Books Do Furnish a Room (15 page)

‘I always wondered what your
initial stood for?’

Trapnel was pleased by the
question.

‘I was christened Francis
Xavier. Watching an old western starring Francis X. Bushman in a cowboy part,
it struck me we’d both been called after the same saint, and, if he could
suppress the second name, I could the first.’

‘You might do a novel about
being a lapsed Catholic,’ said Bagshaw. ‘It’s worth considering. I know JG
would like you to tackle something more
engagé
next
time. When I think of the things I’d write about if I had your talent. I did
write a novel once. Nobody would publish it. They said it was libellous.’

‘People like JG are always
giving good advice about one’s books,’ said Trapnel. ‘In fact I hardly know
anyone who doesn’t. “If only I could write like you, etc. etc.” They usually
outline some utterly banal human situation, or moral issue, ventilated every
other day on the Woman’s Page.’

‘Don’t breathe a word against
the Woman’s Page, Trappy. Many a time I’ve proffered advice on it myself under
a female pseudonym.’

‘Still, there’s a difference
between a novel and a newspaper article. At least there ought to be. A novelist
writes what he is. That’s equally true of mediaeval romances or journeys to the
moon. If he put down on paper the considerations usually suggested, he wouldn’t
be a novelist – or rather he’d be one of the fifty-thousand tenth-rate ones who
crawl the literary scene.’

Trapnel had suddenly become
quite excited. This business of being a ‘writer’ – that is, the status, moral
and actual, of a writer – was a matter on which he was inordinately keen. This
was one of the facets of Trapnel to emerge later. His outburst gave an early
premonition.

‘Reviewers like political or
moral problems,’ said Bagshaw. ‘Something they can get their teeth into. You
can’t blame them. Being committed’s all the go now. I was myself until a few
years ago, and still enjoy reading about it.’

Trapnel was not at all
appeased. In fact he became more heated than ever, striking his stick on the
floor.

‘How one envies the rich
quality of a reviewer’s life. All the things to which those Fleet Street
Jesuses feel superior. Their universal knowledge, exquisite taste, idyllic
loves, happy married life, optimism, scholarship, knowledge of the true meaning
of life, freedom from sexual temptation, simplicity of heart, sympathy with the
masses, compassion for the unfortunate, generosity – particularly the last, in
welcoming with open arms every phoney who appears on the horizon. It’s not
surprising that in the eyes of most reviewers a mere writer’s experiences seem
so often trivial, sordid, lacking in meaning.’

Trapnel was thoroughly worked
up. It was an odd spectacle. Bagshaw spoke soothingly.

‘I know some of the critics are
pretty awful, Trappy, but Nicholas wanted to talk to you about reviewing an
occasional book yourself for
Fission
. If
you agree to do so, you’ll at least have the opportunity of showing how it
ought to be done.’

Trapnel saw that he had been
caught on the wrong foot, and took this very well, laughing loudly. He may in
any case have decided some apology was required for all this vehemence. All the
earlier tension disappeared at once.

‘For Christ’s sake don’t let’s
discuss reviews and reviewers. They’re the most boring subject on earth. I
expect I’ll be writing just the same sort of crap myself after a week or two.
It’s only they get me down sometimes. Look, I brought a short story with me.
Could you let me know about it tomorrow, if I call you up, or send somebody
along?’

Trapnel’s personality began to
take clearer shape after another round of drinks. He was a talker of quite
unusual persistence. Bagshaw, notoriously able to hold his own in that field,
failed miserably when once or twice he attempted to shout Trapnel down. Even
so, the absolutely unstemmable quality of the Trapnel monologue, the
impossibility of persuading him, as night wore on, to stop talking and go home,
was a menace still to be learnt. He gave a few rather cursory imitations of his
favourite film stars, was delighted to hear I had only a few days before met a
man who resembled Valentino. Trapnel’s mimicry was quite different from Dicky
Umfraville’s – he belonged, of course, to a younger generation – but showed the
same tendency towards stylization of delivery. It turned out in due course that
Trapnel impersonations of Boris Karloff were to be taken as a signal that a
late evening must be brought remorselessly to a close.

