‘Ah, Pam’s having a bath. She was expecting my return rather later than this. I’ll just report who’s here. Go in and sit down.’
He spoke as if relieved to hear nothing more ominous was on foot than his wife having a bath, then disappeared down the passage. Roddy and I entered the sitting-room. The tone of furniture and decoration was anonymous, though some sort of picture rearrangement seemed to be in progress. The central jets of a gas fire were lighted, but the curtains were undrawn, a window open. Roddy closed it. Two used glasses stood on a table. There was no sign of whatever had been drunk from them. From the other end of the passage a loud knocking came, where Widmerpool was announcing our arrival. Apparently no notice was taken, because the taps were not turned off, and, to rise above their sound, he had to shout our names at the top of his voice. Pamela’s reactions could not be heard. Widmerpool returned.
‘I expect Pam will look in later. Probably in her dressing-gown—which I hope you will excuse.’
‘Of course.’
Roddy looked as if he could excuse that easily. Widmerpool glanced round the room and made a gesture of simulated exasperation.
‘She’s been altering the pictures again. Pam loves doing that—especially shifting round that drawing her uncle Charles Stringham left her. I can never remember the artist’s name. An Italian.’
‘Modigliani.’
‘That’s the one—ah, there’s been a visitor, I see. I’ll fetch the relevant documents.’
The sight of the two glasses seemed to depress him again. He fetched some papers. Kneeling down in front of the gas fire, he tried to ignite the outer bars, but they failed to respond. Widmerpool gave it up. He began to explain the matter in hand. Erridge, among other dispositions, had expressed the wish that certain books which had ‘influenced’ him should, if out of print, be reissued by the firm of Quiggin & Craggs. To what extent such republication was practicable had to be considered in the light of funds available from the Trust left by Erridge. Nothing was conditional. Widmerpool explained that the copyright situation was being examined. At present adjudication was not yet possible in certain cases; others were already announced as to be reissued elsewhere. Subsequent works on the same subject, political or economic—even more often events—had put Erridge’s old favourites out of date. On the whole, as Widmerpool had promised, the answers could be effectively dealt with in this manner, though several required brief consideration and discussion. We had just come to the end of the business, Widmerpool made facetious reference to the propriety of canvassing Parliamentary matters, even non-party ones, in the presence of a member of the public, when the door bell rang. Widmerpool looked irritable at this.
‘Who on earth can it be? Not one of Pam’s odd friends at this hour of the night, I hope. They are capable of anything.’
He went to open the door.
‘We don’t need to waste any more time here,’ said Roddy. ‘The Erry stuff is more or less cleared up. The non-party project can be ventilated when Widmerpool and I next meet in the House. I don’t want to freeze to death. Let’s make a getaway while he’s engaged.’
I was in agreement. Widmerpool continued to talk with whoever had come to the front door of the flat. Although he had left the door of the sitting-room open, the subject of their conversation could not be heard owing to the sound of the bath water, still running, or perhaps turned on again. It occurred to me that Pamela, with her taste for withdrawal from company, might deliberately have taken refuge in the bathroom on hearing the sound of our arrival; then turned on the taps to give the impression that a bath was in progress. Such procedure might even be a matter of routine on her part to avoid guests after a parliamentary sitting. The supposition was strengthened by Widmerpool’s own lack of surprise at her continued absence. It was like a mythological story: a nymph for ever running a bath that never filled, while her husband or lover waited for her to emerge. Now Roddy was getting impatient.
‘Come on. Don’t let’s hang about.’
We went out into the passage. The visitor turned out to be Short. He looked worried. Although only come from the floor below, apparently to deliver a message, he had taken the precaution of wearing an overcoat and scarf. Whatever the message was had greatly disturbed Widmerpool. One wondered if the Government had fallen, though scarcely likely within the time that had passed since we had left the House of Commons. Our sudden appearance from the sitting-room made Short even less at ease than he was already. He muttered some sort of a good evening. I introduced Roddy, as Widmerpool seemed scarcely aware that we had joined them. Before more could be said, evidently returning to the subject in hand, Widmerpool broke in again.
