What time would he be going to bed? One o’clock? Two o’clock? It all depended. Perhaps three o’clock or four; in that case he would be taking his aspirins with the cup of tea which the sergeant and constable would bring him while they “looked round the flat” as they’d call it. He didn’t know what time he would be going to bed.
“One of the secretaries at the office gave me some red and green pills to take. She says they’re very good.”
“Have you taken any?”
He nodded. Even Lorna had to be deceived in a small way. Even for Lorna it was as well to provide a reason why his cold did not develop. Then he realized that this was unnecessary: he would not be seeing Lorna again for a month or so. So he needn’t have lied to Lorna. He would never lie to Lorna again, nor to anybody else, once this business was over. He was tired of subterfuge, fed up with intrigue.
He placed his arm round her shoulder and held her more tightly, not kissing her, however, but gazing silently at the carpet, as though trying to draw strength from the tranquillity which for him was one of her most wonderful characteristics.
“Darling Lorna, I do love you so.”
He slid his hand from her shoulders to the side of her head, and pulled her head down so that it lay on his shoulder, and bent down and put his cheek against her brow. Lorna reached up and put her hand on his, and caressed it.
Her hand was soft, her movements gentle, and little by little he felt the agitation within him dying down. Suddenly, she removed his arm, and said:
“Now, young man. I’m going to get the supper.”
“I’ll help you.”
He started to follow her to the door, and the corgi, instinctively guessing that food was being discussed, rose to his feet and pattered after her, too.
“Go and sit by the fire, Barty,” said Lorna. “Get thoroughly warm. Most of the supper is ready.”
“I’d rather help you, darling.”
“There’s nothing you can do, Barty. Really there isn’t. The trolley is laid-I thought we’d eat in here, as it’s so cold-the soup just needs heating up, and all I’ve got to do is to throw a little liver and bacon into the pan. The potatoes are cooked. So go and sit down.”
“I’d rather be with you. I would much rather be with you.”
But she pushed him gently from the door, towards the table where the drinks were standing.
“Don’t be obstinate. Pour yourself another whisky, a good stiff one, and go and sit by the fire. I won’t be ten minutes.”
He watched her go out, and did not dare to insist upon being with her, because that might have seemed unnatural. Tonight he could not afford to appear anything other than composed and normal. He poured out the whisky, sat by the fire, glad that he had not insisted. Tonight was the test of willpower. Once again he felt a curious little thrill which was entirely unconnected with Lorna.
He, Philip Bartels, was in conflict with all the forces of society. That took some doing. That required organization, forethought, nerve, courage. Admittedly, he had hesitated, had had qualms, even some personal fears.
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.
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
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
