Books Do Furnish a Room - Anthony Powell [72]
‘Ada’s pretty smart at guessing.’
‘She doesn’t guess how I feel. I know she doesn’t. She couldn’t have said some of the things she did, if she had. I was very careful not to give anything away – you won’t either, Nick, will you? I don’t want anyone else to know. But how on earth am I to see her again.’
‘Go and pay Widmerpool back his quid, I suppose.’
This frivolous, possibly even heartless comment was made as a mild call to order, a suggestion so unlikely to be followed that it would emphasize the absurdity of Trapnel’s situation. That was not at all the way he took it. On the contrary, the proposal immediately struck him not only as seriously put forward, but a scheme of daring originality. No doubt the proposal was indeed original in the sense that repayment of a loan had never occurred to Trapnel as a measure to be considered.
‘Christ, what a marvellous idea. You mean I’d call at their place and hand back the pound?’
He pondered this extravagant – literally extravagant – possibility.
‘But what would Mr Widmerpool say if he happened to be there when I turned up? He’d think it a bit odd.’
‘Even if he did, he’d be unlikely to refuse a pound. A very pleasant surprise.’
Even then it never occurred to me that Trapnel would take this unheard-of step.
‘God, what a brilliant idea.’
We both laughed at such a flight of fancy. Trapnel’s condition of tension slightly relaxed. Sanity seemed now at least within sight. All the same, he continued to play with the idea of seeing Pamela again.
‘I’ll get on the job right away.’
There seemed more than a possibility that the pound, so improbably required for potential return to Widmerpool, might be requested then and there, whether or not it ever found its way back into Widmerpool’s pocket. The fact no such demand was made may have been as much due to Trapnel’s disinclination to borrow in an obviously unornamental manner, as his rule that application to another writer was reluctant. His attack on such occasions was apt to be swift, imperative, self-assured, never less than correct in avoiding a precursory period of uneasy anticipation, often unequivocally brilliant in being utterly unexpected until the last second; at the same time never intrusive, even in the eyes of those perfectly conversant with Trapnel’s habits. In the nature of things he met with rebuff as well as acquiescence – the parallel of seduction inevitably suggests itself – but there had been many successes. On this occasion probably Quiggin & Craggs, worsted in the current wrangle about advances, would pay up; anyway a pound. Paradoxical as that might seem, getting the money would be the least of Trapnel’s problems, if, in the spirit in which he had first accosted Widmerpool, he wanted to add a grotesque end to the story by settling the debt.
‘I can’t thank you enough.’
He fell into deep thought, adopting now a different, rather dramatically conscious style. Having derived all that was needed from our meeting, his mind was devoted to future plans. I told him circumstances prevented my staying longer at The Hero. Trapnel nodded absently. I left him, his glass of beer still three-quarters full, rested precariously on the copy of Sweetskin. On the way home the whole affair struck me as reminiscent of Rowland Gwatkin, my former Company Commander, revealing at Castlemallock Anti-Gas School his love for a barmaid. Gwatkin’s military ambition was narrow enough compared with Trapnel’s soaring aspirations about being a ‘complete man’ and more besides. At the amatory level there was no comparison. Nevertheless, something existed in common, some lack of fulfilment, as Pennistone would say, ‘in a higher unity’. Besides, if Trapnel’s medical category – not to mention a thousand ineligibilities of character – had not precluded him from recommendation for a commission, no doubt he too would have shared Gwatkin’s warlike dreams; a dazzling flying career added to the other personal targets.
After that night Trapnel disappeared.