Books Do Furnish a Room - Anthony Powell [59]
This was getting so near utter nonsense that I wondered whether Trapnel had managed to get drunk in a comparatively short time on the watery cocktail available, and, for reasons still obscure, wanted to pick a quarrel with Widmerpool; was, in fact, building up to deliver some public insult. Widmerpool himself totally accepted Trapnel’s words at their face value.
‘It is indeed a privilege to see ordinary folk in their own homes, though I never thought of the professional advantage you put forward. Well, housing conditions need a lot of attention, and I can tell you I am giving them of my best.’
‘You should come and try to pull the plug where I am living myself,’ said Trapnel. ‘I won’t enlarge.’
Widmerpool looked rather uneasy at that. Trapnel, seeing he risked prejudicing the good impression he intended to convey, laughed and shook his head, dismissing the matter of plumbing.
‘I just wanted to mention the matter. Nice of you to have listened to it – nice also to have met.’
‘Just let me make a note of your bad housing, my friend,’ said Widmerpool. ‘Exact information is always useful.’
Trapnel had spoken his last words in farewell, but Widmerpool led him aside and took out a notebook. At the same moment Pamela abandoned Gainsborough, whose attractions her husband must have overrated. She came towards us. Widmerpool turned to her. She disregarded him, and addressed herself to me in her slow, hypnotic voice.
‘Have you been attending any more funerals?’
‘No – have you?’
‘Just awaiting my own.’
‘Not imminent, I hope?’
‘I rather hope it is.’
‘How are you enjoying political life?’
‘Like any other form of life – sheer hell.’
She said that in a relatively friendlv tone. Craggs intervened and led Widmerpool away, Trapnel returned. I introduced him to Pamela. It was not a success. In fact it was a disaster. From being in quite a good humour, she switched immediately to an exceedingly bad one. As he came up, her face at once assumed an expression of instant dislike. Trapnel himself could not fail to notice this change in her features. He winced slightly, but did not allow himself to be discouraged sufficiently to abandon all hope of making headway. Obviously he was struck by Pamela’s appearance. For a moment I wondered whether that had been the real reason for making such a point of introducing himself to Widmerpool. Any such guess turned out wide of the mark. On the contrary, he had not seen them come into the room together, nor taken in who she was. His head appeared still full of whatever he had been talking about to Widmerpool, because he did not listen when I told him her name. It turned out later that he was determined in his own mind that Pamela was a writer of some sort. Having decided that point, he wanted to find out what sort of a writer she might be. This was on general grounds of her looks, rather than any very special attraction he himself found for them.
‘Are you doing something for Fission?’
Pamela stared at him as if he had gone off his head.
‘Me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why should I?’
‘I just thought you might.’
‘Do I look the sort of person who’d write for Fission?’
‘It struck me you did rather.’
She gave him a stare of contempt, but did not answer. Trapnel, seeing he was to be treated with deliberate offensiveness, made no further effort in Pamela’s direction. Instead, he began talking of the set-to on the subject of modern poetry that had just taken place between Shernmaker and Malcolm Crowding. Pamela walked away in the direction of Ada Leintwardine. Trapnel looked after her and laughed.
‘Who is she?’
‘I told you – Mrs Widmerpool.’
‘Wife of the MP I was chatting with?’
‘She’s rather famous.’
‘I didn’t get the name. I thought you were saying something about Widmerpool. So that’s who she is? I’d never have thought he’d have a wife like that. Bagshaw was talking about him, so I thought I’d like to make contact. I can’t say I was much taken