoke defensively.

‘It gave him a kind of prestige,’ he said.

‘Not much prestige the way she was carrying on.’

‘You don’t understand.’

‘I don’t.’

‘It’s not what she does, it’s what she is.’

‘You mean he’s positively flattered?’

‘That’s what she seemed to think. She may be right. That’s a form of masochism too. It’s not my sort. Not that I can explain my sort, if that’s what it is. It doesn’t feel unnatural to me. As I said, I love her — at least used to. I don’t think I do now. She’ll always go on like this. She’s a child, who doesn’t know any better.’

‘Oh, balls,’ said Bagshaw. ‘I’ve heard men say that sort of thing about women before. It’s rubbish, the scrapings of the barrel. You must rise above that, Trappy. Let’s get back to your place anyway.’

I had never seen Bagshaw so agitated. This time Trapnel came quietly. When we reached the bridge, he insisted that he did not want to look for the stick.

‘It’s a sacrifice. One of those things you dedicate to the Gods. I remember reading about a sacred pool in an Indian temple, where good writing floated on the water, bad writing sank. Perhaps the Canal has the same property, and Pam was right to put my book there.’

Those words meant that he was getting back his normal form. Panache was coming into play. I sympathized with Bagshaw’s sentiments as to the deliberate throwing away of a good swordstick, but Trapnel’s manner of dealing with the situation had not been without its lofty side. Nothing unexpected was found in the flat. Pamela had packed her clothes, and left with the suitcases. The Modigliani and her own photographs were gone too. No doubt she had strolled down to the Canal, disposed of Profiles in String, then returned with a taxi to remove her effects. Trapnel glanced for a second at the spaces left by the pictures.

‘She can’t have been gone more than a few hours. She must have done it after dark. If only I’d come back earlier in the day she’d still have been here.’

He took off the tropical jacket, slipped it on to a wire coat-hanger pendant from a hook in the door, loosened his tie. After that he stretched. That seemed to give him an idea. He began to look about the room, opening drawers, examining the shelf at the top of the inside of the wardrobe, even searching under the bed. Doubtless he was looking for ‘pills’ of one sort or another. Pamela might well have taken them away with her. He talked while he hunted round.

‘I warned you hospitality would be rather sparse if you came back. Not a drop of Algerian left. I’m sorry for that. It was a great help when you’re seeing things through. I’ll just have to have a think now as to the best way of tackling life.’

‘Will you be all right, Trappy?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Nothing we can do?’

‘Not a thing — ah, here we are.’

Trapnel had found the box. He swallowed a couple of examples of whatever sustaining globules were kept inside it. Possibly they were no more than sleeping pills. There was now no point in our staying a moment longer. Both Bagshaw and I tried to say something more of a sympathetic sort. Trapnel shook his head.

‘Probably all for the best. Who can tell? Still, losing that manuscript takes some laughing off. I’ll have to think a lot about that.’

Bagshaw still hung about.

‘Are you absolutely cleaned out, Trappy?’

‘Me? Cleaned out? Good heavens, no. Thanks a lot all the same, but a cheque arrived this morning, quite a decent one, from a film paper I’d done a piece for.’

Whether or not that were true, it was a good exit line; Trapnel at his best. Bagshaw and I said goodnight. We passed again along the banks of the Canal, its waters still overspread with the pages of Profiles in String. The smell of the flat had again reminded me of Maclintick’s.

‘Will he really be all right?’

‘I don’t know about being all right exactly,’ said Bagshaw. ‘It’s hard to be all right when you’ve not only lost your girl, but she’s simultaneously destroyed your life work. I don’t know what I’d feel like in the same position. I’ve sometimes thought of writing another novel — a political one. Somehow there never seems time. I expect Trappy’ll pull through. Most of us do.’

‘I mean he won’t do himself in?’

‘Trappy?’

‘Yes.’

‘God, no. I’d be very surprised.’

‘People do.’

