when he telephoned me at my office, and invited me to lunch at the Cafe 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 But recently he had seemed more withdrawn, at any rate when in the company of people other than myself; ironically, he trusted me implicitly.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 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 couldn’t see that Bartels had much to grumble about.
It seemed to me perfectly clear that this Dickson woman was a floozy who had caught Bartels on the hop, at that period of a marriage when one or other of the partners is often ripe for a change. I had seen more intelligent, more sober-minded men than Bartels go down before that sort of thing; and live to regret it, too. But I knew it would be bad tactics to show opposition.
“Is she very good-looking?” I asked.
“To me, she is. To me she is beautiful. Other people might not think so.”
Still continuing on my tack of showing no fundamental opposition I said: “Well, if you feel deeply enough, you’ll have to do as you plan. Beatrice will take it hardly.”
“You don’t need to tell me that.”
“No doubt she’ll get over it,” I said.
“No doubt.”
A silence fell between us.
The waiter brought the second round of drinks. When he had given me my change and gone, I said:
“How long have you known Laura?”
“Lorna’s her name.”
“Well, Lorna, then.”
“About four months.”
“Sometimes these things pass, you know.”
Bartels turned and looked at me, and said: “This won’t. This is the real thing.”
Having kicked around the world a bit, I suppose I have rather a mixed conception of morality. I am quite prepared, on occasions, to argue that the end justifies the means, and I was fond of Beatrice. I thought she was in for a pretty raw deal.
So I said: “Why not hang on a little longer? Why not have Lorna, if you wish, as-well, as your girlfriend? Just
