The marker looked at me curiously. I made some excuse about an appointment, but it was clear that he thought I was suffering from pique at my lack of skill-not that it mattered a damn to me what he was thinking.
The theatre and cinema guide showed nothing which appealed to me. So on the spur of the moment, I decided to drive down to Bartels’ weekend cottage, near Balcombe. I would take advantage of the open invitation which was extended to me, and spend the night with them. Beatrice, I knew, would be there, and possibly I would take her to a local hotel, in the early evening, where we could usually find one or two people we knew.
At the back of my mind was the thought that I would know exactly when he had returned from visiting Lorna: directly I was certain he was no longer with her, my peace of mind would return.
I drove back to my flat, packed a few things in a suitcase, and set off. I wish a thousand times, now, that I had not gone.
But I could not have foreseen what I would find there, or the quandary in which I would be placed.
You reached the cottage by one of two ways. You could either follow the road round, and turn in at the front gate and arrive at the front door, or you could turn off down a narrower road, leave the car, pass through a small gate at the bottom of the garden, and walk up through the vegetable gardens, via the tree-fringed lawn, and enter the house by the French windows, in summer, or else by way of the kitchen door. This was a shorter route.
The cottage lay in a hollow, and although you had to slow up a little to take the turning into the narrower road, you could, with a certain amount of luck and dash, coast down the last three or four hundred yards with the engine switched off. If you slowed up in the slightest degree before reaching the corner, perhaps to pass a cyclist, you lost just enough momentum to necessitate switching the engine on again.
But nothing got in my way that day, and I coasted down to the back gate, feeling the usual childish pleasure which one experiences after minor triumphs of this kind.
It was a beautiful evening, cold but cloudless, and the day was just fading when I arrived. The sun had set, but there was a red blaze still in the sky beyond the wood by the side of the cottage.
I sat for a moment relaxing, for I had driven fast, and the speed and the control of the car had done me good, and for a while I had even forgotten Bartels and Lorna. I sucked in the clean, cold air, and wondered why the devil I lived in London.
A horse neighed in the distance, and some rooks were still cawing their belated way home. I could see the warm glow of a fire shining through the windows of the drawing room, and guessed that Beatrice, good housewife and efficient as ever, would have tea ready for anybody who might call in. Ready, even, for Barty, I thought bitterly.
It was all wonderfully peaceful and, with the vision it conjured up of muffins and toast, essentially English. The scene was not one in which to anticipate a shock of any kind, but the shock was awaiting me. Not a shock evoked by violence, by murder, or physical wounding, but a pretty big shock all the same.
I climbed out of the car, and as I did so a little wind sprang up and shook the trees at the bottom of the garden. The door by the driving seat had sunk a trifle on its hinges, so that instead of slamming it I had to lift it slightly and push it shut.
I wish now that I had had that hinge repaired when I had first intended, days before, but I had postponed doing so. It might have saved me a good deal of heartache, and-I suppose-remorse.
I passed through the vegetable garden, walking along the side, on the grass path, and so came to the little lawn, with the trellis-work and ramblers which partly screened off the vegetable garden.
There were a few apple and pear trees on each side of the lawn, and I followed the grass path through them, and came to a gravel path, which ran round the back of the house. It was an old path, still damp from the morning’s rain, and very mossy in places.
I thought of going round to the kitchen door, but instead crossed the path and went up to the French windows, thinking that Beatrice could let me in.
The blazing fire lit up the room, but otherwise there was no lighting. I could see the deep armchairs near the fire, and the writing table in the window with its silver ink-pots, and two little carved ivory elephants; and the glass-fronted bookcase against one wall, and the corner cupboard where they kept the drinks.
I could also see, at an angle to the window, the big settee, and Beatrice upon it, her arms round the neck of a man whose lips were pressed upon hers. He was bending over her, and because the top of his head was towards me, and the light was dim, I did not recognize John O’Brien until, after some seconds, and for some reason unknown, he looked up and saw me.
I heard him murmur something to Beatrice, and saw him stand up and automatically straighten his tie and smooth his dark hair with his hands. I saw Beatrice sit bolt upright, suddenly and quickly, and she, too, put her hands to her hair.
It was difficult to know what to do. I had a quick tempting thought that it might be better to walk away, back to the car, as though I had seen nothing; and greet them some other day as though the incident had never happened.
I might have done so, except that even while I hesitated, the first dim realization of what this involved for me was beginning to emerge.
I decided to compromise, to walk round to the kitchen door, slowly, giving them time to recover, and then allow John or Beatrice to make the running. If they said nothing, I would be content to say nothing, at any rate for the time being.
I moved away from the window, but I had not gone more than two or three paces when the French window was opened, and John’s voice called:
“Hey, Pete!”
I looked round, and tried to put a surprised tone into my voice.
“Why, hullo, John! I was just descending upon Beatrice and Barty for a breath of fresh air.”
“The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold,” said John, with a bitter little laugh. “Well, come in this way.”
“Thanks,” I said and retraced my steps, and entered the drawing room by the French window which he was holding open for me.
Beatrice was standing by the fire.
“Hullo, Beatrice,” I said. “Got a bed for a poor London sparrow with soot in his lungs?”
“Of course I have, Pete. You know that, or you wouldn’t be here.”
In the incredibly quick way in which women can do these things, she had managed to straighten her hair and clothes, and even plump up the cushions on the settee, all within the few seconds which had elapsed since I had turned away from the French windows.
She stood with her hands behind her back, her fine hazel eyes meeting mine without flinching. She was smiling, in friendly and hospitable fashion. Only her chin was a little higher than usual. There followed a short conversation which, in the circumstances, was the most futile I have ever taken part in. We were all trying so desperately hard to appear normal. The only real normal living creature in the room was the dog, Brutus. Sleepy with age, he lay with his big, square, white-and-brown bulk stretched out before the fire.
“God, what a lovely evening,” I said.
“Isn’t it absolutely heavenly?” said Beatrice.
“Should be fine tomorrow, too, judging by the sunset,” said John.
“I don’t know why I live in London.”
“Nor me,” said John. “Why not make the break, like I did?”
“Maybe I will, one day.”
“Have you had tea?” asked Beatrice.
“Not yet.”
“I’ll put the kettle on.”
“Don’t make it specially for me.”
“We haven’t had any yet, either.”
“I could do with a cup,” said John, and I thought: That doesn’t surprise me, either, brother.
“Or even two,” said John facetiously. Or even, I thought, a bloody great whisky and soda, but that’s just what you can’t have, because it’s too early.
“And some toast,” John plunged on bravely. “Lashings of toast. Eh, Beatrice?”
Maybe it was a case of telepathy, because he paused for a moment, and then said: “Or would you prefer a
