Temporary Kings

4

Bagshaw was at once attentive to the idea of an American biographer of X. Trapnel seeking an interview with himself. In fact he pressed for a meeting to hear a fuller account of Gwinnett’s needs. Television had made him more prolix than ever on the line. One was also increasingly aware that he was no longer Books-do-furnish-a-room Bagshaw of ancient days, but Lindsay Bagshaw, the Television ‘personality’, no towering magnate of that order, but, if only a minor scion, fully conscious of inspired status. He suggested a visit to his own house, something never before put forward. In the past, a pub would always have been proposed. Bagshaw himself was a little sheepish about the change. Complacent, he was also a trifle cowed. He attempted explanation.

‘I like to get back as early as possible after work. May prefers that. There’s always a lot to do at home.’

The idea of Bagshaw deferring, in this manner, to domesticity, owning, even renting, a house was an altogether unfamiliar one. In early life, married or single, his quarters had been kept secret. They were in a sense his only secret, everyone always knowing about his love affairs, political standpoint, prospects of changing his job, ups and downs of health. Where he lived was another matter. That was not revealed. One pictured him domiciled less vagrantly than Trapnel, all the same never in connexion with anything so portentous as a house. There was no reason why Bagshaw should not possess a house, nor in general be taken less seriously than other people. No doubt, for his own purposes, he had done a good deal to encourage a view of himself as a grotesque figure, moving through a world of farce. Come to rest in relatively prosperous circumstances, he had now modified the role for which he had formerly typecast himself. Dynamic styles of life required one ‘image’; static, another. How deep these changes went could not be judged. Bagshaw remained devious.

‘We’re a bit north of Primrose Hill. I got the lease on quite favourable terms during the property slump some years after the war, when I left Fission. I shall look forward to hearing all about Professor Gwinnett, when I see you.’

Bagshaw’s house, larger than surmised, was of fairly dilapidated exterior. Waiting on the doorstep, I wondered whether the upper storeys were let off. Children’s voices were to be heard above, one of them making rather a fuss. Children had never played a part in the Bagshaw field of operation. They seemed out of place there. I rang a couple of times, then knocked. The door was opened by a girl of about sixteen or seventeen. Rather vacant in expression, reasonably good-looking, she was not on sight identifiable as member of the family or hired retainer. The point could not be settled, because she turned away without speaking, and set off up some stairs. At first I supposed her a foreign ‘au pair’, speaking no English, possibly seeking an interpreter, but, as she disappeared, she could be heard complaining.

‘All right, I’m coming. Don’t make such a bloody row.’

The protest was a little hysterical as uttered. There was an impression, possibly due to a naturally tuberous figure, that she might be pregnant. That could easily have been a mistaken conclusion. I waited. Several doors could be explored, if no one appeared. I was about to experiment with one of these, when an elderly man, wearing a woollen dressing-gown, came slowly down the stairs up which the girl had departed. It was evident that he did not expect to find me in the hall. His arrival there would pose action of some sort, but, suddenly aware of my presence, he muttered some sort of apology, retreating up the stairs again. Even if Bagshaw’s way of life had in certain respects altered, become more solid, a fundamental pattern of unconventionality remained. The problem of what to do next was solved by the appearance, from a door leading apparently to the basement, of Bagshaw himself.

‘Ah, Nicholas. When did you arrive? How did you get in? Avril opened the door, I suppose. Where is she now? Gone off to quieten the kids, I expect. You haven’t been here long, have you?’

‘No, but a white-haired gentleman came down the stairs just now, apparently seeking help.’

Bagshaw dismissed that.

‘Only my father. May didn’t appear, did she? The gas-cooker’s blown. Come in here, shall we?’

He had changed a good deal since last seen. At that period we did not have a television set, so I had never watched a Bagshaw programme. He looked not only much older, also much more untidy, which once would have seemed hard to achieve. The room we entered was even untidier than Bagshaw himself. The mess there was epic. It seemed half-study, half-nursery, in one corner a bookcase full of works on political theory, in another a large dolls’ house, lacking its façade. The tables and floor were covered with typescripts, income-tax forms, newspapers, weeklies, mini-cars, children’s bricks. Bagshaw made a space on the sofa, at the far end from that where the stuffing was bursting out.

‘Now — a drink?’

‘Who is Avril?’

‘One of my stepdaughters.’

‘I didn’t know — ’

‘Three of them. Avril’s not a bad girl. Not very bright. A bit sub, to tell the truth. She’s in rather a jam at the moment. Can’t be helped.’

Bagshaw made a despairing, consciously theatrical gesture, no doubt developed from his professional life.

‘Are the other stepchildren upstairs?’

He looked surprised. Certainly the ages seemed wrong, if anything were to be inferred from the noises being made.

‘No, no. The ones upstairs are my own. The stepchildren are more or less grown-up. Getting into tangles with boyfriends all the time. You see I’m quite a family man now.’

Bagshaw said that in a whimsical, rather faraway voice, probably another echo of his programme. His whole demeanour had become more histrionic, at least histrionic in a different manner from formerly. He sat down without pouring himself out a drink, something not entirely without precedent, though unlikely to be linked now with curative abstinences of the past.

‘Aren’t you having anything?’

‘I hardly drink at all these days. Find I feel better. Get through more work. Here’s May. How’s your migraine, dear? Have a drink, it may make you feel better. No? Too busy?’

Mrs Bagshaw, in her forties, with traces of the same blonde good-looks as her daughter, had the air of being dreadfully harassed. She was also rather lame. Evidently used to people coming to see her husband about matters connected with his work, perfectly polite, she obviously hoped to get out of the room as soon as possible, after giving some sort of a progress report about the cooking-stove crisis. This problem solved, or postponed, she excused herself and retired again. Bagshaw, who had listened gravely, replied with apparent good sense to his wife’s statements and questions, clearly accepted this new incarnation of himself. In any case, it was no longer new to him. When Mrs Bagshaw had gone, he settled down again to his professionally avuncular manner.

‘Where will this American friend of yours stay in London, Nicholas?’

‘In one of those bleak hotels X used to frequent. He hopes to get the atmosphere first-hand. He really is very keen on doing the book well.’

‘Which one?’

Bagshaw groaned at the name, and shook his head. To judge from the exterior of the place, that reaction was justified.

‘I spent a night there myself once years ago — rather a sordid story I won’t bore you with — in fact recommended the place to Trappy in the first instance. The bathroom accommodation doesn’t exactly measure up to the highest mod. con. standards. You know how strongly Americans feel about these things.’

‘Gwinnett wants the Trapnel ethos, not the best place in London to take a bath.’

‘I see.’

That fact impressed Bagshaw. He thought about it for a moment.

‘Look here, this idea occurred to me as soon as you mentioned your American. Why doesn’t Professor Gwinnett — I mean only when he’s completed his stint of Trapnel ports of call, not before — come and PG with us? The spare room’s free at the moment. Our Japanese statistician went back to Osaka. I think we made him comfortable during his stay. At least he never complained. That may have been Zen, of course, overcoming of illusory dualisms. I got quite interested in Zen while he was with us.’

The idea of lodging with Bagshaw, a guest paying or non-paying, would once have seemed almost as extraordinary as the fact of his possessing a house. Even in the reformed state of his ménage there were disrecommendations. If anyone were to be ‘lodger’, Bagshaw himself had always appeared prototype of the kind, one of Nature’s lodgers; coaxing the landlady, when behind with the rent, seducing her daughter, storing (in his revolutionary days) subversive pamphlets under the bed. He was imaginable in all such stylized circumstances; even meeting his death as a lodger — the Passing of the Third Floor Back, with Bagshaw as the body. Although that picture had to be revised, the thought of paying to live with Bagshaw was still to be accepted with some demur. That was what I felt as Bagshaw himself digressed on the subject.

