A Question of Upbringing - Anthony Powell [5]
“‘Good night, Guy… good night, Stephen… good night, John… good night, Ronnie… good night, George…’”
“Exactly,” said Stringham. “‘Good night, Eddie… good night, Simon… good night, Robin…’ and so on and so forth until they had all said good night to each other collectively and individually, and shuffled off together, arm-in-arm. Templer wanted to move because he had to go down-town before lock-up; so we left Widmerpool to himself. He had put on his spectacles again, and straightened his cap, and as we went through the door he was rubbing his gritty little knuckles together, still smiling at his great encounter with Budd.”
The account of this incident, illustrating another of Widmerpool’s aspects, did not at that moment make any deep impression on me. It was like a number of other anecdotes on the subject that circulated from time to time, differing only in the proficiency with which Stringham told his stories. My own renewed awareness of Widmerpool’s personality seemed to me closer and more real. Stringham, however, had not finished with the matter. He said: “As we walked past the fives courts, Templer remarked: ‘I’m glad that ass Widmerpool fielded a banana with his face.’ I asked why he did not like him – for after all there is little harm in the poor old boy – and it turned out that it was Widmerpool who got Akworth sacked.”
Stringham paused to allow this statement to sink in, while he arranged the sausages in a new pattern. I could not recall at all clearly what Akworth’s story had been: though I remembered that he had left the school under a cloud soon after my arrival there, and that various rumours regarding his misdoings had been current at the time.
“Akworth tried to set fire to his room, didn’t he? Or did he steal everything that was not nailed down?”
“He well may have done both,” said Stringham; “but he was principally shot out for sending a note to Peter Templer. Widmerpool intercepted the note and showed it to Le Bas. I must admit that it was news to me when Peter told me.”
“And that was why Peter had taken against Widmerpool?”
“Not only that but Widmerpool got hold of Peter and gave him a tremendous jaw on morals.”
“That must have been very good for him.”
“The jaw went on for so long, and Widmerpool came so close, that Templer said that he thought Widmerpool was going to start something himself.”
" Peter always thinks that about everybody.”
“I agree his conceit is invincible,” said Stringham, turning the sausages thoughtfully, as if contemplating Templer’s vanity.
“Did Widmerpool start anything?” I asked.
“It is a grim thought, isn’t it?”
“What is the answer?”
Stringham laughed. He said: “Peter made an absolutely typical Templer remark when I asked him the same question. He said: ‘No, thank God, but he moved about the room breathing heavily like my sister’s white pekinese. Did you see how pleased he was just now to be noticed by Budd? He looked as if he had just been kissed under the mistletoe. Bloody fool. He’s so wet you could shoot snipe off him.’ Can you imagine a more exquisitely Templer phrase? Anyhow, that is how poor old Widmerpool looks to our little room-mate.”
“But what is he like really?”
“If you are not sure what Widmerpool is like,” said Stringham, “you can’t do better than have another look at him. You will have an opportunity at prayers tonight. These sausages are done.”
He stopped speaking, and, picking up the paper-knife again, held it upright, raising his eyebrows, because at that moment there had been a kind of scuffling outside, followed by a knock on the door: in itself a surprising sound. A second later a wavering, infinitely sad voice from beyond said: “May I come in?”
Obviously this was no boy: the approach sounded unlike a master’s. The hinge creaked, and, as the door began