Books Do Furnish a Room - Anthony Powell [30]
In this room Erridge had written his letters, eaten his meals, transacted political business with Craggs and Quiggin, read, lounged, moped, probably seduced Mona, or vice versa, the same, or alternate, process possibly applying also to Gypsy Jones – or rather Lady Craggs. He used rarely to digress into other parts of the house. The ‘state apartments’ were kept covered in dust sheets. Once in a way he might have need to consult a book in the library, to which few volumes had been added since the days of the Chemist-Earl, who had brought together what was then regarded as an unexampled collection of works on his own subject. Once in a way a guest – latterly these had become increasingly rare – likely to be a new political contact of one kind or another, for example, an unusually persistent refugee, might be shown round. Erridge had never entirely conquered a taste for exhibiting his own belongings, even though rather ashamed of the practice, and of the belongings themselves.
The once wide assortment of journals on a large table set aside for this purpose had been severely reduced – probably by Frederica again – to a couple of daily newspapers, neither of a flavour her brother would have approved. Beyond this table stood a smaller one at which Erridge and his guests, if any, used to eat. The most comfortable piece of furniture in the room was a big sofa facing the fireplace, its back to the door. The room appeared to be empty when entered, the position of this sofa concealing at first the fact that someone was reclining at full length upon it. Walking across the room to gain a view of the park from the window, I saw the recumbent figure was Pamela’s. Propped against cushions, a cup of tea beside her on the floor, by the teacup an open book, its pages downward on the carpet, she was looking straight ahead of her, apparently once more lost in thought. I asked if she were feeling better. She turned her large pale eyes on me.
‘Why should I be feeling better?’
‘I don’t know. I just enquired as a formality. Don’t feel bound to answer.’
For once she laughed.
‘I mean obviously you weren’t well in church.’
‘Worse than the bloody corpse.’
‘Flu?’
‘God knows.’
‘A virus?’
‘It doesn’t much matter does it?’
‘Diagnosis might suggest a cure.’
‘Are Kenneth and those other sods on their way here?’
‘So I understand.’
‘The kraut got me some tea.’
‘That showed enterprise.’
‘He’s got enterprise all right. Why’s he at large?’
‘He’s working on the land apparently.’
‘His activities don’t seem particularly agricultural.’
‘He winkled himself into the house somehow.’
‘He knows his way about all right. He was bloody fresh. Who’s that awful woman we travelled down with called Lady Craggs?’
The sudden appearance beside us of Alfred Tolland spared complicated exposition of Gypsy’s origins. In any case the question had expressed an opinion rather than request for information. Alfred Tolland gazed down at Pamela. He seemed to be absolutely fascinated by her beauty.
‘Do hope you’re …’
‘I’m what?’
‘Better.’
He brought the word out sharply. Probably he ought always to be treated in an equally brusque manner, told to get on with it, make a move, show a leg, instead of being allowed to maunder on indefinitely trying to formulate in words his own obscurities of thought; licence that his relations had fallen too long into the habit of granting without check. Siegfried appeared again, this time carrying a tray loaded with cups and saucers. His personality lay somewhere between that of Odo Stevens and Mrs Andriadis’s one-time boy-friend,