A favourite myth of Trapnel’s,
worth recording at this early stage because it illustrated his basic view of
himself, was how a down-at-heel appearance had at one time or another excited
disdain in an outer office, restaurant or bar, this attitude changing to
respect when he turned out to be a ‘writer’. It might well be thought that most
people, if they considered a man unreasonably dirty or otherwise objectionable,
would regard the culpability aggravated rather than absolved by the fact that
he had published a book, but possibly some such incident had really taken place
in Trapnel’s experience, simply because private fantasies so often seem to come
into being at their owner’s behest. This particular notion – that respect
should be accorded to a man of letters – again suggested foreign rather than
home affiliations.

When I left the pub, where it
looked as if Bagshaw contemplated spending the evening, Trapnel stood up rather
formally and extended his hand. I asked if he had a telephone number. He at
once brushed aside any question of the onus of getting in touch again being
allowed to rest with myself, explaining why that should be so.

‘People can’t very well reach
me. I’m always moving about. I hate staying in the same place for long. It has
a damaging effect on work. I’ll ring you up or send a note. I rather enjoy the
old-fashioned method of missive by hand of bearer.’

That sounded another piece of
pure fantasy, but increased familiarity with Trapnel, and the way he conducted
his life, modified this view. He really did send notes; the habit by no means
one of his oddest. That became clear during the next few months, when we met
quite often, while preparations went forward for the publication of the first
number of
Fission
, which was due at the end of
the summer or beginning of autumn. Usually we had a drink together in one of
his favourite pubs – as with Bagshaw, these were elaborately graded – and once
he dined with us at home, staying till three in the morning, talking about
himself, his girls and his writing. That was the first occasion when the Boris
Karloff imitation went on record as indication that the best of the evening was
over, the curtain should fall.

A passionate interest in
writing, or merely his taste for discussing it, set Trapnel aside from many if
not most authors, on the whole unwilling to risk disclosure of trade secrets,
or regarding such talk as desecration of sacred mysteries. Trapnel’s attitude
was nearer that of a businessman or scientist, never tired of discussing his
job from a professional angle. That inevitably included difficulties with
editors and publishers. Many writers find such relationships delicate, even
aggravating. Trapnel was particularly prone to discord in that field. He had,
for example, managed to get himself caught up in a legal tangle with the
publication of a
conte
, before the appearance of the
Camel
. This
long short story, to be published on its own by some small press, had not yet
seen light owing to a contractual row. The story was left, as it were, in
baulk; unproductive, unproduced, unread. There had apparently been trouble
enough for Quiggin & Craggs to take over the rights of the
Camel
.

‘The next thing’s the volume of
short stories,’ said Trapnel. ‘Then the novel I’m already working on. That’s
really where my hopes are based. It’s going to be bigger stuff than the
Camel
. The question is whether Quiggin & Craggs have the sales organization to
handle it properly.’

The question was more
substantially how well Quiggin & Craggs would handle Trapnel himself. That
looked like a tricky problem. Their premises were in Bloomsbury according to
Bagshaw, reduced in price on account of bomb damage. An architecturally
undistinguished exterior bore out that possibility. The building, reconditioned
sufficiently for business to be carried on there, though not on a lavish scale,
had housed small publishers for years, changing hands as successive firms went
bankrupt or were absorbed by
larger ones. There was no waiting room. Once through the door, you were
confronted with the bare statement of the sales counter; beyond it the packing
department, a grim den looking out on to a narrow yard. On the far side of this
yard a kind of outhouse enclosed
Fission
’s editorial staff, that is to say Bagshaw and his secretary. Ada Leintwardine would
sometimes cross the yard to lend a hand
when the secretary, constantly replaced in the course of time, became too
harassed by Bagshaw’s frequent absences from the office to carry on unaided.
Apart from that, an effort was made to keep the affairs of
Fission
separate
so far as possible from the publishing side, although Craggs and Quiggin sat on
both boards.

