Temporary Kings - Anthony Powell [93]
Farebrother smiled his charming smile. He settled back into his own chair. Then he looked at his watch.
‘Good gracious me, I must be getting home. Geraldine and I are not at all late birds.’
‘She is well, I hope.’
Farebrother snapped his fingers in the air to give some idea of his wife’s overflowing health and spirits. He was in his gayest mood. The Parliamentary Question had made his day. It provided something far better, in a different class, from the occasion when Widmerpool’s career had been threatened by nothing worse than the disapproval of General Liddament.
‘We’ve found a nice little flat, not too expensive, well appointed as you could wish. Geraldine has a wonderful instinct for the right sort of economies, so we don’t have to be thinking about the pennies all the time now. In fact we find we can run a country cottage too. Roses are my interest these days. I don’t mind telling you, Nicholas, I’m rather proud of my roses. You and your wife must look us up, if you’re ever passing. We can’t always manage luncheon. Tea certainly. Well, it’s been a most enjoyable evening. I heard Ivo Deanery was to be present as a guest – can’t remember if you know him, he’s a major-general now – and we settled some useful matters. Don’t forget that invitation – preferably when the roses are in bloom.’
He repeated the address of the cottage, waved one of his genial goodbyes, was gone. The following day, the Parliamentary Question was brought up again at another party, in very different circumstances. This occasion owed something to the diplomatic detente of which Bagshaw had spoken. The so-called ‘thaw’ had been reflected, in a minor manner, by the tour through some of the European capitals of a well-known Russian author, bestseller in his own country. To give a few of our own literary world opportunity to meet a confrere not in general encountered in the West, a luncheon, to which I found myself invited, was given at the Soviet Embassy.
At this gathering, a foreseen profusion of literary figures had been perceptibly infused with a sprinkling of MPs, other notabilities, official and semi-official, either with a view to imparting additional robustness of texture to the party, or, more probably, simply to work off individuals, whose names were listed for entertainment, sooner or later, on the ambassadorial roster. Including our hosts of the Embassy staff, a large number of whom were present, about forty or fifty persons were drinking vodka, sampling zakuski, sitting in small groups scattered about a long, austerely decorated drawing-room. There was a faint atmosphere of constraint, as if someone or something essential to the party had not yet been manifested, but that would happen in a moment, when, from then on, all would be well, much easier, more relaxed.
The invitation had not included wives of writers asked as guests, but both the Quiggins were there, Quiggin’s status as a publisher no doubt judged of sufficient eminence to be considered out of context, permitting accompaniment of his novelist consort. Alaric Kydd – to use a favourite phrase of Uncle Giles’s – was behaving as if he owned the place. Other writers included L. O. Salvidge, Bernard Shernmaker, Quentin Shuckerly, a lot more, men greatly predominating in numbers over women. Mark Members was absent, known to be ill; Len Pugsley, not important enough, or considered too closely ‘committed’ to be asked to a purely social party. Evadne Clapham had also been overlooked, more probably barred from acceptance by a too relentless social programme of her own. Dr Brightman, sprucely dressed in a fur cap and high fur collar, revealing a rather chilly manner to Ada Leintwardine, passed her with a smile, moving on to where L. O. Salvidge and I were chatting to one of the secretaries of embassy.
‘I hope you don’t think my