‘The Icelander, an economist, was rather a turgid fellow, the Eng. Lit. New Zealander, a charming boy. We’re looking for a replacement just like your friend — and what could be better from his point of view, if he’s writing a book about poor old Trappy? I’ll tell you what, Nicholas, I’ll send a line to Professor Gwinnett to await arrival, so that he can arrange to see me whenever it suits his purpose. We’ll have a talk. If all goes well, I’ll suggest he comes and beds down here. I’ll put it this way, that he doesn’t dream of doing any such thing until he’s made an exhaustive study, in depth, of Trapnel haunts, thoroughly absorbed the Trapnel Weltanschauung. That should not take long. The essentials are not difficult to grasp.’

Gwinnett was, after all, well able to look after himself. He needed no surveillance, would resent anything of the sort. Besides, from Gwinnett’s point of view, there was something to be said for hearing about Trapnel, while living side by side with Bagshaw. If he decided that to stay with the Bagshaws was convenient to his purpose, he would do so; if not, either refuse, or after brief trial withdraw. That was the situation. In any case, Gwinnett was not concerned with living a life of ease, but — something very different — living the life of Trapnel. To lodge with the Bagshaws would in no way run counter to that ambition, in spite of Trapnel himself never having undergone the experience. He must have done similar things. At that moment a girl, recognizable as sister of Avril, probably a year or so older, came into the room. She took no notice of us, but knelt down, and began hunting about in the bookcase. She, too, was fairly good-looking.

‘What do you want, Felicity?’

‘A book.’

‘This is Mr Jenkins.’

‘Hullo,’ she said, without turning round.

‘Where’s Stella?’ asked Bagshaw.

‘God knows.’

She found her book, and went away, slamming the door after her. Bagshaw grimaced at the noise.

‘That one’s rather a worry too. Young people are nowadays. It’s either Regan or Goneril. Look here, have you seen this? Only one paper reported the item.’

He searched about among the assortment of journals lying on the floor, indicating a short paragraph on the foreign news page, when he found the special one he wanted. Its subject was a recent state trial in one of the countries of Eastern Europe, action somewhat unexpected in an atmosphere, in general, of relaxed international tension. Representatives of an outgoing Government had been expelled from the Party, and a former police minister, with one or two others, imprisoned by the new administration taking over. No great prominence was being given by the London press to these proceedings, which appeared to be of a fairly stereotyped order in the People’s Republic concerned. That morning a modest headline in my own paper had drawn attention to allegations that some of the accused had been in the pay of the British Secret Service. The three or four persons named as having set out to corrupt members of the fallen Government (together with certain officials and ‘intellectuals’) were all British Communists of some public standing, or at least prominent fellow-travellers, malting little or no concealment of their political affiliations; in short, as little likely to be connected with the British Secret Service, as the accused of being in touch with that organization. An additional name, unintelligibly translated, had been put within inverted commas in Bagshaw’s newspaper paragraph.

‘Who is…?’

The row of consonants, unlinked by vowels, was not to be spoken aloud. Bagshaw was quite excited. He was no longer an oppressed family man, nor even a television ‘personality’.

‘Is it one of their own people?’

‘You don’t recognize the name?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Try speaking it.’

On the tongue the syllables were no more significant.

‘An old friend.’

‘Of yours?’

‘Both of us.’

‘A hanger-on of Gypsy’s?’

That was just a shot at possibles.

‘Once, I believe. A Fission connexion.’

‘A foreigner?’

‘Not at all.’

‘You’re not suggesting the name’s “Widmerpool”?’

‘What else could it be?’

‘Denounced as — what amounts to being denounced as a Stalinist?’

‘In fact, a Revisionist, I think.’

‘But — ’

‘I always said he was at the game.’

‘Docs a certain Dr Belkin mean anything to you?’

Among the scores of such names proverbial to Bagshaw, Dr Belkin’s did not figure. That did not alter the conviction Bagshaw had already reached about Widmerpool.

‘There have been some odd stories going round about both the Widmerpools since Ferrand-Sénéschal died.’

Bagshaw was not greatly interested in whatever part Pamela had played. It was the political angle he liked.

‘That woman may have invented the whole tale about herself and Ferrand-Sénéschal. A sexual fantasy. It wouldn’t surprise me at all. The denunciations at the trial are another matter. It’s become a routine process. Nagy in Hungary, earlier in the year. Slansky in Czechoslovakia. I’d like to know just what happened about Widmerpool. He probably didn’t move quite quick enough. Might be a double bluff. You can’t tell. He himself could have felt he needed a little of that sort of attention to build up his reputation as an anti-Communist of the extreme Left. Make people think he’s a safe man, because he’s attacked from the Communist end. Pretend he’s an enemy, when he’s really a close friend.’

Bagshaw rambled on. Time came to leave. I was rather glad to go. The Bagshaw house was on the whole lowering to the spirit. Its other members did not appear again, but, when Bagshaw opened the front door, discordant sounds were still audible from the higher floors, together with the noise of loud hammering in the basement. Bagshaw came down the steps.

‘Well, goodbye. I expect you’re hard at work. I’ve been thinking a lot about Widmerpool. He’s a very interesting political specimen.’

The Venetian trip, contrary to the promises of Mark Members, had not renewed energies for writing. All the same, established priorities, personal continuities, the confused scheme of things making up everyday life, all revived, routines proceeding much as before. The Conference settled down in the mind as a kind of dream, one of those dreams laden with the stuff of real life, stopping just the right side of nightmare, yet leaving disturbing undercurrents to haunt the daytime, clogging sources of imagination — whatever those may be — causing their enigmatic flow to ooze more sluggishly than ever, periodically cease entirely.

Gwinnett showed no sign of arrival in England. In the light of his general behaviour, changing moods, estrangement from social life, distaste for doing things in a humdrum fashion, that was not at all surprising. If still engaged in the unenviable labour of sampling first-hand former Trapnel anchorages, he might well judge that enterprise liable to prejudice from outside contacts. Some writers require complete segregation for getting down to a book. Gwinnett could be one of them. He was, in any case, under no obligation to keep me, or anyone else, informed of his movements. He might quite easily have decided that, so far as I was concerned, any crop of Trapnel memories had been sufficiently harvested by him in Venice. When it comes to recapitulation of what is known of a dead friend, for the benefit of a third party (whether or not writing a biography), remnants transmissible in a form at once lucid, unimpeded by subjective considerations, are astonishingly meagre.

I felt a little concerned by being left with the Commonplace Book on my hands, and would have liked opportunity to return it to Gwinnett. Scrappy, much abbreviated, lacking the usual neatness of Trapnel’s holographs, its contents were not without interest to a professional writer, who had also known Trapnel. The notes gave an idea, quite a good idea, of what the novel destroyed by Pamela might have been like, had it ever been finished. Certain jottings, not always complimentary, had obvious reference to herself. Clearly obsessive, they were not always possible to interpret. If Pamela had her way, a film based on Profiles in String — more likely on Trapnel’s own life — made by Glober, the Commonplace Book could be of assistance.

If Gwinnett wanted to ‘understand’ Trapnel, two aspects emerged, one general, the other peculiar to Trapnel himself. There was the larger question, why writers, with apparent reserves of energy and ideas, after making a good start, collapse, or fizzle out in inferior work. In Trapnel’s case, that might have been inevitable. On the other hand, its consideration as an isolated instance unavoidably led to Pamela. Gwinnett’s approach, not uncommon among biographers, seemed to be to see himself, at greater or lesser range, as projection of his subject. He aimed, anyway to some extent, at reconstructing in himself Trapnel’s life, getting into Trapnel’s skin, ‘becoming’ Trapnel. Accordingly, if, in the profoundest sense, he were to attempt to discover why Trapnel broke down, failed to surmount troubles, after all, not greatly worse than many other writers had borne — and mastered — the inference could not be dodged that Gwinnett himself must have some sort of a love affair with Pamela. So far as he had revealed his plans, Gwinnett appeared to aim at getting into Trapnel’s skin, but not to that extent. In fact everything about Gwinnett suggested that he did not at all intend to have a love affair with Pamela. If he accepted the possibility, he was playing his cards with subtlety, holding them close to his chest. It was, of course, possible something of the sort had already taken place. Instinctively, one felt that had not happened.