‘Ada’s the king-pin of the
whole organization,’ said Bagshaw. ‘Maybe I should say queen bee. She provides
an oasis of much needed good looks in the office, and a few contacts with
writers not sunk in middle age.’

Ada had made herself at home in
London. In fact she was soon on the way to becoming an established figure in
the ‘literary world’, such as it was, battered and reduced, but taking some
shape again, over and above the heterogeneous elements that had kept a few
embers smouldering throughout the war. London suited Ada. She dealt with her
directors, especially Quiggin, with all the skill formerly shown in managing
Sillery. She had begun to refer to ‘Poor old Sillers.’ I had not seen Sillery
himself again, as it happened, before the period of research at the University
came to an end, calling once at his college, but being told he had gone to
London for several days to attend the House of Lords.

When he was not present,
Bagshaw was also designated by Ada ‘Poor old Books’. That did not prevent them
from getting on pretty well with each other. Her emotional life had become a
subject people argued about. Malcolm Crowding, the poet, not much older than
herself, alleged that the novelist Evadne Clapham (niece of the publisher of
that name, and by no means bigoted in a taste for her own sex) had boasted of a
‘success’ with Ada. On the other hand, Nathaniel Sheldon, always on the look
out, though advancing in years, spoke of encouragement offered him by Ada, when
he was waiting to see Craggs. No doubt she made herself reasonably agreeable to
anyone – even Nathaniel Sheldon, as a reviewer – likely to be useful to the
firm. The fact that no one could speak definitely of lovers demonstrated an
ability to be discreet. Ada herself was reported to be writing a novel, as
Sillery had alleged.

In the humdrum surroundings of
everyday business life, when, for example, one met them on the doorstep of the
office, both Quiggin and Craggs showed themselves more changed than they had in
the hurried, unaccustomed circumstances of Erridge’s funeral. For instance, it
was now clear Quiggin had settled down to be a publisher, intended to be a
successful one, make money. He no longer spoke of himself producing a
masterpiece.
Unburnt Boats
, his
‘documentary’, had been well received, whatever Sillery might say, when the
book appeared not long before the war, but there Quiggin’s literary career was
allowed to rest. He had lost interest in ‘writing’. Instead, he now identified
himself, body and soul, with his own firm’s publications, increasingly
convinced – like not a few publishers – that he had written them all himself.

Quiggin also considered that he
had a right, even duty, to make such alterations in the books published by the
firm as he saw fit; anyway in the case of authors prepared to be so oppressed.
Certainly Trapnel would never have allowed anything of the sort. There were
others who rebelled. These differences of opinion might have played a part in
causing Quiggin – again like many publishers – to develop a detestation of
authors as a tribe. On the contrary, nothing of the sort took place. As long as
they were his own firm’s authors, Quiggin would allow no breath of criticism,
either of themselves or
their books, to be uttered in his presence, collectively or
individually. His old rebellious irritability, which used formerly to break out so violently in literary or political argument, now took the form of rage – at best, extreme sourness – directed against anyone, professional critic or
too blunt layman, who wrote an unfavourable notice, dropped an unfriendly remark, calculated to discourage Quiggin & Craggs sales.

Craggs’s attitude towards
publishing was altogether different. Craggs had been practising the art in one
form or another for a long time. That made a difference. He did not care in the
smallest degree about rude remarks made on the subject of ‘his’ authors, or ‘his’
books. In some respects, so far as the former were concerned, the more people
abused them, the better Craggs was pleased. Certainly he had no great affection
for authors as men – for that matter, unless easily seducible, as women – but,
unlike Quiggin, his policy in this respect was not subjective; at least not
entirely so. It cloaked a certain commercial shrewdness. Craggs, off his guard one
day with Bagshaw, expressed the view that there were more ways of advertising a
book than dwelling on the intellectual and moral qualifications of its author.

‘What matters is getting
authors talked about,’ Craggs said. ‘Let people know what they’re really like.
It whets the appetite. Look at Alaric Kydd’s odd tastes, for instance. I drop
an occasional hint.’