I had been so struck by the conception of Widmerpool, disclosed almost as a new incarnation, shortly before on the road in front of the house, that I described, while the sausages cooked, the manner in which he had materialised in a series of jerks out of the shadows, bearing with him such tokens of despondency. Stringham listened, perforating each of the sausages with the scimitar. He said slowly: “Widmerpool suffers — or suffered — from contortions of the bottom. Dickinson told me that, in the days when the fags used to parade in the library at tea-time, they were all standing by the wall one evening when suddenly there were inarticulate cries. Owing to this infirmity of his, Widmerpool’s legs had unexpectedly given way beneath him.”
“Did he fall?”
“He clung to the moulding of the wall, his feet completely off the ground.”
“What next?”
“He was carted off.”
“I see. Have we any mustard?”
“Now I’ll tell you what I saw happen last summer,” Stringham went on, smiling to himself, and continuing to pierce the sausage. “Peter Templer and I had — for an unaccountable reason — been watching the tail-end of some cricket, and had stopped for a drink on the way back. We found Widmerpool standing by himself with a glass of lemonade in front of him. Some of the Eleven were talking and ragging at the far end of the counter and a skinned banana was thrown. This missed its target and hit Widmerpool. It was a bull’s-eye. The banana was over-ripe and it burst all over his face, knocking his spectacles sideways. His cap came off and he spilt most of the lemonade down the front of his clothes.”
“Characteristic of the Eleven’s throwing-in.”
“Budd himself was responsible. Widmerpool took out his handkerchief and began to clean up the mess. Budd came down the shop, still laughing, and said: “Sorry, Widmerpool. That banana wasn’t intended for you.” Widmerpool was obviously astonished to hear himself addressed by name, and so politely, by no less a person than the Captain of the Eleven — who could only have known what Widmerpool was called on account of the famous overcoat. Budd stood there smiling, showing a lot of those film-star teeth of his, and looking more than ever like the hero of an adventure story for boys.”
“That noble brow.”
“It doesn’t seem to help him to pile up runs,” said Stringham, “any more than do those fine cutting shots of his which photograph so well.”
He paused and shook his head, apparently in sadness at the thought of Budd’s deficiencies as a cricketer; and then continued: “Anyway, Budd — exuding charm at every pore — said: ‘I’m afraid I’ve made you in a bit of a mess, Widmerpool,’ and he stood there inspecting the havoc he had just caused. Do you know an absolutely slavish look came into Widmerpool’s face. ‘I don’t mind,’ he said, ‘I don’t mind at all, Budd. It doesn’t matter in the least.’”
Stringham’s dexterity at imitating the manner in which Widmerpool talked was remarkable. He stopped the narrative to put some bread into the fat in which the sausages were frying, and, when this was done, said: “It was as if Widmerpool had experienced some secret and awful pleasure. He had taken off his spectacles and was wiping them, screwing up his eyes, round which there were still traces of banana. He began to blow on the glasses and to rub them with a great show of good cheer. The effect was not at all what might have been hoped. In fact all this heartiness threw the most appalling gloom over the shop. Budd went back to his friends and finished whatever he was eating, or drinking, in deathly silence. The other members of the Eleven — or whoever they were — stopped laughing and began to mutter self-consciously to themselves about future fixtures. All the kick had gone out of them. I have never seen anything like it. Then Budd picked up his bat and pads and gloves and other belongings, and said: ‘I must be getting along now. I’ve got the Musical Society tonight,’ and there was the usual business of ‘Good night, Bill, good night—’”
“‘Good night, Guy… good night, Stephen… good night, John… good night, Ronnie… good night, George…’”
“Exactly,” said Stringham. “‘Good night, Eddie… good night, Simon… good night, Robin…’ and so on and so forth until they had all said good night to each other collectively and individually, and shuffled off together, arm-in-arm. Templer wanted to move because he had to go down-town before lock-up; so we left Widmerpool to himself. He had put on his spectacles again, and straightened his cap, and as we went through the door he was rubbing his gritty little knuckles together, still smiling at his great encounter with Budd.”
The account of this incident, illustrating another of Widmerpool’s aspects, did not at that moment make any deep impression on me. It was like a number of other anecdotes on the subject that circulated from time to time, differing only in the proficiency with which Stringham told his stories. My own renewed awareness of Widmerpool’s personality seemed to me closer and more real. Stringham, however, had not finished with the matter. He said: “As we walked past the fives courts, Templer remarked: ‘I’m glad that ass Widmerpool fielded a banana with his face.’ I asked why he did not like him — for after all there is little harm in the poor old boy — and it turned out that it was Widmerpool who got Akworth sacked.”
Stringham paused to allow this statement to sink in, while he arranged the sausages in a new pattern. I could not recall at all clearly what Akworth’s story had been: though I remembered that he had left the school under a cloud soon after my arrival there, and that various rumours regarding his misdoings had been current at the time.
“Akworth tried to set fire to his room, didn’t he? Or did he steal everything that was not nailed down?”
“He well may have done both,” said Stringham; “but he was principally shot out for sending a note to Peter Templer. Widmerpool intercepted the note and showed it to Le Bas. I must admit that it was news to me when Peter told me.”
“And that was why Peter had taken against Widmerpool?”
“Not only that but Widmerpool got hold of Peter and gave him a tremendous jaw on morals.”
“That must have been very good for him.”
“The jaw went on for so long, and Widmerpool came so close, that Templer said that he thought Widmerpool was going to start something himself.”
" Peter always thinks that about everybody.”
“I agree his conceit is invincible,” said Stringham, turning the sausages thoughtfully, as if contemplating Templer’s vanity.
“Did Widmerpool start anything?” I asked.
“It is a grim thought, isn’t it?”
“What is the answer?”
Stringham laughed. He said: “Peter made an absolutely typical Templer remark when I asked him the same question. He said: ‘No, thank God, but he moved about the room breathing heavily like my sister’s white pekinese. Did you see how pleased he was just now to be noticed by Budd? He looked as if he had just been kissed under the mistletoe. Bloody fool. He’s so wet you could shoot snipe off him.’ Can you imagine a more exquisitely Templer phrase? Anyhow, that is how poor old Widmerpool looks to our little room-mate.”
“But what is he like really?”
“If you are not sure what Widmerpool is like,” said Stringham, “you can’t do better than have another look at him. You will have an opportunity at prayers tonight. These sausages are done.”
He stopped speaking, and, picking up the paper-knife again, held it upright, raising his eyebrows, because at that moment there had been a kind of scuffling outside, followed by a knock on the door: in itself a surprising sound. A second later a wavering, infinitely sad voice from beyond said: “May I come in?”