This conjecture was endorsed — anyway in one sense — in an odd manner. To express how things fell out is to lean heavily on hearsay. That is unavoidable. Trapnel himself, speaking as a critic, used to insist that every novel must be told from a given point of view. An extension of that fact is that every story one hears has to be adjusted, in the mind of the listener, to prejudices of the teller; in practice, most listeners increasing, reducing, discarding, much of what they have been told. In this case, the events have to be seen through the eyes of Bagshaw’s father. What Bagshaw himself later related was not necessarily untrue. Bagshaw was in a position to get the first and best account. He must also have been the main channel to release details, even if other members of the household added to the story’s volume. Nevertheless, Bagshaw’s father, in his son’s phrase ‘the man on the spot’, was the only human being who really knew the facts, he himself only some of them.

The first indication that Gwinnett had accepted Bagshaw’s offer, gone to live in the house, was a story purporting to explain why he had left. This was towards Christmas. It looks as if the alleged happenings were broadcast to the world almost immediately after taking place, but only a long time later did I hear them from Bagshaw’s own lips. Dating is possible, because, on that occasion, Bagshaw made a great point of the Christmas decorations being up, imparting a jovial grotesqueness to the scene. Knowledge of the Christmas decorations did certainly add something. Through thick and thin, Bagshaw always retained vestiges of a view of life suggesting a thwarted artist, no doubt the side that finally brought him where he was.

‘My father enacted the whole extraordinary incident under a sprig of mistletoe. In the middle of it all, some of the holly came down, with that extraordinary scratchy noise holly makes.’

Although I had not expected Bagshaw’s father to be descending the stairs in his dressing-gown, when I called at the house, I had, in the distant past, more than once heard Bagshaw speak of him. They were on good terms. Even in those days, that had seemed a matter of interest in the light of the manner Bagshaw himself used to go on. Bagshaw senior had been in the insurance business, not a notable success in his profession, being neither energetic nor ambitious, but with the valuable quality that he was prepared to put up in a good-natured spirit with his son’s irregularities of conduct. On this account there was a certain justice in Bagshaw apparently more or less supporting his father in retirement.

Mr Bagshaw had risen in the night to relieve himself. He was making his way to a bathroom in, or on the way down to, the basement. This fact at once raises questions as to the recesses of the Bagshaws’ house, its interior architectural complications. An upper lavatory may not have existed, been out of order, possibly occupied, in view of what took place later. On the other hand, some preference or quirk may have brought him downstairs. He could have been making a similar journey, when I had seen him. Perhaps sleeping pills, digestive mixtures, medicaments of some sort, were deposited at this lower level. The essential thing was that Mr Bagshaw had to pass through the hall.

It seems to have been a mild night for the time of year. That did not prevent Mr Bagshaw from being surprised, even for a moment startled, when, turning on one of the lights, he saw a naked woman standing in the passage or hall. Here again the narrative lacks absolute positiveness. In a sense, the truth of its essential features is almost strengthened by the comparative unimportance adjudged to exact locality. Bagshaw’s insistence on the mistletoe suggests the hall; other circumstances, a half-landing, or alcove, on the first-floor; not uncommon in a house of that date, possibly also offering a suitable nook or niche for mistletoe.

Bagshaw’s father, short-sighted, had not brought his spectacles with him. His immediate assumption was that the dimly outlined female shape was one of his son’s stepchildren, who, having taken a bath at a relatively unorthodox hour, had considered dressing not worth while for making the short transit required to her bedroom. Bagshaw, telling the story, admitted the girls behaved in a sufficiently unmethodical, not to say disordered manner, to make that possibility by no means out of the question. What seemed to have caused his father most surprise was not so much lack of clothing, but extinction of all movement. The naked lady was lost in thought, standing as if in silent vigil.

Mr Bagshaw made a conventional remark to the effect that she ‘must not catch cold’. Then, probably owing to receiving no reply, grasped that he was not speaking to one of the family. He may also, in spite of his poor sight, have observed the lady’s hair was grey, even if scarcely seeing well enough to appreciate threads of strawberry-pink caught by artificial light. Whatever he did or did not take in, one must concur in Bagshaw’s praise of his father for showing good sense, in no manner panicking at this unforeseen eventuality. At one time or another, he had undoubtedly experienced testing incidents in the course of existence with Bagshaw as a son, but by then he was a man of a certain age, and, however happy-go-lucky the atmosphere of the household, this was exceptional. Speculation as to what Mr Bagshaw thought is really beside the point. What happened was that (as when I myself saw him) he muttered an apology, and moved on; his comportment model of what every elderly gentleman might hope to display in similar circumstances.

Whether or not he associated in his mind the midnight nymph with Gwinnett is another matter. Gwinnett by then had lived in the house some little time, probably a couple of months. Equally unknown is how Pamela, in the first instance, effected entry into the Bagshaw house. Even Bagshaw himself never claimed to be positive about that. His theory was she had somehow ascertained the whereabouts of Gwinnett’s bedroom, then more or less broken in. That seems over-dramatic, if not infeasible. A more probable explanation, that one of the stepdaughters, the rather dotty, possibly pregnant one likeliest, had admitted her earlier in the evening, then denied doing so during subsequent investigations; Pamela finding Gwinnett in his room, or waiting there for his return. If the former, the two of them, Pamela and Gwinnett, had spent quite a long time, several hours, in the bedroom together, before Bagshaw’s father encountered her, wherever he did, in an unclothed state.

She was no longer in the hall, or on the half-landing, when Mr Bagshaw reappeared on his return journey. He seems to have taken this as philosophically as he had earlier sight of her, simply retiring to bed again. If he hoped after that for a good night’s rest, that hope was nullified by a further complication, a more ominous one. This development had taken place while he was himself down in the basement incommunicado. Bagshaw’s other stepdaughter, Felicity, now played a part. Woken by the interchange, slight as that had been, between Pamela and Bagshaw’s father, or (another possibility) herself cause of Mr Bagshaw’s descent to the basement by excluding him from an upstairs retreat, perhaps noticing the light on, came down to see what was afoot. She was faced with the same spectacle, a slim grey-haired lady wearing no clothes. Bagshaw, when he spoke of the matter, added a gloss to the circumstances.

‘The truth seems to be — I’d noticed it myself — Felicity had taken a fancy to Gwinnett. That was why she drew the obvious conclusions, and kicked up the hell of a row. So far as I know, Gwinnett hadn’t made any sort of a pass at her. Perhaps that was what made her so keen on him. Before you could quote Proudhon’s phrase about equilibrium of competition, her sister Stella heard the talking, and came down too. The whole lot were quarrelling like wild cats.’

Just what happened at this stage is not at all clear; nor at what moment were spoken the words to put in some sort of perspective subsequent events. Gwinnett, of course, himself appeared. He dealt as well as he could with Bagshaw’s stepdaughters, while Pamela dressed and slipped away. Probably she retired on Gwinnett’s arrival, leaving him to cope. She was not present by the time Bagshaw, made aware by the noise that something exceptional was taking place, joined the party. Mrs Bagshaw, like her father-in-law, assuming some comparatively minor domestic contingency in progress, still suffering from migraine, did not leave her bed. Avril, incurious or occupied with her own problems, also remained in her room. Bagshaw said that, insofar as it were possible to behave with dignity throughout the whole affair, Gwinnett contrived to do so.

‘He didn’t say much. Just offered some apologies. Of course, it was obviously Pamela Widmerpool’s fault, not his. He didn’t attempt to excuse himself on that account.’

The night’s disturbances appear to have died down in a fairly banal family quarrel, nothing to do with Pamela or Gwinnett. In fact, the following day, Bagshaw — so far as I know, May Bagshaw too — was prepared for all to be forgiven and forgotten. On this point Bagshaw’s father and stepdaughters do not seem to have been consulted. Gwinnett himself was firm that he must leave. He moved to an hotel (another of Trapnel’s haunts) the same afternoon. Bagshaw said he was uncertain what he felt after Gwinnett had gone.

‘I was sorry to lose him. At the same time I saw, from his own point of view, it would be difficult to stay on. The whole thing might happen again, if that woman knew he was still living with us. Of course, I thought they were having an affair, that she had come to the house to sleep with him. If so, I couldn’t see why either of them needed to make all that to-do. Couldn’t he have done whatever her other lovers do? That was how it looked at the moment.’