‘How long ago did you say this was?’
‘About an hour or two, as I told you. The message was just as I passed it on.’
Short was infinitely, unspeakably embarrassed. Widmerpool looked at him for a moment, then turned away. He walked hurriedly up the passage, lost to sight at the right-angle of its end. A door opened noisily from the direction of the running water. The sound of the flow ceased a moment later. The taps had been turned off sharply. Another door was opened. There came the noise of things being thrown about. Short blew his nose. Roddy got his overcoat and handed me mine. I asked Short what had happened.
‘It was just a message left for Kenneth by his wife. She rang the bell of my flat about an hour ago, and asked me to deliver it.’
Short stopped. Whatever the message was had seriously upset him. That left us none the wiser. Short seemed for a moment uncertain whether or not to reveal his secret. Then it became too much for him. He cleared his throat and lowered his voice.
‘As a matter of fact the message was—“I’ve left”. We don’t know each other at all well. I thought she must mean she was going to catch a train, or something of that sort. Had been delayed, and wanted her husband to know the time of her departure.’
‘You mean left for good?’
Short nodded once or twice, almost to himself, in a panic-stricken manner. There could be no doubt that one side of his being had been immensely excited by becoming so closely involved in such a drama; another, appalled by all the implications of disorganization, wrongdoing and scandal. Before more could be told, Widmerpool returned.
‘It was very thoughtless of her to have forgotten to turn the bath tap off. The hot one too. Nobody in the place will get any hot water for weeks. You know, Leonard, she must have made this arrangement to go away on the spur of the moment.’
‘That’s just what it looked like.’
Short spoke as if he saw a gleam of hope.
‘She often acts like that. I deprecate it, but what can I do? I see she has taken both her suitcases. They must have been quite heavy, as most of her clothes have gone too. Did you help carry them down?’
‘The man was carrying them.’
‘Do you mean the porter? I thought he was having flu?’
‘Not the regular porter. It might have been the taxi-driver or someone driving a hired car. Perhaps they have a temporary man downstairs.’
‘I mean it was not just a friend?’
‘He hardly looked like a friend.’
‘What was he like?’
‘He had a beard. He was carrying the two bags. Your wife had a stick or umbrella under her arm, and two or three pictures.’
This piece of information agitated Widmerpool more than anything that had gone before. Short appeared unable to know what to think. Before Widmerpool’s return his words certainly suggested that he himself supposed Pamela had left for good; then Widmerpool’s demeanour seemed almost to convince him that this was no more than a whim of the moment to go off and visit friends. Now he was back where he started.
‘Repeat to me again exactly what she said.’
‘ “Tell him I’m leaving, and taking the Modigliani and the photographs of myself. He can do what he likes with the rest of my junk.”’
‘Nothing more?’
‘Of course I supposed she was referring
to some domestic arrangement you knew about already, that she wanted to inform you of the precise minute she had vacated the flat. I wondered if you had even taken another one. You have always talked of that. It looked as if she might be starting to move into it.’
Short sounded desperate. He must have been to talk like that. Roddy was desperate too, but only to get away. He was taking no interest whatever in the matter discussed. Now he could stand it no longer.
‘Look, my dear Widmerpool, it’s really awfully cold tonight. I think I’ll have to be getting back, as I want to know how my wife is faring. She’s expecting a baby, you know. Not quite yet, but you never can be certain with these little beggars. They sometimes decide to be early. We can have a word about your project in the smoking-room some time—over a drink perhaps.’
Widmerpool behaved very creditably. He accepted, probably with relief, that Roddy was not in the least interested in his affairs.
‘Most grateful to you both for having looked in, and run over those points. All I want you to do now is to pass on the proposed decisions informally to the executors. If they have any objections, they can let me know. Then we can get the items sorted out. I’m sorry the evening has been interrupted in this way. We’ll discuss the non-party matter on another occasion, Cutts. I must offer my apologies. There is nothing Pam enjoys more than mystifying people—especially her unfortunate husband. Goodnight, goodnight. Come into the flat for a moment, Leonard.’
