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had been every sort of tribulation. Jobs changed; wives
(two at least) came and went; once DT was near at hand; from time to time there
were periods ‘on the waggon’; all the while legend accumulating round this
weaker side, which Bagshaw’s nickname celebrated. Its origin was lost in the
mists of the past, but the legend emphasized aspects of Bagshaw that could make
him a liability.
    There were two main
elucidations. One asserted that, the worse for drink, trying to abstract a copy
of
The GoldenTreasury
from a large glass-fronted
bookcase in order to verify a quotation required for a radio programme, Bagshaw
overturned on himself this massive piece of furniture. As volume after volume
descended on him, it was asserted he
made the comment: ‘Books do furnish a room.’
    Others had a different story.
They would have it that Bagshaw, stark naked, had spoken the words
conversationally as he approached the sofa on which lay, presumably in the same
state, the wife of a well-known dramatic critic (on duty at the theatre that
night appraising the First Night of
The Apple Cart
), a
clandestine meeting having reached emotional climax in her husband’s book-lined
study. Bagshaw was alleged to have spoken the words, scarcely more than
muttered them – a revolutionary’s tribute to bourgeois values – as he rapidly
advanced towards his prey: ‘ Books do furnish a room.’
    The lady, it could have been
none other, was believed later to have complained to a third party of lack of
sensibility on Bagshaw’s part in making such an observation at such a juncture.
Whichever story were true – probably neither, the second had all the flavour of
having been worked over, if not invented, by Moreland – the nickname stuck.
    ‘There’ll be a stampede of dons’
wives,’ said Bagshaw, as we watched the train come in ‘Let’s be careful. We don’t
want to be injured for life.’
    We found a compartment, crowded
enough, but no impediment to Bagshaw’s flow of conversation.
    ‘You know, Nicholas, whenever I
come away from this place, I’m always rather glad I skipped a novitiate at a
university. My university has been life. Many a time I’ve put that in an
article. Tell me, have you read a novel called
Camel
Ride to the Tomb
?’
    ‘I thought it good – who is X.
Trapnel? Somebody else mentioned him.’
    ‘The best first novel since
before the war,’ said Bagshaw.
    ‘Not that that’s in itself
particularly high praise. Trapnel was a clerk in one of our New Delhi outfits –
the people who used to hand out those pamphlets about Civics and The Soviet
Achievement, all that sort of thing. I was always rapt in admiration at the way
the Party arranged to have its propaganda handled at an official level. As a
matter of fact Trapnel himself wasn’t at all interested in politics, but he was
always in trouble with the authorities, and I managed to help him one way and
another.’
    Although not in the front rank
of literary critics – there might have been difficulty in squeezing him into an
already overcrowded and grimacing back row – Bagshaw had reason in proclaiming
Trapnel’s one of the few promising talents thrown up by the war; in contrast
with the previous one, followed by no marked luxuriance in the arts.
    ‘Then he got a poisoned foot.
Trapnel was a low medical category anyway, that’s why he was doing the job at
his age. He got shipped back to England. By the end of the war he’d winkled
himself into a film unit. He’s very keen on films. Wants to get back into them,
I believe, writing novels at the same time – but what about your own novels,
Nicholas? Have you started up at one again?’
    I told him why I was staying at
the University, and how work was going to be disrupted during the following
week owing to Erridge’s funeral. The information about Erridge at once
disturbed Bagshaw.
    ‘Lord Warminster is no more?’
    ‘Heard it last night.’
    ‘This is