By the time Bagshaw told the story himself, a good deal had happened to give opportunity for improving its framework, accentuating highspots of the narrative. One could not be quite sure he had not seen things differently during the embroilment. For example, he spoke of words, possibly apocryphal, murmured by Pamela, as she withdrew (however that had happened) from the house. Bagshaw put this scarcely coherent sentence forward as key to what took place later, explanation, too, of the night’s doings, or lack of them; for that matter, general relationship with Gwinnett.

Bagshaw could not swear to the exact phrase. It had something to do with ‘dead woman’ or ‘death wish’. He also asserted that Gwinnett, while staying in the house, had spoken more than once of Pamela’s conjunction with Ferrand-Sénéschal, bearing out Dr Brightman’s theory that Gwinnett himself was more than a little taken up with mortality. Bagshaw gave other instances. At the time, naturally, emphasis immediately afterwards was laid on the question why Pamela had been wandering about without any clothes. Reflecting on similar instances in my own experience, there was the time (actually not witnessed) when the parlourmaid, Billson, had walked naked into the drawing-room at Stonehurst; more tangibly, when the front door of her flat had been opened to myself by Jean Duport in the same condition. Unlike Candaules’s queen, these two had deliberately chosen to appear in that state, not, as the Queen — anyway vis-à-vis Gyges — involuntarily nude. Perhaps the Tiepolo picture had done something to disturb the balance of Pamela’s mind, in the light of her reported behaviour at the Bragadin dinner party. The situation — just what had really caused the doings at the Bagshaws’ — remained, at the end of that year, still obscure. Most people who took any interest in the matter simply assumed Pamela and Gwinnett had been ‘having an affair’, some row taken place, notable only for Pamela’s incalculable manner of handling things.

About January or February, Gwinnett himself sent a line saying he would like to meet. He wished the Commonplace Book returned to him, unless I particularly needed to keep it longer. We arranged to lunch together on a day I was coming to London. Gwinnett had not remained unaffected by the months spent in England. Whether the change was due to odd experiences undergone, or simply because he felt a sense of release in making a start on his book, was impossible to say. The transformation itself was not easy to define. Not exactly loosened up, he gave at the same time an impression of being on better terms with himself. Here in London he looked more ‘American’ than in Venice. He still wore his light blue lenses, only just observably tinted against the sun. It was not the effect of these. The spectacles, thin filament of moustache, secretive manner, implied quite other origins. One thought, for some reason, of the Near East, though he was not in the least oriental. Perhaps his air was Mexican. The Americanism had something to do with the intense whiteness of his shirt, cut low in the neck, the light shade of the heavily welted rubber-soled shoes, almost yellow in colour. The shoes were the first thing you noticed about him. Ignorant still of just what had happened at the Bagshaws’, I had no way of rationalizing to myself the slight, but apparent alteration. The Commonplace Book was handed over. Gwinnett mentioned that he had stayed with the Bagshaws, then decided he would work more easily in another of Trapnel’s hotels.

‘How much of the book have you done?’

‘I might have roughed out the first quarter.’

He spoke of some of his discoveries. From various sources, he had unearthed material about Trapnel’s early life in Egypt. Perhaps concentrating on Egypt had given Gwinnett the Near East look. He could list, among other things, racehorses Trapnel’s father had ridden, and their owners. There were striking facts about the schools Trapnel had attended, which were many and various. Gwinnett had worked hard.

‘Have you traced any of the girls?’

‘I have.’

Tessa, who had immediately preceded Pamela as object of Trapnel’s love, was doing extremely well. She was secretary, evidently a high-powered one, to the chairman of a noted firm of merchant bankers. Tessa had been helpful to Gwinnett in a straightforward way, giving him a clear, unvarnished account of Trapnel’s daily life, its interior economy, seen from the point of view of an intelligent, capable mistress, who wanted her lover to become a success as a writer. Although retaining affectionate memories of Trapnel, she decided in due course, she said, that he lacked the necessary stamina. That was an interesting first-hand view. Gwinnett had appreciated its good points.

‘Then there was Pat.’

Pat, now married to a don, Professor of Social Science, had been less willing to have her past dredged up. She had replied with a tactful letter saying she preferred not to see Gwinnett.

Sally was dead. That was all he had been able to find out about her.

‘I’d have liked to know more — how and why she died.’

Jacqueline had married a journalist, and was living abroad, where her husband was foreign correspondent to a daily paper. Linda could not be traced.

‘Did you know Pauline?’

‘I never met her. I’ve heard Trapnel speak of her. He thought her depraved. Those were his words. They remained on good terms after parting.

‘I ran Pauline to earth.’

‘What’s she doing?’

‘She’s become a call-girl.’

‘Trapnel said that was where Pauline would end.’

‘Well, not much short of that, I’d say.’

Gwinnett seemed uncertain whether or not to qualify the description. He thought for a moment, then decided against amendment.

‘I went to see her. She told me some facts.’

‘Such as?’

‘What some of her clients like.’

‘Anything out of the usual run?’

‘Not much, I guess.’

‘I’d have thought Trapnel pretty normal.’

‘She said he was.’

Gwinnett changed the subject. I thought he had abandoned it. I was wrong. He was choosing another conversational angle, one of his habits, at times effected in a manner a little disconcerting.

‘Did Lindsay Bagshaw say there’d been some trouble at his place?’

‘I haven’t seen him, but I heard something of the sort. I knew you’d left.’

‘You heard Lady Widmerpool kicked up a racket there?’

‘Her name was mentioned.’

‘As raising hell?’

‘Well, yes.’

‘If you run across Lady Widmerpool, do you mind not telling her my address?’

‘OK.’

‘You heard about Lord Widmerpool being denounced on the radio as a British agent? Lindsay Bagshaw talked his head off about it. I’m not that interested in politics, though I couldn’t but be interested in such a thing happening. Just because of all the Trapnel tie-up with her. What do you think?’

‘He might be in deep water. Hard to say, at this stage.’

Gwinnett hesitated, seeming, as he sometimes did, uncertain of the exact ground he wanted to occupy.

‘Lady Widmerpool — Pamela — I wouldn’t be in her husband’s shoes, if she’s left to decide his fate.’

‘She’s got it in for him?’

‘That’s how it looks.’

‘You’re avoiding her for the time being?’

That was a reasonable question in the circumstances. Gwinnett did not answer it. At the same time he accepted its inferences.

‘Just to duck back to Pauline for a spell — she had dealings with Lord Widmerpool.’

‘Professional ones, you mean?’

‘Sure.’

‘He picked her up somewhere? Answered an ad?’

‘When his wife was living with Trapnel, Widmerpool had her shadowed. As a former girl friend of Trapnel’s, whom he saw once in a while, Pauline’s name was given to Widmerpool.’

‘And he went to see her?’

‘They met somehow.’

‘Continued to meet?’

‘It seems arrangements were made satisfactory to both sides. Pauline later figured at several parties attended by Widmerpool — and the Frenchman, too, who died all that sudden, when Pamela was around.’

‘Pauline told you that?’

Gwinnett nodded. He had a way with him when he sought information. At least information was what he acquired.

‘Was Pamela herself included in these Pauline jaunts?’

‘I don’t know for certain. I don’t believe so.’

Thought of Pamela seemed to depress Gwinnett He fell into one of his glooms. Their relationship was an enigma. Perhaps he was in love with her, in spite of everything. We parted on good terms, the best. Gwinnett spoke as if we were likely to talk together again as a matter of course, do that quite soon. At the same time he parried any suggestion of coming to see us; even arranging another meeting in London. This determination that initiative should remain in his hands was a reminder of Trapnel methods. Possibly it was one of the ways in which Gwinnett was growing to resemble Trapnel.

During the next month or so, Gwinnett’s problems receded in my mind as a matter of immediate interest, Widmerpool’s too. Fresh information about the second of those came from two rather unexpected sources. These followed each other in quick succession, although quite unconnected.

