Temporary Kings (28 page)

By
then Farebrother’s senior officer had managed to get away, with or without
buying the shares remained unknown. Farebrother himself was making preparations
to leave the party, giving a final look round the room to make sure he had
missed no one worthy of a few minutes’ conversation. I went across to him. His
friendliness was positively enormous. The powerful extrusion of Farebrother
charm remained altogether undiminished by age. He was specially pleased about
something, possibly success in whatever he had recommended his neighbour.

‘There’s
an empty stretch of table over there, Nicholas. Let’s sit at it. I don’t feel
like any more to drink, do you? Got to cut down on the pleasures of life
nowadays. Something I want to ask you. What do you think of the latest
development in the Widmerpool case?’

‘I
didn’t know there was a case.’

‘You
haven’t read the evening paper? The Question in the House? I think he’s for it
now.’

Farebrother
was amazed anyone should have missed such a pleasure as that night’s evening
paper. His handsome greyhound profile, additionally distinguished with
increased age, lighted up while he supplied a commentary. He made clear that,
in his opinion, this news was going to offer no minor revenge. The
Parliamentary Question had been on the subject of Widmerpool’s commercial
activities in Eastern Europe. To outward appearance worded in terms not at all
sensational, they were, to an initiate in that form of attack, ominous in the
extreme. The country concerned was the one where Widmerpool had been named in
connexion with the State trial. Farebrother said he understood there had also been
a denunciation on the air in one of their official broadcasts.

‘The
implications are of the most damaging order.’

‘What’s
he really been up to?*

Farebrother,
usually in the habit of cloaking his own imputations or reprisals in mild,
vaguely expressed language, now made no bones about the disaster threatening
his old enemy. He seemed to know more than was easily to be drawn from the mere
wording of the Question, however much that were open to sophisticated
interpretation. His war service (like that of Odo Stevens) had given
Farebrother contacts from which such enlightenment might be derived. Someone in
a position to ‘know’ could have dropped a hint. That was certainly the
impression Farebrother himself, truly or not, hoped to give.

‘Some
underling on their side was accepting bribes, and has now defected, so I’ve
heard said. That had been done with Widmerpool’s connivance. He had been giving
encouragement, too, by passing across little bits of information himself from
time to time. How valuable that information was remains to be seen. In any
case, I’m just putting two and two together. Most of it guesswork.’

‘Will
it come to arrest, a trial?’

‘That
depends what the employee reveals – if that story is true.’

‘In
any case that would be
in camera
?’

‘You
can’t say. Some evidence probably.’

‘The
Question is just a ranging shot?’

‘Not
far from the target. Give him a jolt. I can tell you something else too.’

Farebrother
looked about to make sure no one was sitting near us, who might overhear what
he was going to say. Most of the diners were now congregated round the bar.
Many had left, or were leaving. He put his arm over the back of my chair.

‘I’ve
just retired from one of the smaller merchant banks. We deal with European and
overseas commercial activities and investments. Fascinating work.’

I
toyed with the fantasy that Trapnel’s former girl, Tessa, was going to abut on
to what Farebrother had to say, then remembered Gwinnett had described her as
working for the chairman of a large, rather than small, merchant bank.

‘I
don’t mind telling you some of the Eastern European deals of our friend might
be of interest from the taxation angle, if figures had to be produced in a
court of law. Nothing to do with treasonable dealings, just bank statements. I
make no accusations. Just of interest, I suggest.’

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 clothes too
voulu
?’

The
secretary nodded, and laughed. He was a tall fair young man, of surface
indistinguishable from any other member of London’s diplomatic corps of similar
age and seniority. We discussed signs of spring in the London parks. The young
secretary moved away for a moment to receive incoming guests. Salvidge caught
my eye. His silent lips formed the words ‘KGB’. The secretary returned before
any sort of secretly uttered return comment was possible. Dr Brightman shared
none of Salvidge’s trepidation about our surroundings.

‘Have
you seen anything of Russell Gwinnett? I’ve quite lost touch with him. He was
staying at one moment with some people called Bagshaw. He wrote to me from
their house. Rather a depressed letter. I hear he left after some sort of
trouble. The most extraordinary story I was told.’

Salvidge
must have thought this subject dangerously controversial, perhaps because
Gwinnett was American. He showed disquiet. At the same time he did not want to
appear excluded from the circles of which Dr Brightman spoke.

‘Gwinnett
came to see me. We had a talk. A nice young man. Not very exciting. I was not
sure he was up to tackling so picturesque a figure as Trapnel.’

Salvidge
turned to the secretary to explain what he was talking about.

‘This
is a young writer called Gwinnett – G-W-I-N-N-E-T-T – who is writing a book
about a novelist, now dead, called Trapnel – T-R-A-P-N-E-L – a good writer. One
of our best.’