What he was thinking was not revealed. Control of himself showed how far married life had inured him to sudden discomposing circumstances. If he believed that Pamela had deserted him without intention of return—it was hard to think anything else had happened—he kept his head. Perhaps her departure was after all a relief. It was impossible to guess; nor whether Trapnel was by now a figure known to him in his wife’s entourage. Short did not look at all willing to enter the flat for yet another rehash of his encounter with Pamela, but Widmerpool was insistent. He would not accept a denial on account of work with which Short was engaged. Roddy and I took leave of them, and set off down the stairs. Neither of us spoke until we reached the street. Roddy then showed some faint curiosity as to what had been happening.
‘What was it? I was too cold to take it in.’
‘It looks as if his wife’s gone off with a man called X. Trapnel.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘He writes novels.’
‘Like you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is he one of her lovers?’
‘So it appears.’
‘I gather they abound.’
‘All the same, this is a bit of a surprise.’
‘God—there’s a taxi.’
Not so very long after that evening, Isobel gave birth to a son; Susan Cutts, to a daughter. These events within the family, together with other comings and goings, not to mention the ever-pervading Burton, distracted attention from exterior events. Even allowing for such personal preoccupations, the whole Widmerpool affair, that is to say his wife’s abandonment of him, made far less stir than might be expected. There were several reasons for this. In the first place, that Widmerpool should marry a girl like Pamela Flitton had been altogether unexpected; that she should leave him was another matter. Nothing could be more predictable, the only question—with whom? A certain amount of gossip went round when it became known they were no longer under the same roof, but, the awaited climax having taken place, the question of the lover’s identity was not an altogether easy one to answer; nor particularly interesting when answered, for those kept alive by such nourishment. Few people who knew Widmerpool also knew Trapnel, the reverse equally true. Besides, could it be stated with certainty that Pamela was living with Trapnel?
Everyone agreed that, even if Pamela had embarked on a romance with Trapnel, however unlikely that might be, nothing was, on the other hand, more probable than that she had left him immediately after. All that could be said for certain was that both had utterly disappeared from sight. That at least was definite. Accordingly, the physical presence of two lovers did not, by public appearance, draw attention to open adultery. In the circumstances, interest waned. The question of ‘taking sides’, in general so much adding to public concern with such predicaments, here scarcely arose, husband and lover inhabiting such widely separated worlds. There was some parallel to the time, years before, when Mona had left Peter Templer for J. G. Quiggin.
A further reason for the story to develop a strangely muffled character, almost as if leaked through a kind of censorship, was the hard work Widmerpool himself put in to lower the outside temperature. However he might inwardly regard the situation, as an MP he was understandably anxious to play down such a blemish on the life of a public man. Just as he had done to Short on the night of Pamela’s departure, he emphasized through all possible channels his wife’s undoubted eccentricity, circulating anecdotes about her to suggest that she was doing no more than taking a brief holiday from married life. She would return when she thought fit. That was Widmerpool’s line. Her husband, knowing her strange ways, paid little attention. In the end more people than might be expected pretty well accepted that explanation. It was a trump card. At first that was not so apparent as it became later.
Of course a friend of Pamela’s like Ada Leintwardine—a position in which Ada was, as a woman, probably unique—was thrown into a great state of commotion when the news, such as it was, broke. It was confirmed by L. O. Salvidge to the extent that two or three weeks before he had seen Trapnel in The Hero, accompanied by a very beautiful girl with a pale face and dark hair. They had stayed in the saloon bar only a few seconds, not even ordering drinks. Trapnel wanted to make some arrangement with one of the auxiliaries. Salvidge’s information predated the night at Widmerpool’s. Ada conceded not only that she had now lost all touch with Pamela, but—an unexampled admission on Ada’s part—could claim no suspicion whatever as to what must have been going on. This amounted to confession that, however profound her own powers of intuition, they had fallen short of paramountcy in probing this particular sequence of emotional development. All she had supposed was that Trapnel had been ‘rather intrigued’ by Pamela; the notion that he should sufficiently flatter himself as to allow dreams of her mastery was something quite beyond credibility. Ada’s alliance with Pamela had, in fact, never taken the form of frequentation of the Widmerpool household. They had just been ‘girls together’ outside Pamela’s married life. Ada continually repeated her disbelief.