For several years after the war, I had attended reunion dinners of one of the branches of the army in which I had served, usually deciding to do so at the last moment, even then never quite knowing what brought me there. Friends made in a military connexion were, on the whole, to be seen more conveniently, infinitely more agreeably, in settings of a less deliberate character, where former brother officers, now restored to civilian life in multitudinous shapes, had often passed into spheres with which it was hard to make conversational contact. Intermittent transaction in the past of forgotten military business provided only a frail link. All the same, when something momentous like a war has taken place, all existence turned upside down, personal life discarded, every relationship reorganized, there is a temptation, after all is over, to return to what remains of the machine, examine such paraphernalia as came one’s way, pick about among the bent and rusting composite parts, assess merits and defects. Reunion dinners, to the point of morbidity, gave the chance of indulging in such reminiscent scrutinies. Not far from a vice, like most vices they began sooner or later to pall. Even the first revealed the gap, instantaneously come into being on demobilization, between what was; what, only a moment before, had been. On each subsequent occasion that hiatus widened perceptibly, moving in the direction of an all but impassable abyss.

There were, of course, windfalls. One evening, at such an assemblage, my former Divisional Commander, General Liddament (by then promoted to the Army Council) turned up as guest of honour, making a lively speech about the country’s military commitments ‘round the map’, ending with a recommendation that everyone present should read Trollope. That was an exceptional piece of luck. In the same way, an old colleague would sometimes appear; Hewetson, who had looked after the Belgians, now senior partner in a firm of solicitors: Slade, Pennistone’s second-string with the Poles, headmaster of a school in the Midlands: Dempster, retired from selling timber, settled in Norway, still telling his aunt’s anecdotes about Ibsen. Finn, Commanding Officer of the Section, was dead. At the end of the war he had gone back briefly to his cosmetic business in Paris, soon after left, to end his days in contemplation of his past life and his VC, near Perpignan. Pennistone (married to a French girl, said to have taken an energetic part in the Resistance) had stepped into Finn’s place in the firm. His letters reported good sales. He rarely came to England, spare time from the office taken up with writing a book on the philosophical ideas of Cyrano de Bergerac.

Usually there was less on offer, fewer, still fewer, even known by sight. That was especially true when the thinned ranks of branches, originally designed to be reunited on this particular occasion, were augmented by other elements. These, if remotely related in duties, had once been regarded with a certain professional suspicion, but their attendance too dwindled through death and inanition, requiring, as we did, bolstered numbers to make the party worth while. In short, feeling increasingly isolated, I lost the habit of attending these dinners. Then, a son likely to become liable for military service, it seemed wise to re-establish bearings in a current army world, find out what was happening, pick up anything to be known. I put down my name again, without much hope of seeing anyone with whom closer bonds were likely to be evoked than shared memory of whether or not some weapon, piece of equipment, had ‘come off the security list’ for release to the Allies, or by swopping stories about the shortcomings, as an officer and a man, of the unpopular brigadier.

That year the dinner was held on the premises of a club or association of vaguely patriotic intent, unfamiliar to myself both in membership and situation. The dining-room was decorated in a manner sober to the point of becoming sepulchral, drinks obtainable from a bar at one end. No one standing about there was an acquaintance. At the table assigned to my former Section, faces were equally unknown. Mutual introductions took place. My righthand neighbour, Lintot, fair, bald, running to fat, had looked after some of the Neutrals — a ‘dismal crowd’, he said — before Finn commanded, later posted to Censorship in the Middle East. He worked in a travel agency. We talked of the best places to take an autumn holiday abroad.

Macgivering, on the other side, also belonged to a War Office epoch earlier than my own. His duties had been in the Section handling in-coming telegrams, where he remembered the stunted middle-aged lieutenant, for ever polishing his Sam Browne belt. We had both forgotten his name. Macgivering himself, tall, spare, haggard, with a slight stutter, had been invalided out of the army, consequent on injury from enemy action, while in bed at his flat one early night of the blitz. We split a bottle of indifferent Médoc, and discussed car insurance, as he had some sort of public relations connexion with the motor business.

Only towards the end of dinner did I notice Sunny Farebrother sitting at the end of a table on the far side of the room. During the war he had operated in several areas of army life, including at least one of those branches now joined to the increasingly disparate elements of this dinner. He had found himself a place at right angles to the ‘high table’, where more important members or guests sat. He was talking hard. His neighbour looked like a relatively senior officer, whom Farebrother appeared to be indoctrinating with some ideas of his own. Farebrother looked in the best of form. He must be close on seventy, I thought. At the end of these dinners movement away from table places was customary, so that people could circulate. I decided to have a word with Farebrother at this interspersion. He was still in earnest conversation with the supposed general, when the time came. He could be pushing a share in which he was interested. I had not seen him at or near the bar on arrival. Probably he had deliberately turned up at the last moment to avoid threatened liability for buying a drink.

While I waited for a suitable moment to move across to Farebrother’s table, a man with woolly grey hair and wire spectacles (the latter not yet a fashionable adjunct) came to speak with Lintot. Macgivering had already left, to make contact elsewhere in the room. I changed into his former seat, to allow the wire-spectacled man to talk in more comfort sitting next to Lintot. They appeared to know each other through civilian rather than army connexions. Lintot was astonished at the wire-spectacled man’s presence at this dinner. His wonderment greatly pleased the other.

‘Didn’t expect to find your accountant here, did you, Mr Lintot? We can both of us forget the Inland Revenue for once, can’t we? To tell the truth, I’m attending this dinner under rather false pretences. The fact is a friend of mine told me he was coming to London for this reunion. We wanted to talk together about certain matters, one thing and another, so as I’d gained a technical right to be deemed Intelligence personnel, I applied to the organizers of this ‘I’ dinner. They said I could come. I always enjoy these get-togethers. My old mob have one. There’s a POW one too. Why not roll up, I said to myself.’

‘Never knew you were in the army. Of course we’ve always had a lot of other things to talk about, so that wasn’t surprising.’

Lintot appeared rather at a loss what to say next. He drew me into the conversation, mentioning we had been in the same Section, though not in the War Office at the same period.

‘This is — well, I’ve got to be formal, and call you Mr Cheesman, because I only know your initials — this is Mr Cheesman, whose accountancy firm acts for mine. For me personally too. We do our best against the taxman between us, don’t we? I didn’t expect to find him here. Never thought of Mr Cheesman as a military man somehow, though I never think of myself as one either, if it comes to that.’

‘Yes, but you see my point. If I’m eligible, no reason why I shouldn’t come to the dinner, is there?’

Cheesman was insistent. He was not in the least put out by Lintot’s emphasis on the unmilitary impression he gave. What he was keen on, pedantically keen, consisted in establishing his, so to speak, legal right to be at the party. He spoke in a precise, measured tone, as if attendance at the dinner were a matter of logic, as much as free choice.

‘Of course, of course. Glad to see you here. You’re about the only man in the room I’ve met before.’

Lintot was quite uninterested in Cheesman’s bona fides as ‘I’ personnel. Cheesman accepted that his point had been understood, even if unenthusiastically. Now, I remembered that manner, at once mild and aggressive. It brought back early days in the army — Bithel, Stringham, Widmerpool.

‘Didn’t you command the Mobile Laundry?’

I appended the number of General Liddament’s Division to that question.

‘You were there just for a short time, the Laundry only attached. Then it was posted to the Far East.’

Cheesman drew himself up slightly.

‘Certainly I commanded that sub-unit. May I ask your name?’

I told him. It conveyed nothing. That was immaterial. Cheesman’s own identity was the important factor.

‘Surely you fetched up in Singapore?’

Cheesman nodded.

‘In fact, you were a Jap POW?’

‘Yes.’

Cheesman gave that answer perfectly composedly, but for a brief second, something much shorter than that, something scarcely measurable in time, there shot, like forked lightning, across his serious unornamental features that awful look, common to those who speak of that experience. I had seen it before. Cheesman’s face reverted — the word suggests too extended a duration of instantaneous, petrifying exposure of hidden feeling — to an habitual sedateness. I remembered his arrival at Div. HQ; showing him the Mobile Laundry quarters; making this new officer known to Sergeant-Major Ablett Bithel had just been slung out. I had left Cheesman talking to the Sergeant-Major (who had the sub-unit well in hand), while I myself went off for a word with Stringham. One of Cheesman’s peculiarities had been to wear a waistcoat under his service-dress tunic. He had been surprised at that garment provoking amused comment in mess.