‘Yes?’

Salvidge
must have thought this the moment to change the subject, probably what he had
been leading up to.

‘Dr
Brightman here, you know, is writing a book about Boethius – B-O-E-no diphthong
– ’

The
secretary nodded politely, but cut Salvidge off.

‘See,
we must go into luncheon.’

We
were firmly shepherded into the dining-room. So far as Salvidge was concerned,
not a moment too soon. Here again was a faint sense of austerity, an impression
of off-white walls sparsely decorated with pictures, landscapes light in tone –
the steppe – birch trees – sunset on snow – nothing in the least reminiscent of
Tokenhouse and his school. My place at table was between another secretary,
possibly counsellor, somewhat older than the first, equally trimmed to outward
diplomatic convention; on the other side, a personage not encountered for
years, Bill Truscott.

Tipped,
as a young man, for at least a place in the Cabinet, even if by some mischance
he failed to become Prime Minister, Truscott, after a promising start at
Donners-Brebner, had come to rest in some governmental corporation, possibly
the Coal Board. The Russian engaged with his other neighbour when I sat down,
Truscott and I went through the process of recalling where we had last met. He
still carried some of his old, rather distinguished style, a touch, too, of the
old underlying toughness that had made people think he would forge ahead. Fresh
from observing Farebrother as a professional charmer, one could not help
feeling Truscott, at least ten years younger, had worn worse. His manner dated.
If he had become the ‘great man’ predicted, no doubt it would have been perfectly
serviceable. As he was, the demeanour was a trifle laboured, ponderous.

I
thought of my undergraduate days, when Truscott had been not merely an
imposing, but positively frightening figure, setting up, by his flow of talk,
standards of sophistication never to be contemplated as attainable. This
brilliance of exterior, again, had been of quite a different sort from Glober’s.
Even in those days, Truscott had been far less lively. There could be no great
difference in age, even if the advantage was slightly on Truscott’s side.
Unlike Glober, he had remained a bachelor. I spoke of Sillery’s ninetieth
birthday party. It appeared Truscott had not been invited. He showed a little
bitterness about that. It was true he had been one of the staunchest vassals of
Sillery’s court. He should not have been forgotten. He asked if I often found
myself in this embassy.

‘My
first visit – and you?’

‘I’m
asked from time to time. I’m afraid I’m not at all conversant with the current
work of the guest of honour. I never read novels nowadays …’

Possibly
thinking that admission, for more than one reason, suggested a too headlong
falling-off from what had once been an all embracing intellectual coverage,
Truscott corrected himself. He gave one of his winning smiles.

‘That
is, you understand, I don’t find much time, with so many things going on – as
we all have – of course I fully intend … and naturally...’

I
told him what I had heard about Stringham, once his fellow secretary. Truscott
showed interest.

‘Very
sad. Poor Charles. He was a pleasant companion. One of the nicer people round
Donners.’

Thought
of his days working for Sir Magnus must have brought Widmerpool to mind; more
specifically, as agent of his own sacking from Donners-Brebner. He lowered his
voice.

‘Hardly
a subject for discussion here, but one cannot help being a little intrigued by
the embarrassments, at the moment, of another protégé of Sir Magnus of that
period.’

‘What’s
going to happen to him?’

By
that time, having read the morning paper, I saw what Farebrother meant by
speaking of Widmerpool’s position as insecure. Truscott certainly thought the
same. He coughed, in a semi-official manner.

‘I
should expect various enquiries of a – well, not exactly public nature – not
immediately public, I mean – likely to be set on foot.’

‘You
think it pretty serious?’

‘That
would certainly be …’

‘Might
come to a trial?’

‘One
cannot tell. I — ’

Massive
middle-aged waitresses had been bustling about the room, snapping out a sharp
commentary to each other in their own language, as they clattered with the
plates. Now, one of them interposed a large dish of fish between Truscott and
myself, severing our connexion. At the same moment, my Russian neighbour began
a conversation. Soon, by natural processes, we were discussing Russian writers.
After Lermontov and Pushkin, Gogol and Gontcharov, Tchekov and Tolstoy,
Dostoevsky’s name cropped up. Pennistone – who would never allow intellectual
standards to be lowered, just because he was in the army, a war on – had
complained that, when he spoke of Dostoevsky’s Grand Inquisitor to General
Lebedev, the Soviet military attaché (unconvincing as a regular soldier) had
recommended Nekrasov’s truer picture of Russian life. In short, Dostoevsky,
impossible to ignore, equally impossible to assimilate into Communist life, a
monolithic embarrassment to his countrymen, was a tendentious subject for the
present luncheon party, however unequivocally political the tradition of the
Russian novel. Remembering Trapnel once speculated on the meaning of the
surname ‘Karamazov’, I put the question.