Books Do Furnish a Room - Anthony Powell [56]
‘Why, hullo, Pam.’
She looked straight at, and through, him. It was not so much that she ignored what Stevens had said, as that she behaved as if he had never spoken, was not even there. She seemed to be looking at someone or something beyond him, unable to see Stevens himself at all. Stevens, by nature as sure of himself as a man could well be, was not in the least embarrassed, but certainly taken aback. When he grasped what had happened, he turned towards me and grinned. We were not near enough for comment.
‘There’s someone I’d like you to meet, dear heart,’ said Widmerpool. ‘We’ll talk business later, JG. There are two misprints in my own article, but on the whole Bagshaw must be agreed to have made a creditable job of the first number.’
Apart from her treatment of Stevens – or signalizing it by that – Pamela gave the impression of being on her best behaviour. She allowed herself to be piloted across to the Cabinet Minister. Cutting Stevens might be explained by the fact that, when last seen with him, she had slapped his face. It was quite possible that night, the first of the flying-bombs, had been also the last she had seen of him. To start again as total strangers was one way of handling such matters. The most recent news of her had been from Hugo Tolland. Pamela had appeared at his antique shop in the company of an unidentified man, who had paid cash for an Empire bidet, later delivered to the Widmerpool flat in Victoria Street; a highly decorative piece of furniture, according to Hugo. Inevitably her sickness at Thrubworth had developed into a legend of pregnancy, cut short artificially and not occasioned by her husband, but that was probably myth.
Widmerpool’s demeanour gave no impression of having emerged from a trying domestic experience, though it could be argued the truth had been kept from him. Not long before, a speech of his in a parliamentary debate on the reduction of interest rates had been the subject of satirical comment in a Daily Telegraph leader, but, at the stage of public life he had reached, no doubt any mention in print was better than none. Certainly he appeared well satisfied with himself, clapping Craggs on the back, and giving an amicable greeting to Gypsy, with whom he must have established some sort of satisfactory adjustment. The article he had written for Fission had been called Affirmative Action and Negative Values. Stevens came over to talk.
‘Did you notice Pam’s lack of recognition? Her all over. What the hell’s she doing here?’
He laughed heartily.
‘Her husband’s part of the Quiggin & Craggs set-up. Why did you hit on them for your book?’
‘My agent thought they’d be the right sort of firm, as I was operating with the Commies most of the time I was in the Balkans. The publishers have only seen a bit of it. It’s not finished yet. Will be soon. I’m spreading culture with Mark Members at the moment, but I hope to get out of an office – if the book sells, and it will.’
‘All about being “dropped”?’
‘A murder or two. Some rather spicy political revelations. One of the former incidents mucked up my affairs rather – lost me a DSO.’
‘What did you haul in finally?’
‘MC and bar, also one of the local gongs from the new regime. Don’t know yet whether I’ll be permitted to put it up. I shall anyway.’
‘When did you get out of the army?’
‘It was rather premature. I was never much of a hand at regimental life, even though I wasn’t sure at one moment I wouldn’t take up soldiering as a trade. So many temptations in Germany. The Colonel didn’t behave too badly, but in the end he said I’d have to go. I agreed, so far as it went. I scrounged round for a bit selling space and little articles, then got myself fixed up in this culture-toting