‘A waistcoat’s always been part of any suit I wore. Why change just because I’m in the army? I’ve got to keep warm in the army, like anywhere else, haven’t I?’

He did not give an inch, either, in adapting himself to military manners and speech, behaving to superiors as he would in a civilian firm, where he was paid to give the best advice he could in connexion with his own employment. He dressed nothing up in the forms and terms traditional to the military subordinate. Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson had been particularly irked by that side of Cheesman. He used to call him ‘our Mr Cheesman’, a phrase in which Cheesman himself would have found nothing derogatory. Thirty-nine when he joined the army at the beginning of the war, he wanted to ‘command men’. He must be nearly sixty now. Except when that frightful look shot across his face, the features were scarcely more altered than Sunny Farebrother’s.

‘How the hell did you survive your Jap POW camp?’ asked Lintot cheerfully.

Cheesman brushed the question aside.

‘A bit of luck. The Nips were moving some of their prisoners in ’44. Don’t know where they were taking us. When we were at sea, the Nip transport was sunk by an American warship. No arrangements made for POWs, of course, when ship’s company took to the boats, but the Americans rescued most of us — and a lot of the Nips too.’

‘Don’t expect you were feeling too good by that time?’

‘Naturally I wasn’t fit for normal duties for a month or two. When I was on my feet again, I got a change of job. They were short of Intelligence wallahs where I was. I’d picked up a few words of Japanese. It was thought better to make use of me in ‘I’, rather than go back to Mobile Laundry duty, though I’d have liked to return to the job for which I’d been trained. That’s why I’m allowed here, without being strictly speaking applicable. Funny meeting you, Mr Jenkins. I don’t remember your face at all at that Div HQ. The officer I recall is the DAAG, Major Widmerpool. He made quite an impression on me. Very efficient, I should say. A really good officer. You can always tell the type. I expect he’s done well in civilian life too.’

‘Do you remember a man in your sub-unit called Stringham?’

Cheesman looked surprised at the question.

‘Of course I do. How did you know Stringham?’

‘We were friends in civilian life.’

‘You were?’

Cheesman found that statement hard to credit. He thought about it for a second or two. Stringham and I — that was the impression — seemed miles apart. He wrestled with the question inwardly. When at last he answered, it was as if prepared to accept my word, even then the claim scarcely believable.

‘I see. I do recall now Stringham wasn’t just the ordinary bloke you find in the ranks. I was taken aback at first when you said you’d known him. Of course, you get all sorts in a war. He was a superior type, an educated man. You could see that. All the same I never thought about it much. He never made any difficulties. I’d forgotten altogether. Just remember him in the jobs he used to do. I could never place him myself. What was his work in civilian life?’

That was a hard question to answer. What did Stringham do? Cheesman must be told something. What about the time when (with Bill Truscott as dominant colleague) he had been a sort of personal secretary to Sir Magnus Donners? I fell back on that. To be a secretary implied at least a measure of professional identity. That would serve the purposes of the moment.

‘Stringham was private secretary to a business tycoon.’

‘Oh, was he?’

Cheesman seemed at first more surprised than ever. He did not pursue the matter. His own job could well have brought him face to face with eccentric business tycoons. Either that struck him, or he decided to leave the question vague in solution.

‘He was very fond of making jokes, but I always found him an excellent worker in my sub-unit.’

Cheesman said that without the least disapproval. He spoke as one merely registering an unusual characteristic. So far as jokes were concerned, his own features proclaimed a state of intact virginity as to any experience or sense of them, immaculately so. Cheesman had never made a joke, never seen a joke, could live — and die — without jokes, even if he knew they existed. It did him credit to have so far rationalized Stringham’s behaviour as to be capable of thus defining it Stringham might have been worse typified.

‘Stringham made jokes in the camp,’ he added.

‘He wasn’t taken from Singapore too?’

‘No.’

Again the ghastly forked lightning flashed, a flicker of Death’s vision, reflected for a dreadful instant behind the wire spectacles’ plates of glass. The flesh of Cheesman’s face, softly wrinkled, made one think of those old servants of the past, who had worked unquestioningly for a lifetime in a single household. In Cheesman’s case this unchanging interior had been, no doubt, his own austere, limited — one might reasonably say heroic — personality. There was the same self-assurance as Dan Tokenhouse, the same impression of having dispensed with sex. There was something else too.

‘Stringham died in the camp. He behaved very well there.’

Cheesman thought for a moment after saying that.

‘Very well. Yes. A good man. He wasn’t too strong, you know. Fancy your having met him. They’re odd these things. Sergeant-Major Ablett, you may remember him. He was rescued. He’s quite prosperous now.’

The matter was better pressed no further. More information could easily become too much, too much anyway for one’s peace of mind. Cheesman gave no sign that might be so. He also made no attempt to enlarge. Lintot, understandably, had not been much interested in these reminiscences. If Cheesman were his personal accountant, as well as his firm’s, he may have felt he had a better right than myself to Cheesman’s attention, even if he had brought us together again.

‘Don’t mind my talking shop for a moment, Mr Cheesman. It will save a letter. Now about Tax Reserve Certificates …’

By then Farebrother’s senior officer had managed to get away, with or without buying the shares remained unknown. Farebrother himself was making preparations to leave the party, giving a final look round the room to make sure he had missed no one worthy of a few minutes’ conversation. I went across to him. His friendliness was positively enormous. The powerful extrusion of Farebrother charm remained altogether undiminished by age. He was specially pleased about something, possibly success in whatever he had recommended his neighbour.

‘There’s an empty stretch of table over there, Nicholas. Let’s sit at it. I don’t feel like any more to drink, do you? Got to cut down on the pleasures of life nowadays. Something I want to ask you. What do you think of the latest development in the Widmerpool case?’

‘I didn’t know there was a case.’

‘You haven’t read the evening paper? The Question in the House? I think he’s for it now.’

Farebrother was amazed anyone should have missed such a pleasure as that night’s evening paper. His handsome greyhound profile, additionally distinguished with increased age, lighted up while he supplied a commentary. He made clear that, in his opinion, this news was going to offer no minor revenge. The Parliamentary Question had been on the subject of Widmerpool’s commercial activities in Eastern Europe. To outward appearance worded in terms not at all sensational, they were, to an initiate in that form of attack, ominous in the extreme. The country concerned was the one where Widmerpool had been named in connexion with the State trial. Farebrother said he understood there had also been a denunciation on the air in one of their official broadcasts.

‘The implications are of the most damaging order.’

‘What’s he really been up to?*

Farebrother, usually in the habit of cloaking his own imputations or reprisals in mild, vaguely expressed language, now made no bones about the disaster threatening his old enemy. He seemed to know more than was easily to be drawn from the mere wording of the Question, however much that were open to sophisticated interpretation. His war service (like that of Odo Stevens) had given Farebrother contacts from which such enlightenment might be derived. Someone in a position to ‘know’ could have dropped a hint. That was certainly the impression Farebrother himself, truly or not, hoped to give.

‘Some underling on their side was accepting bribes, and has now defected, so I’ve heard said. That had been done with Widmerpool’s connivance. He had been giving encouragement, too, by passing across little bits of information himself from time to time. How valuable that information was remains to be seen. In any case, I’m just putting two and two together. Most of it guesswork.’

‘Will it come to arrest, a trial?’

‘That depends what the employee reveals — if that story is true.’

‘In any case that would be in camera?’

‘You can’t say. Some evidence probably.’

‘The Question is just a ranging shot?’

‘Not far from the target. Give him a jolt. I can tell you something else too.’

Farebrother looked about to make sure no one was sitting near us, who might overhear what he was going to say. Most of the diners were now congregated round the bar. Many had left, or were leaving. He put his arm over the back of my chair.

‘I’ve just retired from one of the smaller merchant banks. We deal with European and overseas commercial activities and investments. Fascinating work.’

I toyed with the fantasy that Trapnel’s former girl, Tessa, was going to abut on to what Farebrother had to say, then remembered Gwinnett had described her as working for the chairman of a large, rather than small, merchant bank.