‘I know they do. There was a chap in Spain when I was there. An anarcho-syndicalist. He’d talk about Proudhon by the hour together. He shot himself in a hotel room. I don’t think Trappy will ever take that step. He’s too interested in his own myth. Not the type anyway. He’d have done it before now, if he were going to.’

‘He says something about suicide in the Camel.’’

‘The Camel’s not an exact description of Trappy’s own life. He is always complaining people take it as that. You must have heard him. There are incidents, but the novel’s not a blow-by-blow account of his early career.’

‘I’ve heard X say that readers can never believe a novelist invents anything. He was at least in Egypt?’

‘Do you mean to say he’s never told you what he was doing there?’

‘I’d always imagined his father was in the Consular, or something of the sort — possibly secret service connexions. X is always very keen on spying, says there’s a resemblance between what a spy does and what a novelist does, the point being you don’t suddenly steal an indispensable secret that gives complete mastery of the situation, but accumulate a lot of relatively humdrum facts, which when collated provide the picture.’

Bagshaw was not greatly interested in how novelists went to work, but was greatly astonished at this ignorance of Trapnel’s life when young.

‘A spy? Trapnel père wasn’t a spy. He was a jockey. Rode for the most part in Egypt. That’s why he knew the country. Did rather well in his profession, and saved up a bit. Married a girl from one of those English families who’ve lived for three or four generations in the Levant.’

‘But all this is good stuff. Why doesn’t X write about it?’

‘He did talk of an article for the mag. Then he thought he’d keep it for a book. Trappy has mixed feelings. Of course he got through whatever money there was, as soon as he laid hands on it. He’s not exactly ashamed. Rather proud in a way. All the same, it doesn’t quite fit in with his own picture of himself. Hints about the secret service seem more exciting. The other was just ordinary home life, therefore rather dull.’

By this time Bagshaw was all but sober. Our paths lay in different directions. We parted. I made my way home. A great deal seemed to have happened in a comparatively short time. It was still before midnight. A clock struck twelve while I put the key in the door. As if from a neighbouring minaret, a cat muezzin began to call other cats to prayer. The aberrations of love were incalculable. Burton, I remembered, supposed the passion to extend even into the botanic world:

‘In vegetal creatures what sovereignty Love hath by many pregnant proofs and familiar example may be proved, especially of palm trees, which are both he and she, and express not a sympathy but a love-passion, as by many observations have been confirmed. Constantine gives an instance out of Florentius his Georgicks, of a Palm-tree that loved most fervently, and would not be comforted until such time her love applied himself unto her; you might see the two trees bend, and of their own accords stretch out their bows to embrace and kiss each other; they will give manifest signs of mutual love. Ammianus Marcellinus reports that they marry one another, and fall in love if they grow in sight; and when the wind brings up the smell to them, they are marvellously affected. Philostratus observes as much, and Galen, they will be sick for love, ready to die and pine away …’

Now, considering these matters that autumn afternoon under the colonnade, vegetal love seemed scarcely less plausible than the human kind. The damp cobblestones in front gave the illusion of quivering where the sunlight struck their irregular convexities. Rain still fell. The Library presented itself as a preferable refuge from the wet I was uncertain whether rules permitted casual entry. It was worth trying. At worst, if told to go away, one could remain in the porch until time to move on. It would be no worse than where I was. Abandoning the colonnade, I crossed the road to a grey domed Edwardian building. Beyond its threshold, a parabola of passage-way led into a high circular room, rising to the roof and surrounded by a gallery. The place, often a welcome oasis in the past, seemed smaller than remembered. A few boys were pottering about among the bays of books, with an absent-minded air, or furiously writing at a table, as if life itself depended on getting whatever it was finished in time. A librarian presided at his desk.