‘It can’t really be Trapnel.’
Not only did Trapnel himself no longer appear at the Fission office, his representatives now dropped off too. Bagshaw had recently retired to bed with flu. For once the new number was fully made up, left to be seen through the press by the latest secretary, a red-haired, freckled girl called Judy, whom Bagshaw himself had produced from somewhere or other, alleging that she was not at all stupid, but unreliable at spelling. Judy had just brought in a stack of advance copies of the magazine when in due course I arrived to carry out the normal stint with the books. These were being examined by Quiggin and Ada, who were both on the Fission side of the backyard.
Quiggin, possibly under the influence of Ada, had now for the most part abandoned his immediately post-war trappings suggesting he had just come in from skirmishing with a sten-gun in the undergrowth, though traces remained in a thick grey shirt. On the whole he had settled for a no-nonsense middle-aged intellectual’s style of dress, a new suit in dark check and bow tie, turn-out better suited to his station as an aspiring publisher. Ada was laughing at what they were reading, Quiggin less certain that he was finding the contribution funny. He had taken his hands from the jacket pockets of the check suit, and was straightening the lapels rather uneasily.
‘There’s going to be a row,’ said Ada.
She was pleased rather than the reverse by that prospect. Quiggin himself seemed not wholly displeased, though his amusement was combined with anxiety, which the Sweetskin case was sufficient t
o explain. An extract from Ada’s own novel was to be included in this current number. Her work in progress had not yet been given a title, but it was billed as ‘daring’, so that in the cold light of print Quiggin might fear the police would now step in where Fission too was concerned.
‘Are you going to be prosecuted, Ada?’
‘I was laughing at X’s piece. Read this.’
She handed me a copy of the magazine. It was open at Widmerpool’s article Assumptions of Autarchy v. Dynamics of Adjustment. Since she had indicated Trapnel’s piece as the focus of interest, I turned back to the list of contents to find the page. Ada snatched it from me.
‘No, no. Where I gave it you.’
Another glance at the typeface showed what she meant. The page that at first appeared to be the opening of Widmerpool’s routine article on politics or economics—usually a mixture of both—was in fact a parody of Widmerpool’s writing by Trapnel. I sat down the better to appreciate the pastiche. It was a little masterpiece in its way. Trapnel’s ignorance of matters political or economic, his total lack of interest in them, had not handicapped the manner in which he caught Widmerpool’s characteristic style. If anything that ignorance had been an advantage. The gibberish, interspersed with double ententes, was entirely convincing.
‘I do not assert … a convincing lead … cyclical monopoly resistance … the optimum factor …’
This was Bagshaw taking the bit between his teeth. However one looked at it, that much was clear. In the course of arranging subjects for Trapnel’s parodies he had certainly included contributors to Fission before now. Alaric Kydd was not, as it happened, one of these, being somewhat detached from the Fission genre of writer, but Evadne Clapham, represented by a short story in the first number, had been one of Trapnel’s victims. Always excitable, she had at first talked of a libel action. Bagshaw had convinced her finally that only the most talented of writers were amenable to parody, and she had forgiven both himself and Trapnel. All this was in line with Bagshaw’s taste for sailing near the wind, whatever he did, but he had never spoken of setting Trapnel to work on Widmerpool. That was certainly to expose himself to danger. The temptation to do so, once the idea had occurred to an editor of Bagshaw’s temperament, would, on the other hand, be a hard one to resist.
Dance to the Music of Time, Volume 4 Page 18