‘I don’t mind telling you some of the Eastern European deals of our friend might be of interest from the taxation angle, if figures had to be produced in a court of law. Nothing to do with treasonable dealings, just bank statements. I make no accusations. Just of interest, I suggest.’

Farebrother smiled his charming smile. He settled back into his own chair. Then he looked at his watch.

‘Good gracious me, I must be getting home. Geraldine and I are not at all late birds.’

‘She is well, I hope.’

Farebrother snapped his fingers in the air to give some idea of his wife’s overflowing health and spirits. He was in his gayest mood. The Parliamentary Question had made his day. It provided something far better, in a different class, from the occasion when Widmerpool’s career had been threatened by nothing worse than the disapproval of General Liddament.

‘We’ve found a nice little flat, not too expensive, well appointed as you could wish. Geraldine has a wonderful instinct for the right sort of economies, so we don’t have to be thinking about the pennies all the time now. In fact we find we can run a country cottage too. Roses are my interest these days. I don’t mind telling you, Nicholas, I’m rather proud of my roses. You and your wife must look us up, if you’re ever passing. We can’t always manage luncheon. Tea certainly. Well, it’s been a most enjoyable evening. I heard Ivo Deanery was to be present as a guest — can’t remember if you know him, he’s a major-general now — and we settled some useful matters. Don’t forget that invitation — preferably when the roses are in bloom.’

He repeated the address of the cottage, waved one of his genial goodbyes, was gone. The following day, the Parliamentary Question was brought up again at another party, in very different circumstances. This occasion owed something to the diplomatic detente of which Bagshaw had spoken. The so-called ‘thaw’ had been reflected, in a minor manner, by the tour through some of the European capitals of a well-known Russian author, bestseller in his own country. To give a few of our own literary world opportunity to meet a confrere not in general encountered in the West, a luncheon, to which I found myself invited, was given at the Soviet Embassy.

At this gathering, a foreseen profusion of literary figures had been perceptibly infused with a sprinkling of MPs, other notabilities, official and semi-official, either with a view to imparting additional robustness of texture to the party, or, more probably, simply to work off individuals, whose names were listed for entertainment, sooner or later, on the ambassadorial roster. Including our hosts of the Embassy staff, a large number of whom were present, about forty or fifty persons were drinking vodka, sampling zakuski, sitting in small groups scattered about a long, austerely decorated drawing-room. There was a faint atmosphere of constraint, as if someone or something essential to the party had not yet been manifested, but that would happen in a moment, when, from then on, all would be well, much easier, more relaxed.

The invitation had not included wives of writers asked as guests, but both the Quiggins were there, Quiggin’s status as a publisher no doubt judged of sufficient eminence to be considered out of context, permitting accompaniment of his novelist consort. Alaric Kydd — to use a favourite phrase of Uncle Giles’s — was behaving as if he owned the place. Other writers included L. O. Salvidge, Bernard Shernmaker, Quentin Shuckerly, a lot more, men greatly predominating in numbers over women. Mark Members was absent, known to be ill; Len Pugsley, not important enough, or considered too closely ‘committed’ to be asked to a purely social party. Evadne Clapham had also been overlooked, more probably barred from acceptance by a too relentless social programme of her own. Dr Brightman, sprucely dressed in a fur cap and high fur collar, revealing a rather chilly manner to Ada Leintwardine, passed her with a smile, moving on to where L. O. Salvidge and I were chatting to one of the secretaries of embassy.

‘I hope you don’t think my clothes too voulu?’

The secretary nodded, and laughed. He was a tall fair young man, of surface indistinguishable from any other member of London’s diplomatic corps of similar age and seniority. We discussed signs of spring in the London parks. The young secretary moved away for a moment to receive incoming guests. Salvidge caught my eye. His silent lips formed the words ‘KGB’. The secretary returned before any sort of secretly uttered return comment was possible. Dr Brightman shared none of Salvidge’s trepidation about our surroundings.

‘Have you seen anything of Russell Gwinnett? I’ve quite lost touch with him. He was staying at one moment with some people called Bagshaw. He wrote to me from their house. Rather a depressed letter. I hear he left after some sort of trouble. The most extraordinary story I was told.’

Salvidge must have thought this subject dangerously controversial, perhaps because Gwinnett was American. He showed disquiet. At the same time he did not want to appear excluded from the circles of which Dr Brightman spoke.

‘Gwinnett came to see me. We had a talk. A nice young man. Not very exciting. I was not sure he was up to tackling so picturesque a figure as Trapnel.’

Salvidge turned to the secretary to explain what he was talking about.

‘This is a young writer called Gwinnett — G-W-I-N-N-E-T-T — who is writing a book about a novelist, now dead, called Trapnel — T-R-A-P-N-E-L — a good writer. One of our best.’

‘Yes?’

Salvidge must have thought this the moment to change the subject, probably what he had been leading up to.

‘Dr Brightman here, you know, is writing a book about Boethius — B-O-E-no diphthong — ’

The secretary nodded politely, but cut Salvidge off.

‘See, we must go into luncheon.’

We were firmly shepherded into the dining-room. So far as Salvidge was concerned, not a moment too soon. Here again was a faint sense of austerity, an impression of off-white walls sparsely decorated with pictures, landscapes light in tone — the steppe — birch trees — sunset on snow — nothing in the least reminiscent of Tokenhouse and his school. My place at table was between another secretary, possibly counsellor, somewhat older than the first, equally trimmed to outward diplomatic convention; on the other side, a personage not encountered for years, Bill Truscott.

Tipped, as a young man, for at least a place in the Cabinet, even if by some mischance he failed to become Prime Minister, Truscott, after a promising start at Donners-Brebner, had come to rest in some governmental corporation, possibly the Coal Board. The Russian engaged with his other neighbour when I sat down, Truscott and I went through the process of recalling where we had last met. He still carried some of his old, rather distinguished style, a touch, too, of the old underlying toughness that had made people think he would forge ahead. Fresh from observing Farebrother as a professional charmer, one could not help feeling Truscott, at least ten years younger, had worn worse. His manner dated. If he had become the ‘great man’ predicted, no doubt it would have been perfectly serviceable. As he was, the demeanour was a trifle laboured, ponderous.

I thought of my undergraduate days, when Truscott had been not merely an imposing, but positively frightening figure, setting up, by his flow of talk, standards of sophistication never to be contemplated as attainable. This brilliance of exterior, again, had been of quite a different sort from Glober’s. Even in those days, Truscott had been far less lively. There could be no great difference in age, even if the advantage was slightly on Truscott’s side. Unlike Glober, he had remained a bachelor. I spoke of Sillery’s ninetieth birthday party. It appeared Truscott had not been invited. He showed a little bitterness about that. It was true he had been one of the staunchest vassals of Sillery’s court. He should not have been forgotten. He asked if I often found myself in this embassy.

‘My first visit — and you?’

‘I’m asked from time to time. I’m afraid I’m not at all conversant with the current work of the guest of honour. I never read novels nowadays …’

Possibly thinking that admission, for more than one reason, suggested a too headlong falling-off from what had once been an all embracing intellectual coverage, Truscott corrected himself. He gave one of his winning smiles.

‘That is, you understand, I don’t find much time, with so many things going on — as we all have — of course I fully intend … and naturally…’

I told him what I had heard about Stringham, once his fellow secretary. Truscott showed interest.

‘Very sad. Poor Charles. He was a pleasant companion. One of the nicer people round Donners.’

Thought of his days working for Sir Magnus must have brought Widmerpool to mind; more specifically, as agent of his own sacking from Donners-Brebner. He lowered his voice.

‘Hardly a subject for discussion here, but one cannot help being a little intrigued by the embarrassments, at the moment, of another protégé of Sir Magnus of that period.’

‘What’s going to happen to him?’

By that time, having read the morning paper, I saw what Farebrother meant by speaking of Widmerpool’s position as insecure. Truscott certainly thought the same. He coughed, in a semi-official manner.

‘I should expect various enquiries of a — well, not exactly public nature — not immediately public, I mean — likely to be set on foot.’