Hoping to remain unobserved, I loitered by the door. That was not to be. The librarian looked up and stared. He took off his spectacles, rubbed his eyes, chose another pair from several spectacle-cases in front of him, put them on his nose and stared again. After a moment of this, he beckoned me. Recognizing that I was not to be allowed to kill five or ten minutes in peace, I prepared for expulsion. No doubt there was a regulation against visitors at this hour. The thing to do would be to delay eviction as long as possible, so that a minimum of time had to be spent in the porch. The librarian’s beckonings became more urgent. He was a man older than normal for the job, more formally dressed. In fact, this was clearly an assistant master substituting for a regular librarian. Professional librarians were probably unprocurable owing to shortage of labour. I went across the room to see what he wanted. Tactics could be decided by his own comportment. This happy-go-lucky approach was cut short. Sitting at the desk was my former housemaster Le Bas. He spoke crossly.

‘Do I know you?’

Boyhood returned in a flash, the instinct to oppose Le Bas — as Bagshaw would say — dialectically. The question was unanswerable. It is reasonable for someone to ask if you know him, because such knowledge is in the hands of the questioned party. How can it be asserted with assurance whether or not the questioner knows one? Powers of telepathy would be required. It could certainly be urged that five years spent under the same roof, so to speak under Le Bas’s guidance, gave him a decided opportunity for knowing one; almost an unfair advantage, both in the superficial, also the more searching sense of the phrase. That was the primitive, atavistic reaction. More mature consideration brought to mind Le Bas’s notorious forgetfulness even in those days. There was no reason to suppose his memory had improved.

‘I was in your house —’

Obviously it would be absurd to call him ‘sir’, yet that still obtruded as the only suitable form of address. What on earth else could he be called? Just ‘Le Bas’? Certainly he belonged to a generation which continued throughout a lifetime to use that excellently masculine invocation of surname, before an irresponsible bandying of first names smothered all subtleties of relationship, in any case, to call Le Bas by a christian name was unthinkable. What would it be, in effect, if so daring an apostrophe were contemplated? The initials had been L. L. Le B. — Lawrence Langton Le Bas, that was it. No one had ever been known to call him Lawrence, still less Langton. Among the other masters, some — his old enemy Cobberton, for example — used once in a way to hail him as ‘Le B.’ There was, after all, really no necessity to call him anything. Le Bas himself grew impatient at this procrastination.

‘What’s your name?’

I told him. That made things easier at once. Direct enquiry of that sort on the part of a former preceptor was much to be preferred to Sillery’s reckless guessing. Confessed ignorance on the point — as on most points — showed a saner attitude towards life. Le Bas had learnt that, if nothing else. He was probably older than Sillery, a few years the wrong side of eighty. Like Sillery, though in a different manner, he too looked well; leathery, saurian; dry as a bone. Taking off the second pair of spectacles, he again rubbed in the old accustomed fashion the deep, painfully inflamed sockets of the eyes. Then he resumed the earlier pair, or perhaps yet a third reserve.

‘What’s your generation, Jenkins?’

This was like coming up for sentence at the Last Judgment. I tried to remember, to speak more exactly, tried to decide how best to put the answer clearly to Le Bas.

‘Fetdplace-Jones was captain of the house when I arrived … my own lot… Stringham… Templer …’

Le Bas glared, as if in frank disbelief. Whether that was because the names conveyed nothing, or my own seemed not to belong amongst them, was only to be surmised. It looked as if he were about to accuse me of being an impostor, to be turned away from the Library forthwith. I lost my head, began to recite names at random as they came into my mind.

‘Simson … Fitzwith … Ghika … Brandreth … Maiden … Bischoffsheim … Whitney … Parkinson … Summers-Miller … Pyefinch … the Calthorpes … Widmerpool…’

At the last name Le Bas suddenly came to life.

‘Widmerpool?’

‘Widmerpool was a year or so senior to me.’

Le Bas seemed to forget that all we were trying to do was approximately to place my own age-group in his mind. He took one of several pens lying on the desk, examined it, chose another one, examined that, then wrote ‘Widmerpool’ on the blotting paper in front of him, drawing a circle round the name. This was an unexpected reaction. It seemed to have nothing whatever to do with myself. Le Bas now sunk into a state of near oblivion. Could it be a form of exorcism against pupils of his whom he had never much liked? Then he offered an explanation.

