‘I’m glad to come on you both. First of all, my dear Cutts, I wanted to approach you regarding a little non-party project I have on hand — no, no, not the Roosevelt statue — it is connected with an Eastern European cultural organization in which I am interested. However, before we come to public concerns, there are things to be settled about the late Lord Warminster’s letter of instructions. They are rather complicated — personal rather than legal bearings, though the Law comes in — so that to explain some of the points to you might save a lot of correspondence in the future. You could then pass on the information by word of mouth to your appropriate relatives, decisions thereby reached in a shorter time.’
Roddy showed attention to the phrase ‘non-party project’, but, with the professional politician’s immediate instinct for executing a disengaging movement from responsibilities that promised only unrewarding exertion, he at once began to deny all liability for sorting out the problems of Erridge’s bequests.
‘Nicholas and I have no status in the matter whatsoever, my dear Widmerpool, you must address yourself to Hugo or Frederica. They are the people. Either Hugo or Frederica will put you right in a trice.’
Widmerpool must have been prepared for that answer, actually expecting it, because he smiled at the ease with which such objections could be overruled by one of his long experience.
‘Of course, of course. I perfectly appreciate that aspect, Cutts, that you and Nicholas are without authority in the matter. You are correct to stress the fact. The point I put forward is that the normal course of action would result in a vast deal of letter-writing between Messrs Turnbull, Welford & Puckering, Messrs Quiggin & Craggs, Messrs Goodness-knows-who-else. I propose to cut across that. I had quite enough of shuffling the bumf round when I was in the army. As a result I’ve developed a positive mania these days against pushing paper. Man-to-man. That’s the way. Cut corners. I fear pomposity is not one of my failings. I can’t put up with pompous people, and have often been in trouble on that very account.’
Roddy was determined not to be outdone in detestation of pomposity and superfluous formality. For a moment the two MPs were in sharp competition as to whose passion for directness and simplicity was the more heartfelt, at least could be the more forcibly expressed. At the end of this contest Widmerpool carried his point.
‘Therefore I suggest you forget the official executors for the moment, and accompany me back to my flat for the space of half an hour, where we can deal with the Warminster file, also discuss the small non-party committee I propose to form. No, no, Cutts, I brook no refusal. You can both be of inestimable help in confirming the right line is being taken regarding post-mortem wishes, I mean a line acceptable to the family. As a matter of fact you may both be interested to learn more of your late brother-in-law’s system of opinion, his intellectual quirks, if I may use the phrase.’
Curiosity on that last point settled the matter. Roddy enjoyed nothing better than having a finger in any pie that happened to be cooking. Here were at least two. It was agreed that we should do as Widmerpool wished.
‘Come along then. It’s just round the corner. Only a step. We may as well walk — especially as there are likely to be no taxis.’
Along the first stretch of Victoria Street, dimly lighted and slippery, Roddy and Widmerpool discussed 2½% Treasury Stock Redeemable after 1975; by the time we reached the flats, they had embarked on the topic of whether or not, as Governor of the Bank of England, Montagu Norman had adequately controlled the ‘acceptance houses’. The entrance, rather imposing, was a high archway flanked by gates. This led into a small courtyard, on the far side of which stood several associated masses of heavy Edwardian building. It was a cheerless spot. I asked if Short still lived here.
‘You know Leonard Short? He’s just below us. Very convenient it should be so. He’s a good little fellow, Short. My Minister has a high opinion of him.’
‘Who is your Minister?’
Even Roddy was rather appalled by this ignorance, hastening to explain that Widmerpool had been appointed not long before Personal Private Secretary to a member of the Cabinet; the one, in fact, who had attended the Quiggin & Craggs party, the Minister responsible for the branch of the civil service to which Short belonged. Widmerpool himself showed no resentment at this lapse, merely laughing heartily, and enlarging on his own duties.
‘As PPS one’s expected to take an intelligent interest in the ministry concerned. The presence there of Leonard Short oils the wheels for me. We’re quite an intellectual crowd here. I expect you’ve heard of Clapham, the publisher, who lives in another of the flats. You may even know him. He is a good type of the old-fashioned publishing man. I find his opinions worthy of attention now I have a stake in that business myself. There’s nothing flashy about Clapham, neither intellectually nor socially. He was speaking to me about St John Clarke the other night, whom he knew well, and, so he tells me, still enjoys a very respectable sale.’
The hall was in darkness. There was a lift, but Widmerpool guided us past it.
‘I must remind you electricity is now in short supply — shedding the load, as we have learnt to call it. The Government has the matter well in hand, but our lift here, an electric one, is for the moment out of action. You will not mind the stairs. Only a few flights. A surprisingly short way in the light of the excellent view we enjoy on a clear day. Pam is always urging a move. We have decided in principle to do so, inspected a great deal of alternative accommodation, but there is convenience in proximity to the House. Besides, I’m used to the flat, with its special characteristics, some good, some less admirable. For the time being, therefore, it seems best to remain where we are. That’s what I’m always telling Pam.’
By this time we had accomplished a couple of flights.
‘How is Mrs Widmerpool?’ asked Roddy. ‘I remember she was feeling unwell at the funeral.’
‘My wife’s health was not good a year ago. It has improved. I can state that with confidence. In fact during the last month I have never known her better — well, one can say in better spirits. She is a person rather subject to moods. She changes from one moment to the next.’
Roddy, probably thinking of the cipherine nodded heartily. Widmerpool took a key from his pocket. He paused before the door. Talk about Pamela had unsettled him.
‘I don’t expect Pam will have gone to bed yet. She does sometimes turn in early, especially if she has a headache, or it’s been an exhausting day for her. At other times she sits up quite late, indeed long after I’ve retired to rest myself. We shall see.’
He sounded rather nervous about what the possibilities might be. The small hall was at once reminiscent of the flat — only a short way from here — where Widmerpool had formerly lived with his mother. I asked after her. He did not seem over pleased by the enquiry.
‘My mother is still living with relations in the Lowlands. There’s been some talk lately of her finding a place of her own. I have not seen her recently. She is, of course, not so young as she was. We still have our old jokes about Uncle Joe in our letters, but in certain other aspects she finds it hard to realize things have changed.’
‘Uncle Joe?’
‘My mother has always been a passionate admirer of Marshal Stalin, a great man, whatever people may say. We had jokes about if he were to become a widower. At the same time, she would probably have preferred me to remain single myself. She is immensely gratified to have a son in the House of Commons — always her ambition to be mother of an MP — but she is inclined to regard a wife as handicap to a career.’