‘You think it pretty serious?’

‘That would certainly be …’

‘Might come to a trial?’

‘One cannot tell. I — ’

Massive middle-aged waitresses had been bustling about the room, snapping out a sharp commentary to each other in their own language, as they clattered with the plates. Now, one of them interposed a large dish of fish between Truscott and myself, severing our connexion. At the same moment, my Russian neighbour began a conversation. Soon, by natural processes, we were discussing Russian writers. After Lermontov and Pushkin, Gogol and Gontcharov, Tchekov and Tolstoy, Dostoevsky’s name cropped up. Pennistone — who would never allow intellectual standards to be lowered, just because he was in the army, a war on — had complained that, when he spoke of Dostoevsky’s Grand Inquisitor to General Lebedev, the Soviet military attaché (unconvincing as a regular soldier) had recommended Nekrasov’s truer picture of Russian life. In short, Dostoevsky, impossible to ignore, equally impossible to assimilate into Communist life, a monolithic embarrassment to his countrymen, was a tendentious subject for the present luncheon party, however unequivocally political the tradition of the Russian novel. Remembering Trapnel once speculated on the meaning of the surname ‘Karamazov’, I put the question.

‘Am I right in thinking “kara” has some implication of blackness? The former Serbian royal house, Karageorgevitch, was not that founded by Black George? But ‘‘mazov “? How would that be translated into English?’

My Russian neighbour laughed. He seemed very willing that a Dostoevskian commentary should move into etymological channels, away from potentially political ones. The idea of giving The Brothers an English surname pleased him.

‘I shall consult a colleague.’

He spoke quickly in his own language across the table. There was a short discussion. He returned to me.

‘He says “kara” means “black” in Turkish. There is a Russian adjective “chernomazy” — do you say “swarthy”? Then “maz”, it is “grease”, the verb, to smear or to oil. Would that be “varnish” in English?’

Dr Brightman, sitting next to the informant on the other side of the table, was not to be left out of a discussion of this nature. She showed interest at once.

‘The Brothers Blackvarnish? No, that would hardly do, I think. We must find something better than that.’

She shook her head, giving the matter her full attention.

‘How would The Blacklacquer Brothers be?’

We discussed the question. While we did so, I reflected how this was all based on Trapnel’s meditation on the meaning of the name, his argument with Bagshaw in that dreary pub came back, Trapnel’s contention that there was no such thing as Naturalism in novel writing, one of his favourite themes.

‘Reading novels needs almost as much talent as writing them,’ he used to say.

The occasion had been just before Bagshaw and I had taken him home, on the way found that Pamela had thrown his manuscript into the Regent Canal. Trapnel had said something else that evening too. Now the words came back, in the way spoken words do, with quite a new meaning.

‘Call Hemingway’s impotent good guy naturalistic? Think of what Dostoevsky would have made of him? After all, Dostoevsky did deal with an impotent good guy in love with a bitch.’

Was that the answer? Was he a good guy? Was he in love? Was the condition only released by Death? The train of thought was interrupted by Dr Brightman offering a new suggestion.

‘Simply making use of the connexion with linseed oil — The Linseed Brothers?’

‘That omits the element of blackness, of darkness, which obviously broods over the story, and must be conveyed by the name.’

When it was time to thank for the party, leave, Truscott, who was by then talking with the Ambassador, gave a smile that indicated he had hopes of the very worst for Widmerpool. Coming down the steps of the Embassy, I found myself with the Quiggins. We walked along Kensington Palace Gardens together, moving south towards the High Street. I asked Ada if any progress had been made in deciding what was to be Glober’s last great film.

‘Do you mean to say you don’t know? Louis is coming over next month. Everything is arranged.’

‘What’s it to be?’

‘Match Me Such Marvel, of course. I’m sure it’s going to make a box-office record. I can’t wait.’

‘So Trapnel’s off?’

Ada showed more pity than astonishment.

‘Trapnel?’

‘Glober was going to do a Trapnel film when we were in Venice. Probably a kind of life of Trapnel, with Pamela Widmerpool in the lead. You’d only just begun to make St John Clarke propaganda with him.’

‘He saw at once the St John Clarke novel was a much better idea.’

‘Is Pamela equally happy?’

Quiggin cut in.

‘I’m bored to death with this film of Glober’s. I don’t believe we’re really going to make any money out of it, even if he does it. You never know with these people. Set against Ada’s time writing her own novels, or working in the firm, I’ve always doubted whether it’s worth while.’

‘Oh, shut up,’ said Ada.

She turned to me again.

‘Do you really not know about Louis deciding on another girl for his leading lady, as well as ditching the Trapnel idea? That was all settled months ago.’

‘Glober found Pamela too much in the end?’

‘He fell for someone else.’

Quiggin continued to show irritation about the film.

‘Do let’s discuss another subject. The food at lunch wasn’t too bad. I’m never sure Caucasian wine suits me. I thought he seemed rather a sulky little man, when I had a word with him through the interpreter.

‘Who’s Glober fallen for now?’

‘Why, Polly Duport, of course. You must live absolutely out of the world not to know that. He saw her in the Hardy film at the Venice Festival. She turned up there herself. It was an instantaneous click.’

‘Didn’t that cause trouble?’

‘With Pam?’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t think Pam really cared by then, even if she cared much before. She was already mad about that other American, what was he called — Russell Gwinnett. She still is. Haven’t you heard about what happened at the Bagshaws’?’

‘I know about that, more or less, but not about Polly Duport.’

‘You remember how horrid Pam was to me in Venice, considering what friends we’d been. She’s been ringing me up almost daily lately, trying to find out what’s become of Gwinnett. How should I know? I barely met him. The most I did was to ask for us to be allowed to consider his book on X. Trapnel, when it’s finished.’

This upset Quiggin again.

‘A book on X. Trapnel is never going to sell. Why get us involved in it at all. It would only mean more money down the drain.’

‘So any question of Pamela marrying Glober is at an end?’

‘Why should she marry Glober?’

‘You said he wanted to marry her — not just have an affair with her.’

‘I did?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m sure I didn’t. Anyway, if I did, I shouldn’t have done so. Forget about it. Of course, it’s all off. How could it be anything else? Louis’s terribly sweet and kind, but you never know what he’s going to do next.’

‘That’s just what I’ve already stated,’ said Quiggin.

‘All film people go on like that. Never mind. I do think he really is keen on Match Me Such Marvel. Of course it’s not going to be called that. We haven’t decided on the best tide yet. Polly is a marvellous girl too. Not only glamorous, but a real professional.’

‘What I can’t believe is Pamela making no row.*

‘Even Pam realized she’d never get the part once Louis began taking Polly out to dinner.’

‘Did Pamela meet Polly Duport?’

‘I didn’t think so. The Widmerpools went back to England halfway through the Film Festival. It was Pam’s thing about Gwinnett, as much as anything else, that caused Louis to give her up. It serves Pam right. I believe she really did think she was going to become famous.*

‘Why did Glober object so much? Gwinnett was positively running away from the situation, so far as anything Glober might object to. He still is. Even in the early stages, he only wanted Trapnel information.’

‘Louis didn’t think so. Anyway there was Pam. Perhaps it was because he was another American.’

‘Is Glober going to marry Polly Duport now?’

‘Isn’t she married already, to an actor, though they’re living apart? She was on her own when she came to Venice. Perhaps he will.’

‘What does Widmerpool think about it all? His feelings don’t seem to have been considered much, whether Pam leaves him or stays. Your idea was that he would be quite glad to get her taken off his hands. Now, if he goes to prison for spying, she’ll be able to visit him in the Scrubs or Dartmoor, wherever he’s sent — give him additional hell.’

Quiggin was outraged.

‘You think that a matter to joke about?’

‘Isn’t that what it looks like?’

‘That Parliamentary Question was disgraceful. Our own particular form of McCarthyism. All very gentlemanly, of course, none the less smearingly vindictive.’

‘You think he’ll emerge without a stain on his character?’

Quiggin was prepared to be less severe on that point. ‘Haven’t we all sins to forgive? Sins of over-enthusiasm, I mean. Look, Ada, there’s our bus.’