‘Widmerpool’s down here today. I met him in the street. We had a talk. He told me about a cause he’s interested in. That’s why I made a note. I shall have to try and remember what he said. He’s an MP now. What happened to the others?’

It was like answering enquiries after a match — ’Fettiplace-Jones was out first ball, sir’ …’Parkinson kicked a goal, sir’ … ‘Whitney got his colours, sir’. I tried to recollect some piece of information to be deemed of interest to Le Bas about the sort of boys of whom he could approve, but the only facts that came to mind were neither about these, nor cheerful.

‘Stringham died in a Japanese prisoner-of-war camp.’

‘Yes, yes — so I heard.’

That awareness was unexpected.

‘Templer was killed on a secret operation.’

‘In the Balkans. Somebody told me. Very sad.’

Once more the cognition was unforeseen. Its acknowledgment was followed by Le Bas taking up the pen again. Underneath Widmerpool’s name he wrote ‘Balkans’, drew another circle round the word, which he attached to the first circle by a line. It looked more than ever like some form of incantation.

‘Now I remember what it was Widmerpool consulted me about. Some society he has organized to encourage good relations with one of the Balkan countries. Now which one? Simson was drowned. Torpedoed in a troopship.’

He mentioned Simson as another relevant fact, not at all as if he did not wish to be outdone in consciousness of widespread human dissolution in time of war.

‘What are you doing yourself, Jenkins?’

‘I’m writing a book on Burton — the Anatomy of Melancholy man.’

Le Bas took two or three seconds to absorb that statement, the aspects, good and bad, implied by such an activity. He had probably heard of Burton. He might easily know more about him than did Sillery. Dons were not necessarily better informed than schoolmasters. When at last he spoke, it was clear Le Bas did know about Burton. He was not wholly approving.

‘Rather a morbid subject.’

He had used just that epithet when he found me, as a schoolboy, reading St John Clarke’s Fields of Amaranth. He may have thought reading or writing books equally morbid, whatever the content. To be fair to Le Bas as a critic, Fields of Amaranth — if you were prepared to use the term critically at all — might reasonably be so described. I now agreed, even if on different grounds. The admission had to be made. Time had been on Le Bas’s side.

We were interrupted at this moment by a very small boy, who had come to stand close by where we were talking. It would be fairer to say we were inhibited by his presence, because no direct interruption took place. Dispelling about him an aura of immense, if not wholly convincing goodness, his intention was evidently to accost Le Bas in due course, at the same time ostentatiously to avoid any implication that he could be so lacking in good manners as to break into a conversation or attempt to overhear it. Le Bas, possibly not unwilling to seek dispensation from further talk about the past, distant or immediate, with all its uncomfortably realistic — Trapnel might prefer, naturalistic — undercurrents, turned in the boy’s direction.

‘What do you want?’

‘I can wait, sir.’

This assurance that his own hopes were wholly unimportant, that Youth was prepared to waste valuable time indefinitely while Age span out its senile conference, did not in the least impress Le Bas, too conversant with the ways of boys not to be for ever on his guard.

‘Can’t you find some book?’

‘Sir — the Dictionary of Phrase and Fable.’

‘Brewer’s?’

‘I think so, sir.’

‘You’ve looked on the proper shelf?’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Akworth, sir.

Le Bas rose.

‘It will be the worse for you, Akworth, if Brewer turns out to be on the proper shelf.’

I explained to Le Bas why I had come; that it was time to move on to my appointment.

‘Good, good. Excellent. I’m glad we had a — well, a chat. Most fortunate you reminded me of that society of Widmerpool’s. I don’t know why he should think I am specially interested in the Balkans — though now I come to think of it, Templer’s … makes a kind of link. You know, Jenkins, among my former pupils, I should never have guessed Widmerpool would have entered the House of Commons. Fettiplace-Jones, yes — he was another matter.’

