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

that—but rather behind his eyes. It was as if he were amused, not at you, but at certain remote implications behind your question.
    I put it down to the experiences, the rebuffs, which he had had “on the road.” He was not a very successful traveller for his wine firm. Had he not had a private income, he would have been hard put to it to live as he did.
    The impression you had, in those days, was of one who had schooled himself to accept the disappointments of life with a kind of amused contemplation. It was as though he were patiently awaiting the end of some phase or other, before proceeding on to some unspecified destiny.
    It was a queer sort of attitude, and I should say that it was hardly conducive to persuading hard-bitten wine merchants to part with their money.
    He joined me in a vague toast to our mutual health, and said nothing for some moments, but sat picking at a cigarette end in the ashtray with a used match. I asked him how business was, and he said it might be worse.
    I looked around the room, knowing it was useless to hurry him.
    The place was filling up rapidly. Across the room three bald men were drinking cocktails. They were obese, and sat huddled forward, round a little table, their knees apart to ease the weight of their stomachs. They were animated and joking, and at the all-jolly-good-fellows stage. Later, the masks would drop, and they would get down to business.
    Suddenly Bartels asked me about his wife. It was the last sort of question I anticipated.
    He said: “Do you like Beatrice? I mean, are you fond of her?”
    “Of course I like her,” I said. “Of course I’m fond of her. She’s a dam’ good scout. Why?”
    He nodded, as though he expected the answer, as well he might have done; you are hardly likely, whatever you think, to tell your best friend that you dislike his wife.
    “What are you getting at?” I asked.
    “I’m fond of her, too. That’s the devil of it.”
    “A lot of men are quite fond of their wives. I’m told it’s a mild kind of complaint, like chickenpox. You’ll probably get over it. But it may take time.”
    He didn’t smile. He looked across the room and said: “Well, I’m going to leave Beatrice, Peter. I thought I had better tell you. I thought you ought to know.”
    I have always prided myself on not showing dismay. I admire the Roman Catholic priest who said in the confessional: “You have committed murder, my son? Well, how many times?” So I took a pull at my gin and tonic, and replaced the glass on the table, and said as casually as I could:
    “Oh? Why? Why are you going to leave Beatrice?”
    “Because I want to be happy.”
    “That’s reasonable.”
    He gulped down his drink, and signalled to the waiter. But I said: “This one is on me,” and gave the order, though my own glass was still half full. When the waiter had taken the order I asked the obvious question:
    “Well, what’s her name?”
    “What’s whose name?”
    I knew he was fencing, and he knew that I knew it. I suppose it was a kind of conventional approach.
    “The name of the woman you’ve fallen for,” I said. “I know you and Beatrice well enough to know that your marriage is not an unhappy one. As a matter of fact, as marriages go, I always thought it was rather satisfactory. Who is she? And do I know her?”
    “Lorna is her name,” said Bartels, still fiddling with the match-stick. “Lorna Dickson. You haven’t met her.”
    I said nothing. When I said that I was fond of Beatrice, I was speaking the strict truth; and when Bartels said that he was still very fond of her, I knew that he was speaking the truth, too. Beatrice had turned into a fine character. She was intelligent and witty; loyal to her own people; conscientious and hard-working; she obviously had a passionate disposition; and with it all, she was, as I’ve said, still remarkably good-looking in a red-haired, fair-skinned sort of way. She was also a really first-class cook.
    So all in all, I