John Bingham - Five Roundabouts to Heaven

Why not, indeed? What was more natural?

He might not be a very good traveller in wines. In fact, he thought, swallowing some of the whisky, he was frankly a pretty bad salesman. Well, not bad, perhaps, but not very good. One had to face that fact.

But he had won Lorna. And having won her, he had not let circumstances defeat him, as most other men might have done.

No fear! He had gone into action. Decisively. But with care and forethought, mind. Not rashly, committing one blunder after another, as others did. Coolly.

He wondered how many of the smooth gentlemen who disparaged his wines, even declined to see him when he called, would have had the nerve to do what he was doing.

They’d either have run out on Beatrice-a squalid and untidy procedure-or abandoned the whole project. It’s all very fine and dandy to sit in an office countering the arguments of wretched commercial travellers. Any fool could do that. But to take on the organized protective forces of the community, that was quite a different thing!

Some people might think he, Bartels, was a bloody fool. A bit of a poor fish. But he wasn’t. Not entirely. He was like the iceberg, which only shows a bit of itself on the surface, and he was just about as cool, when the need arose-though normally warm-hearted, mind you, very warm-hearted.

He put the empty glass on a table at his side, and stroked the head of the corgi, and thought of the dog Brutus lying under the snow at the end of the garden. Brutus wouldn’t get his headstone now. Well, what the hell did that matter?

What would become of his cottage?

It would presumably be his. He would sell it, of course. Couldn’t live there again. That would be too much. Or he might give it back to Beatrice’s parents. As a gesture. They would be upset, of course. But they’d get over it. They had three other children, and anyway they only saw Beatrice two or three times a year.

He heard the squeak of the trolley wheels in the passage, and got up and opened the door.

Rather to his own surprise, he was not very hungry.

“It’s your cold coming on,” said Lorna.

“Perhaps,” said Bartels, staring at a little Empire clock on the wall which showed 8.15.

“Maybe,” said Bartels.

It seemed only a few minutes since there had been four hours to go. Now there were barely three. Or even less. Time passed quickly sometimes.

Up in the woods above the chateau an owl hooted, and on the highway I heard the sound of a car.

Not yet, I thought, not yet. Don’t let them return yet. Don’t let them come swooshing round the drive in their high-powered car, the glaring headlights lighting up the woods; and come tumbling out of the car, laughing and joking after their day out, this one saying how hungry he is, that one calling out for somebody to go mix him the biggest goddam highball ever thought of, and the women calling to the children, and the lamps being lit all over the house, and the sound of snatches of song; and laughter, more laughter.

Nice people, no doubt, gay and generous and big-hearted, but I didn’t want them yet. Not just at that moment, when I had almost worked it all out, nearly had the picture clear of the workings of the mind of Philip Bartels, my friend.

The sound of the car drew nearer; then passed, and died away in the distance. I relaxed, thankful. The owl hooted again.

My pipe had gone out long since. I did not bother to relight it.

It was about 8.30, and Bartels and Lorna had finished the soup, and were just finishing the liver and bacon, sitting before the fire, the trolley between them, and George the corgi was looking hopefully from one to the other. Lorna said:

“How’s Beatrice?”

Bartels, picking about with his liver and bacon, looked at her in surprise.

“Why?” he asked in an astonished tone.

“Didn’t she have palpitations, or something, once?” asked Lorna, breaking a promise.

“Oh, that. Yes, she did, once.” He was about to add: “Her heart is sound enough, though,” when he stopped himself.

How much did a layman know about palpitations? he wondered. Did a woman like Lorna know that palpitations due to a few too many aspirins, a purely temporary allergy, had no significance at all? Might it not be as well to prepare her in some way for the news about Beatrice?

He toyed with the idea, then cut off a corner of liver and gave it to the corgi, and watched the dog eat it and look up for more. He put the idea aside. There was no point in trying to be too clever.

Lorna had finished the liver and bacon, and had turned towards the fire. She was peeling an orange, saying nothing, throwing the peel in the fire. Bartels mentally picked up the idea again, turned it round and round, and over. Why not? What harm could it do? One mustn’t overdo it, of course. Just toss the sentence out casually.

“Hearts can be a bit tricky,” he said absently, and left it at that. He was tempted to elaborate, but he resisted the urge, and congratulated himself upon his artistry.

“Yes,” said Lorna, still staring into the fire.

“Cigarette?” Bartels extended his case.

Lorna shook her head silently, began dividing her orange up into segments. The corgi, seeing nothing further was to be gained in the way of liver, walked to the grate and curled up for a nap.

After a while, Bartels said: “What’s the matter? You’re very thoughtful.”

“I’ve good cause to be.” She looked at him and smiled sadly.

“Why? What’s the matter?”

Some premonition of disaster, or the unaccustomed sadness on Lorna Dickson’s face, gave Bartels a curious feeling in the pit of his stomach. He shifted uneasily in his chair.

“What’s the matter?” he asked for the third time. “For heaven’s sake tell me; don’t just sit there.”

“Barty,” she began. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about what I’m going to say-there is no other man who means as much to me as you and never has been since Ronald was killed.”

She paused while Bartels, wide-eyed, still and unblinking, heard the wild tolling of alarm bells above the crash and surge of breakers on a rocky beach, and above that, louder and louder, the roll of drumbeats, in his breast, his head, every part of his body even to his fingertips.

Lorna was looking him straight in the face now. Her lips were slightly parted, her serenity was disturbed, but the inner beauty, glimpsed through the grey-blue eyes, was untarnished.

She rose and came and sat on the arm of Bartels’ chair, and put her arm round his shoulders, and pressed him against her side.

“Barty, I don’t think we can go through with this thing, dearest. I have given it a lot of thought. I don’t think it’s fair to Beatrice, and above all, it might be dangerous for her.” She hesitated, groping for the right phrase. “Above all, I don’t think it’s even fair to you-or me.”

“Why?” whispered Bartels.

The alarm bells had ceased tolling, the breakers had receded, leaving exposed the jagged black rocks of despair. But the drums were still beating louder and faster than ever.

“Why, Lorna? Why? Lorna, darling Lorna, you can’t let me down now. Not at this stage.”

She began to stroke his light brown hair, trying ineffectually to flatten the bits which stood up on the crown of his head.

“Do you wish me to marry you to avoid letting you down? From a sense of duty? Is that what you are suggesting?”

“This is only a passing qualm, Lorna.”

He tried desperately to sound cheerful. “You’ll feel better tomorrow. Come on, let’s have a drink! What’s yours?”

He tried to get out of the chair, but she gently pushed him back. “Not now, my dear. This is not a time for drinks. This is the moment for clear thinking and talking.”