Le Bas paused. He had immediately regretted this implied criticism of Widmerpool’s abilities.

‘Of course, they need all sorts and conditions of men to govern the country. Especially these days. Sad about those fellows who were killed. I sometimes think of the number of pupils of mine who lost their lives. Two wars. It adds up. Come along, Akworth.’

The boy smiled, conveying at once apology for disruption of our talk, and his own certainty that its termination must have come as a relief to me. As he hurried off towards one of the shelves, beside which he had piled up a heap of books, he gave the impression that quite a complicated intellectual programme for ragging Le Bas had been planned. Le Bas himself sighed.

‘Goodbye, Jenkins. I hope the school will have acquired a regular librarian by your next visit.’

It was still wet outside, but, by the time my appointment was at an end, the rain had stopped. A damp earthy smell filled the air. The weather was appreciably colder. In spite of that a man in a mackintosh was sitting on the low wall that ran the length of the further side of the street in front of the archway and chapel. It was Widmerpool. He looked in great dejection. I had not seen him since the night at Trapnel’s flat, when he had, so to speak, expressed his confidence in Pamela’s return. Now that had come about. He had prophesied truly. Isobel, about a month before, soon after the destruction of Profiles in String, had pointed out a paragraph in a newspaper listing guests at some public function. The names ‘Mr Kenneth Widmerpool MP and Mrs Widmerpool’ were included. It was just as predicted. In the Governmental reshuffle at the beginning of October Widmerpool had received minor office. In spite of these two matters, both showing himself undoubtedly in the ascendant, he sat lonely and cheerless. I should have been tempted to try and slip by unnoticed, but he saw me, and shouted something. I crossed the road.

‘Congratulations on your new parliamentary job.’

‘Thanks, thanks. What are you doing down here?’

I told him, adding that I had been talking with Le Bas.

‘I ran into him too. I took the opportunity of giving him some account of my Balkan visit. Whatever one may think of Le Bas’s capabilities as a teacher, he is supposedly in charge of the young, and should therefore be put in possession of the correct facts.’

‘How did your trip go?’

‘We hear a lot about what is called an “Iron Curtain”. Where is this “Iron Curtain”, I ask myself? I found no sign. That was what I told Le Bas. You might think him a person to hold reactionary views, but I found that was not at all the case, now that the idea of world revolution has been dropped. By the way, how are you employed since Fission has closed down.

I mentioned various concerns that involved me. Widmerpool showed no embarrassment in mentioning the magazine. He even asked if it were true that Bagshaw had secured a job in television. However, when I enquired why, on such a damp and increasingly cold evening, he should be sitting on the wall, apparently just watching the world go by, he shifted uneasily, stiffening at the question.

‘Pam and I came down for the day.’

He laughed.

‘She’s got a young friend here whom she met somewhere during his holidays, and he invited her to tea. She’s having tea in his room now. I’m waiting for her.’

‘A boy, you mean?’

‘Yes — I suppose you’d call him a boy still.’

‘I meant still at the school?’

‘He was leaving, but stayed on for some reason — to captain some team, I think. Son or nephew of one of the Calthorpes. Do you remember them? Pam thought it would be an amusing jaunt. She insisted I mustn’t spoil the party by coming too. Rather a good joke.’

All the same, he did not look as if he found it specially funny. Blue-grey mist was thickening round us. I had a train to catch. The Widmerpools had come by car. They had no fixed plan about getting back to London. Pamela hated being tied down by too positive arrangements. She was going to pick her husband up hereabouts when the tea-party was over. I thought of what Trapnel had said of her couplings.

‘I must be off.’

‘I don’t believe I ever sent you details about that society I was telling Le Bas about. My secretary will forward them. I received Quiggin & Craggs’s Autumn List recently — their last. There were some interesting titles. Clapham has asked me to continue my association with publishing by joining his board.’

