his
hobbies
.’ Gronow’s Memoirs throw light
on this last comment, endorsing the caution displayed by the commemorative text
in fields other than military. After noting that Brummell paid Henry Lucius the
compliment of asking who made his driving-coat, Captain Gronow adds: ‘His
Lordship was not indifferent to the charms of the fair sex, but the exquisitely
beautiful Creole of sixteen, who was under his immediate protection when he
breathed his last in lodgings at Brighton, was believed by many people in
society to be his daughter.’
It looked as if Erridge, long
shut away from everyday life, would bring together an even smaller gathering of
mourners than his brother George. Two or three elderly neighbours were there as
a matter of form, a couple of Alfords from his mother’s side of the family, a
few tenants and people from the village. Most of this congregation stole in
almost guiltily, as if – like Bagshaw – they hoped to draw the least possible
attention to themselves, choosing pews at the back of the church in which they
sat hunched and shivering. There was a longish, rather nerve-racking wait,
emphasized by much coughing and clearing of throats. Then came manifestations
from the porch. At last something was happening. There was a noise, quite a
commotion. It sounded as if the coffin-bearers – just enough men of required
physique had been found available on the estate for that duty – were
encountering difficulties. The voices outside were raised in apparent argument,
if not altercation. From among these tones of dissension a female note was
perceptible; perhaps the protests of more than one woman. A pause of several minutes followed before whoever was arguing in the porch
entered the church. Then the steps of several persons sounded on the uncarpeted
flagstones. A general turning of heads took place to ascertain whether the
moment had come to stand up.
A party of six persons, four
men and two women, were advancing up the aisle in diamond formation. Widmerpool
was at the head. Carrying a soft black hat between his hands and in front of
his chest, he was peering over it as he proceeded slowly, reverently, rather suspiciously, up the unlighted interior of the
church. His appearance at this moment was wholly unexpected. George, in his
City days, had done business with Donners-Brebner when Widmerpool worked there,
but, so far as I knew, Widmerpool had no contacts with Erridge. There had been
no sign of Widmerpool at George’s funeral. At first sight, the rest of the
group seemed equally unlooked for, even figments of a dream, as faces became
recognizable in the gloom. A moment’s thought revealed their presence as
explicable enough, even if singular in present unison. To limit examination of
this cluster of figures to a mere glance over the shoulder was asking too much,
even to pretend any longer that the glance was only a requisite precaution for
keeping abreast of the progress of the service.
In fact most of the congregation settled down to a good stare.
A man in his sixties, tall,
haggard, bent, bald, walked behind Widmerpool, his untidy self-satisfied air
for some reason suggesting literary or journalistic affiliations. Beside him
was a woman about twenty years younger, short, wiry, her head tied up in a red
handkerchief, somehow calling to mind old-fashioned Soviet posters celebrating
the Five Year Plan. Too stocky and irritable in appearance, in fact, to figure
in pictorial propaganda, she had the right sort of aggressiveness. This was
Gypsy Jones. Oddly enough, the look of King Lear on the heath attached to Mr
Deacon, when, years before, I had seen him selling
War
Never Pays!
with Gypsy at Hyde Park Corner, was suddenly
recalled. However different his sexual tastes, Howard Craggs had developed much
of the same wandering demented appearance. It was almost as if association with Gypsy – they
had lived together years before the marriage reported by
hobbies
.’ Gronow’s Memoirs throw light
on this last comment, endorsing the caution displayed by the commemorative text
in fields other than military. After noting that Brummell paid Henry Lucius the
compliment of asking who made his driving-coat, Captain Gronow adds: ‘His
Lordship was not indifferent to the charms of the fair sex, but the exquisitely
beautiful Creole of sixteen, who was under his immediate protection when he
breathed his last in lodgings at Brighton, was believed by many people in
society to be his daughter.’
It looked as if Erridge, long
shut away from everyday life, would bring together an even smaller gathering of
mourners than his brother George. Two or three elderly neighbours were there as
a matter of form, a couple of Alfords from his mother’s side of the family, a
few tenants and people from the village. Most of this congregation stole in
almost guiltily, as if – like Bagshaw – they hoped to draw the least possible
attention to themselves, choosing pews at the back of the church in which they
sat hunched and shivering. There was a longish, rather nerve-racking wait,
emphasized by much coughing and clearing of throats. Then came manifestations
from the porch. At last something was happening. There was a noise, quite a
commotion. It sounded as if the coffin-bearers – just enough men of required
physique had been found available on the estate for that duty – were
encountering difficulties. The voices outside were raised in apparent argument,
if not altercation. From among these tones of dissension a female note was
perceptible; perhaps the protests of more than one woman. A pause of several minutes followed before whoever was arguing in the porch
entered the church. Then the steps of several persons sounded on the uncarpeted
flagstones. A general turning of heads took place to ascertain whether the
moment had come to stand up.
A party of six persons, four
men and two women, were advancing up the aisle in diamond formation. Widmerpool
was at the head. Carrying a soft black hat between his hands and in front of
his chest, he was peering over it as he proceeded slowly, reverently, rather suspiciously, up the unlighted interior of the
church. His appearance at this moment was wholly unexpected. George, in his
City days, had done business with Donners-Brebner when Widmerpool worked there,
but, so far as I knew, Widmerpool had no contacts with Erridge. There had been
no sign of Widmerpool at George’s funeral. At first sight, the rest of the
group seemed equally unlooked for, even figments of a dream, as faces became
recognizable in the gloom. A moment’s thought revealed their presence as
explicable enough, even if singular in present unison. To limit examination of
this cluster of figures to a mere glance over the shoulder was asking too much,
even to pretend any longer that the glance was only a requisite precaution for
keeping abreast of the progress of the service.
In fact most of the congregation settled down to a good stare.
A man in his sixties, tall,
haggard, bent, bald, walked behind Widmerpool, his untidy self-satisfied air
for some reason suggesting literary or journalistic affiliations. Beside him
was a woman about twenty years younger, short, wiry, her head tied up in a red
handkerchief, somehow calling to mind old-fashioned Soviet posters celebrating
the Five Year Plan. Too stocky and irritable in appearance, in fact, to figure
in pictorial propaganda, she had the right sort of aggressiveness. This was
Gypsy Jones. Oddly enough, the look of King Lear on the heath attached to Mr
Deacon, when, years before, I had seen him selling
War
Never Pays!
with Gypsy at Hyde Park Corner, was suddenly
recalled. However different his sexual tastes, Howard Craggs had developed much
of the same wandering demented appearance. It was almost as if association with Gypsy – they
had lived together years before the marriage reported by
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