A Question of Upbringing - Anthony Powell [5]
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?”
Obviously this was no boy: the approach sounded unlike a master’s. The hinge creaked, and, as the door began to open, a face, deprecatory and enquiring, peered through the narrow space released between the door and the wall. There was an impression of a slight moustache, grey or very fair, and a well-worn, rather sporting tweed suit. I realised all at once, not without apprehension, that my Uncle Giles was attempting to enter the room.
I had not seen my uncle since the end of the war, when he had been wearing some sort of uniform, though not one of an easily recognisable service. This sudden appearance in Stringham’s room was an unprecedented incursion: the first time that he had found his way here. He delayed entry for a brief period, pressing the edge of the door against his head, the other side of which touched the wall: rigid, as if imprisoned in a cruel trap specially designed to catch him and his like: some ingenious snare, savage in mechanism, though at the same time calculated to preserve from injury the skin of such rare creatures. Uncle Giles’s skin was, in point of fact, not easily injured, though experience of years had made him cautious of assuming as a matter of course that his company would be welcome anywhere – anywhere, at least, where other members of his family might be gathered together. At first, therefore, he did not venture to advance farther into the room, meekly conscious that his unexpected arrival might, not unreasonably, be regarded by the occupants as creating a pivot for potential embarrassment.
“I was just passing through on the way to Reading,” he said. “Thought I might look you up.”
H