I too had received the list; later heard Quiggin’s comments on it. Sillery’s Garnered at Sunset, unexciting as the selection might be, had been noticed respectfully. Shernmaker, for example, was unexpectedly approving. Sales were not too bad, even if the advance was never recouped. Sillery might be said to have successfully imposed his will in this last fling. So did Ada Leintwardine. I Stopped at a Chemist upset several of the more old-fashioned reviewers who had survived the war, but they admitted a novel-writing career lay ahead of her. Even Evadne Clapham was impressed. In fact, Golden Grime was the last of Evadne Clapham’s books in her former style. Her subsequent manner followed Ada’s. Engine Melody — truncated title of The Pistons of Our Locomotives Sing the Songs of Our Workers — believed to be not too well translated, was by no means ignored, Nathaniel Sheldon’s mention including the phrase ‘muted beauty’. Vernon Gainsborough’s Bronstein: Marxist or Mystagogue?, with seven other books on similar subjects, was favourably noticed in a Times Literary Supplement ‘front’.

‘It’s a real apologia pro vita sua,’ said Bagshaw. ‘Conversion from Trotskyism expressed in such unqualified terms must have warmed Gypsy’s heart after her reverses.’

The last reference was to Sad Majors. Odo Stevens had dealt effectively with efforts, such as they were, to suppress his book. He had enjoyed exceptional opportunities for knowing about such things. That may have put him at an advantage. As usual, he also had good luck. So far from being inconvenient, the whole matter worked out in his best interests. Having already grasped that he might have done better financially by going to some publisher other than Quiggin & Craggs, he at once recognized that the loss of the two typescripts would give a potent reason for requiring release from his contract. He did not mention the third typescript, which had been all the time in the hands of Rosie Manasch. Rosie had apparently suggested that her former Fleet Street contacts might be useful in exploiting serial possibilities. She was right. Sad Majors was serialized on excellent terms. It was published in book form in the spring.

L. O. Salvidge, rather an achievement in the light of current publishing delays, got out a further volume of essays to follow up Paper Wine. The new one, Secretions, was much reviewed beside Shernmaker’s Miscellaneous Equities. It was a notable score for Salvidge to have produced two books in less than a year. After the unsuccessful prosecution, Kydd’s Sweetskin at first failed to recover from the withdrawal at the time of the injunction, but, given a new wrapper design, Kydd himself alleged that it picked up relatively well. That season also appeared David Pennistone’s Descartes, Gassendi, and the Atomic Theory of Epicurus, the work of which he used to speak so despairingly when we were in the army together. I busied myself with Burton, even so only just managing to see Borage and Hellebore: a Study in print by the following December.

The scattered pages of Profiles in String, with the death’s-head swordstick, floated eternally downstream into the night. It was the beginning of Trapnel’s drift too, irretrievable as they. He went underground for a long time after that night. When at last he emerged, it was to haunt an increasingly gruesome and desolate world. There were odds and ends of film work, stray pieces of journalism, an occasional short story. In the last, possibly some traces reappeared of what had gone into Profiles in String, though in a much diminished form. Something of it may even have emerged on the screen. Another novel never got written. Trapnel himself always insisted that a novel is what its writer is. The definition only opens up a lot more questions. Perhaps he had taken a knock from which he never recovered; perhaps he had used up already what was in him, in the way writers do. In these sunless marshlands of existence, a dwindling reserve of pep-pills, a certain innate inventiveness, capacity for survival, above all the mystique of panache — in short, the Trapnel method — just about made it possible to hang on. That was the best you could say.

I once asked Dicky Umfraville — whose own experiences on the Turf made his knowledge of racing personalities extensive — whether he had ever heard of a jockey called Trapnel, whose professional career had been made largely in Egypt.

‘Heard of him, old boy? When I was in Cairo in the ’twenties, I won a packet on a French horse he rode called Amour Piquant.’