Five Roundabouts to Heaven by John Bingham Read Free Book Online Page A

with the Bartels and with their friends. There was Fred Manders, who was an architect, and his wife, Joyce; James Murray, an insurance chap; Bill and Margaret Barnet—he was something in a textile firm; and in the country there were the Derbyshires, who had a small-holding which they farmed in a desultory kind of way; Major and Mrs Godfrey, who did nothing in particular; John O’Brien, an Irish solicitor, who lived nearby in a cottage by himself and travelled up and down to town each day, and one or two others. Of them all, I liked John O’Brien best. He was a heavily built, jovial man in his middle thirties, with dark hair and blue eyes and a pugnacious jaw.
    When I first met him, he was already contemplating taking silk, and I formed the impression, and later events confirmed it, that with his good looks and Irish charm and wit he would go far at the Bar.
    He lived in the country, primarily because he was passionately devoted to St Bernard dogs, of which he had three. I frequently gave him a lift to town in my car, and on Sundays, when the Bartels were down there, he generally came in for a meal or a few drinks.
    We all liked John O’Brien. I still do.
    I had an open invitation to go down to Balcombe any weekend I liked, with or without warning. All that I needed to do, they said, was to drive up to the door. I often did. My room was always ready. Such was the closeness of the bonds between myself and Philip and Beatrice Bartels.
    So things remained for a period, which in retrospect seems like that sunny windless day when Beatrice arrived at the château and entered the life of Philip Bartels; the day which ended, so suddenly, in the gathering of the storm clouds and the rending of the sky by thunder and lightning and rain.
    Even when the first crack appeared, I was, at first, merely surprised and saddened. It began on 12 February, when he telephoned me at my office, and invited me to lunch at the Café Royal, saying that he had something he wished to tell me.
    I was rather busy that morning, and tried to stall him off.
    “It all depends upon what you want to tell me,” I remember I answered cautiously.
    He hesitated. “It is something you ought to know,” he replied at last.
    “Can’t you make it tomorrow? I’ve got a hell of a lot of work to cope with.”
    “It’s no good tomorrow. I really do want to see you today, alone.” Although he spoke in that slow, strong voice which contrasted so much with his appearance, I detected a note of genuine urgency in his tone.
    “All right,” I said. “I’ll come.”
    “See you in the cocktail lounge at one o’clock—upstairs. No, make it twelve thirty.”
    “Don’t be silly. I told you I’ve got a lot of work.”
    “It’ll be pointless if you don’t come at twelve thirty.”
    I hesitated again. “What the hell is it about?”
    “I can’t tell you on the phone.”
    I thought: Oh well, I suppose I can make up the time this evening.
    “All right, then. Twelve thirty. I hope it’s worth it, that’s all.”
    “It’ll be worth it. I’m glad you can make it. It’s very important to me, Peter. I want your opinion.”
    I took a taxi, and arrived very punctually, but he was already seated on one of the settees, and had ordered my usual gin and tonic.
    Looking at him, as I walked towards him, I thought he had not changed much over the years. He was still meagrely built, whereas I had put on too much weight. There was the same wide, gentle smile. But recently he had seemed more withdrawn, at any rate when in the company of people other than myself; ironically, he trusted me implicitly.
    When with other people there was a faintly enigmatic air about him. In addition to his slow, deliberate, almost tired way of speaking, he had acquired an equally deliberate way of thinking for some seconds before answering a question; and while he was thinking, he would sometimes look at you with a sardonic smile, not on his lips or even in his eyes—it was not as noticeable as