She knocked loudly. We waited in the rain. After a minute the door was opened. I expected an elderly retainer of some sort, if the knocking were answered at all. Instead of that, a squat, broad-shouldered young man, with fair curly hair and a ruddy face, stood on the threshold. He wore a grey woollen sweater and chocolate-coloured trousers patched in many places. I thought he must be some new protégé of Erridge’s about whom one had not been warned. He seemed wholly prepared for us.
‘Come in, please, come in.’
Blanche appeared at that moment.
‘They’ll all be along soon, Siegfried. Will you put the kettle on? I’ll come and help in a second. I thought we left the door on the latch.’
‘Miss must have closed it.’
‘Mrs Skerrett did? Well, leave it unlatched now, so the others can get in without bringing you down to open it.’
‘Make her tea.’
‘You’ve made tea already, Siegfried?’
‘Of course.’
Grinning delightedly about something, apparently his own ingenuity, he bustled off.
‘Who the hell?’ asked Norah.
‘Siegfried? He’s one of the German prisoners working on the land. He loves doing jobs about the house so much, there seemed no point in trying to prevent him. It’s a great help, as there’s too much for Mrs Skerrett singlehanded, especially on a day like this.’
We passed along the passages leading to Erridge’s flat, the several rooms of which were situated up a flight of stairs some little way from the door opening on the courtyard. In the dozen years or so since I had last been at Thrubworth more lumber than ever had collected in these back parts of the house, much of it no doubt brought there after requisitioning. There was an overwhelming accumulation: furniture: pictures: rolled-up carpets: packing cases. Erridge’s father, an indefatigable wanderer over the face of the earth, had been responsible for much of this hoard, buying everything that took his fancy. There were ‘heads’ of big game: a suit of Japanese armour: two huge vases standing on plinths: an idol that looked Mexican or South American. Alfred Tolland identified some of these odds and ends as we made our way through them.
‘That oil painting on its side’s the First Jubilee. Very old-fashioned in style. Nobody paints like that now. Those big pots are supposed to be eighteenth-century Chinese. Walter Huntercombe came to shoot here once, and insisted they were nothing of the sort. Nineteenth-century copies, he said, and my brother had been swindled. Of course Warminster didn’t like that at all. Told Walter Huntercombe he was a conceited young ass. Goodness knows where the tricycle came from.’
Erridge’s flat, at the top of a flight of narrow stairs at the end of the corridor, in most respects a severely unadorned apartment, with the air of a temple consecrated to the beliefs of a fanatically austere sect, included a few pieces of furniture that suggested quite another sort of life. His disregard for luxury, anything like fastidious selection of objects, allowed shabby chairs and tables that had seen better days in other parts of the house. In the sitting-room someone — probably Frederica — had removed from the wall the pedigree-like chart, on which what appeared to be descending branches of an ancient lineage, had turned out an illustration of the principles of world economic distortion; now, in any case, hopelessly outdated in consequence of the war.
The books on the shelves, most of them published twelve or fifteen years before, gave the impression of having been bought during the same period of eighteen months or two years: Russia’s Productive System … The Indian Crisis… Anthology of Soviet Literature… Towards the Understanding of Karl Marx … From Peasant to Collective Farmer. There was also a complete set of Dickens in calf, a few standard poets, and — Erridge’s vice, furtive, if not absolutely secret — the bound volumes of Chums and the Boy’s Own Paper, the pages of which he would turn unsmiling for hours at times of worry or irritation. Erridge’s Russian enthusiasms had died down by the late thirties, but he always retained a muted affection for the Soviet system, even when disapproving. This fascination for an old love was quite different from Bagshaw’s. Bagshaw delighted in examining every inconsistency in the Party Line: who was liquidated: who in the ascendant: which heresies persecuted: which new orthodoxies imposed. Such mutations were painful to Erridge. He preferred not to be brought face to face with them. He was like a man who hoped to avoid the distress of hearing of the depravities into which an adored mistress has fallen.
In this room Erridge had written his letters, eaten his meals, transacted political business with Craggs and Quiggin, read, lounged, moped, probably seduced Mona, or vice versa, the same, or alternate, process possibly applying also to Gypsy Jones — or rather Lady Craggs. He used rarely to digress into other parts of the house. The ‘state apartments’ were kept covered in dust sheets. Once in a way he might have need to consult a book in the library, to which few volumes had been added since the days of the Chemist-Earl, who had brought together what was then regarded as an unexampled collection of works on his own subject. Once in a way a guest — latterly these had become increasingly rare — likely to be a new political contact of one kind or another, for example, an unusually persistent refugee, might be shown round. Erridge had never entirely conquered a taste for exhibiting his own belongings, even though rather ashamed of the practice, and of the belongings themselves.
The once wide assortment of journals on a large table set aside for this purpose had been severely reduced — probably by Frederica again — to a couple of daily newspapers, neither of a flavour her brother would have approved. Beyond this table stood a smaller one at which Erridge and his guests, if any, used to eat. The most comfortable piece of furniture in the room was a big sofa facing the fireplace, its back to the door. The room appeared to be empty when entered, the position of this sofa concealing at first the fact that someone was reclining at full length upon it. Walking across the room to gain a view of the park from the window, I saw the recumbent figure was Pamela’s. Propped against cushions, a cup of tea beside her on the floor, by the teacup an open book, its pages downward on the carpet, she was looking straight ahead of her, apparently once more lost in thought. I asked if she were feeling better. She turned her large pale eyes on me.
‘Why should I be feeling better?’
‘I don’t know. I just enquired as a formality. Don’t feel bound to answer.’
For once she laughed.
‘I mean obviously you weren’t well in church.’
‘Worse than the bloody corpse.’
‘Flu?’
‘God knows.’
‘A virus?’
‘It doesn’t much matter does it?’
‘Diagnosis might suggest a cure.’
‘Are Kenneth and those other sods on their way here?’
‘So I understand.’
‘The kraut got me some tea.’
‘That showed enterprise.’
‘He’s got enterprise all right. Why’s he at large?’
‘He’s working on the land apparently.’
‘His activities don’t seem particularly agricultural.’
‘He winkled himself into the house somehow.’
‘He knows his way about all right. He was bloody fresh. Who’s that awful woman we travelled down with called Lady Craggs?’
The sudden appearance beside us of Alfred Tolland spared complicated exposition of Gypsy’s origins. In any case the question had expressed an opinion rather than request for information. Alfred Tolland gazed down at Pamela. He seemed to be absolutely fascinated by her beauty.