Bagshaw – brought
about this mien.
Behind these two walked another
couple unforeseen as proceeding side by side up the aisle of a church. One of
these was J. G. Quiggin, certainly an old friend of Erridge’s, in spite of many
ups and downs. It was also natural enough that he should have travelled here
with Craggs, co-director of the new publishing firm. Sillery’s description of
Quiggin’s current Partisan-style dress was borne out by the para-military
overtones of khaki shirt, laced ankle boots, belted black leather overcoat. To
be fair, the last dated back at least to the days when Quiggin was St John
Clarke’s secretary. Beside Quiggin, contrasted in a totally achieved funereal
correctness, smoothing his grey moustache in unmistakable agonies of
embarrassment – either at arriving at the church so late, or presenting himself
on such an occasion in the company of mourners so unconformist in dress – walked
the Tollands’ Uncle Alfred.
However, the last figure in the
cortege made the rest seem humdrum enough. At the rear of this wedge-shaped
phalanx, a long way behind the others, moving at a stroll that suggested she
was out by herself on a long lonely country walk, her thoughts far away in her
own melancholy daydreams, walked, almost glided, Widmerpool’s wife. Her eyes
were fixed on the ground as she advanced slowly, with extraordinary grace, up
the aisle. As centre of attention she put the rest of the procession utterly in
the shade. That was not entirely due to her slim figure and pent-up sullen
beauty. Another beautiful girl could have created no more than the impression
that she was a beautiful girl. It was not easy to say what marked out Pamela
Widmerpool as something more than that. Perhaps her absolute self-confidence,
her manner of expressing without words that to be present at all was a
condescension; to have allowed herself to be one of that particular party, an
accepted abasement of the most degrading sort. Above all, she seemed an
appropriate attendant on Death. This was not an account of her clothes. They
were far from sombre. They looked – so Isobel remarked afterwards – as if
bought for a cold day’s racing. This closeness to Death was carried within
herself. Even in his chastened state, Roddy Cutts could not withhold an audible
drawing in of breath.
When they were halfway up the
aisle, level with a fairly wide area of unoccupied seats, Widmerpool turned
sharply, grinding his heel on the stone in a drill-like motion, a man
intentionally emphasizing status as military veteran. His back to the altar, he
barred the way, almost as if about to stage an anti-liturgical, even
anti-clerical demonstration. However, instead of creating any such untoward
disturbance, he shot out the hand of a policeman directing traffic, to indicate
where each was to sit of the group apparently under his command.
This authority was by no means
unquestioned. Discussion immediately arose among the others, no doubt similar
in bearing to whatever disagreements had taken place in the porch. Jeavons,
from where he was sitting up at the front of the church, beckoned vehemently to
Alfred Tolland in an effort to show where a place could be found among the
family. The two of them knew each other not only as relations, but also as
fellow air-raid wardens, duties during the course of which an inarticulate
friendship may have been obscurely cemented. However, Alfred Tolland was at
that moment too dazed by the journey, or oppressed by other circumstances in
which he found himself, to be capable of reaching a goal so far afield. He
stood there patiently awaiting Widmerpool’s instructions, scarcely noticing
Jeavons’s arms swinging up and down at semaphore angles.
These directions of Widmerpool’s
had not yet been fully implemented, when Pamela, pushing past the others, precipitately
entered the pew her husband was allotting to Alfred Tolland. She placed herself
at the far end,
about this mien.
Behind these two walked another
couple unforeseen as proceeding side by side up the aisle of a church. One of
these was J. G. Quiggin, certainly an old friend of Erridge’s, in spite of many
ups and downs. It was also natural enough that he should have travelled here
with Craggs, co-director of the new publishing firm. Sillery’s description of
Quiggin’s current Partisan-style dress was borne out by the para-military
overtones of khaki shirt, laced ankle boots, belted black leather overcoat. To
be fair, the last dated back at least to the days when Quiggin was St John
Clarke’s secretary. Beside Quiggin, contrasted in a totally achieved funereal
correctness, smoothing his grey moustache in unmistakable agonies of
embarrassment – either at arriving at the church so late, or presenting himself
on such an occasion in the company of mourners so unconformist in dress – walked
the Tollands’ Uncle Alfred.
However, the last figure in the
cortege made the rest seem humdrum enough. At the rear of this wedge-shaped
phalanx, a long way behind the others, moving at a stroll that suggested she
was out by herself on a long lonely country walk, her thoughts far away in her
own melancholy daydreams, walked, almost glided, Widmerpool’s wife. Her eyes
were fixed on the ground as she advanced slowly, with extraordinary grace, up
the aisle. As centre of attention she put the rest of the procession utterly in
the shade. That was not entirely due to her slim figure and pent-up sullen
beauty. Another beautiful girl could have created no more than the impression
that she was a beautiful girl. It was not easy to say what marked out Pamela
Widmerpool as something more than that. Perhaps her absolute self-confidence,
her manner of expressing without words that to be present at all was a
condescension; to have allowed herself to be one of that particular party, an
accepted abasement of the most degrading sort. Above all, she seemed an
appropriate attendant on Death. This was not an account of her clothes. They
were far from sombre. They looked – so Isobel remarked afterwards – as if
bought for a cold day’s racing. This closeness to Death was carried within
herself. Even in his chastened state, Roddy Cutts could not withhold an audible
drawing in of breath.
When they were halfway up the
aisle, level with a fairly wide area of unoccupied seats, Widmerpool turned
sharply, grinding his heel on the stone in a drill-like motion, a man
intentionally emphasizing status as military veteran. His back to the altar, he
barred the way, almost as if about to stage an anti-liturgical, even
anti-clerical demonstration. However, instead of creating any such untoward
disturbance, he shot out the hand of a policeman directing traffic, to indicate
where each was to sit of the group apparently under his command.
This authority was by no means
unquestioned. Discussion immediately arose among the others, no doubt similar
in bearing to whatever disagreements had taken place in the porch. Jeavons,
from where he was sitting up at the front of the church, beckoned vehemently to
Alfred Tolland in an effort to show where a place could be found among the
family. The two of them knew each other not only as relations, but also as
fellow air-raid wardens, duties during the course of which an inarticulate
friendship may have been obscurely cemented. However, Alfred Tolland was at
that moment too dazed by the journey, or oppressed by other circumstances in
which he found himself, to be capable of reaching a goal so far afield. He
stood there patiently awaiting Widmerpool’s instructions, scarcely noticing
Jeavons’s arms swinging up and down at semaphore angles.
These directions of Widmerpool’s
had not yet been fully implemented, when Pamela, pushing past the others, precipitately
entered the pew her husband was allotting to Alfred Tolland. She placed herself
at the far end,
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