Five Roundabouts to Heaven

by John Bingham

  I turned towards him to tell him to be his age, to cease acting like a sentimental youth who has just discovered that love rhymes with dove. But I did not get a chance to tell him that, neither then, nor later, nor ever.

  I saw him stiffen slightly, and sit upright, while a look came into his eyes such as I have never seen before on a man’s face, though I’ve seen quite a few fellows who were supposed to be in love.

  I will not attempt to describe it, I will merely say that his thin, unimpressive countenance, with its wide mouth and spectacles, was suffused by something nearly akin to beauty.

  As he rose to his feet, one forgot his meagre build, or the stupid tuft of hair on the crown of his head, standing up in disarray. One forgot everything except the beauty which sprang from the inner emotion of the man. That emotion, it seemed to me, was devoid of lust, greed, or even self-pity.

  It is understandable. Hate can render a beautiful face ugly. The love inside Philip Bartels made his ugly face almost beautiful.

  So I knew, without him telling me, that Lorna Dickson had come into the cocktail lounge. I wasn’t expecting her, I was even startled and disconcerted, but I knew she had arrived.

  Thus I met Lorna for the first time.

  She was dressed, I remember, in a grey costume, but that is all that I do remember about how she was dressed. I was too fascinated by other things to take in much more.

  I shall never forget the grace of her movements as she came towards us: the calm but friendly look in her steady, blue-grey eyes as she turned to be introduced to me, the mobility of her face when she smiled, which she did so often, and the laughter-wrinkles at the corner of her eyes.

  She was not a pretty little painted doll; she was a mature woman of about thirty-three, gracious and charming, with light brown wavy hair, a slim figure, a small well-shaped head, and a jaw which was rather square, the mouth full but wide.

  Above all, the impression I brought away from that lunch was of inner beauty matching that upon Bartels’ face when he saw her come into the cocktail lounge. But whereas the beauty which suffused Bartels was sudden, called to life by the sight of Lorna, the beauty of Lorna, it seemed to me, resided perpetually within her.

  Lorna! Dear, sweet, gentle Lorna.

  You would willingly have lived out your life in loneliness rather than cause us suffering. That I know. You would gladly have stayed away from us had you known how things would develop.

  But you couldn’t know. In your innocence you came and lunched with us. Thereafter, not all your generosity, nor all your unselfishness, could stop the march of events.

  It is all finished, the strain and the pain, the struggle and the tears. There is only peace, of a sort, for all of us. Peace, most of the time, but sometimes for me the agony of doubt concerning the crafty manner in which I afterwards acted towards my best friend.

  It was over, by several months, when I revisited the chateau of our youth. It was finished, the climactic point reached and passed. Had I but remembered his words-“Death is of no consequence…it’s not dying that matters, it’s how you die”-then it is possible, just possible, that I might have felt some inner warning, some hidden voice which cried: “Stop! This woman is sacrosanct in the eyes of Philip Bartels.”

  I might have acted differently, after that first meeting with Lorna Dickson. But I doubt it. I think I would have gone ahead just the same.

  Such was my love for Lorna, born that day, that very day when she and Bartels and I had lunch together as friends.

  Chapter 6

  I know so much now. I know, for instance, that on the day following the lunch at the Cafe Royal, Bartels went home in the evening with the firm intention of having things out, determined, despite what I’d said to him, to ask Beatrice to release him.

  It was typical of his ingenuous nature, in so far as women were concerned, that although he dreaded the business, he did not anticipate a prolonged fight. He thought she would be too proud, too strong, too independent to try for long to hold him.

  He thought she would fight with tooth and claw for a while, and then give in after a final burst of bitter invective, for she was a hot-tempered girl.

  I thought she would fight with tooth and claw, but would not give in. She had too much to lose.

  I thought he would have to leave her, and let time become his ally. I told him so, after Lorna had left us after lunch. He did not believe me.

  The evening began in a normal enough way, Bartels and Beatrice watching a play on the television; and their dog Brutus dozing in front of the fire. He was a very old dog by now; an ugly, square dog, of mixed blood, with a white-and-tan coat, and a heavy head and jowl.

  He had been given to them shortly after their marriage, and in those days he was a light and playful puppy; but now the weight of the years pressed heavily upon him; he was half-blind, and cumbersome, and lived only to eat and to sleep.

  The television programme ended at about 10.15. The play had a strong love theme running through it, and when it was over Beatrice went out and made some tea.

  Bartels waited, biding his time until Beatrice should comment on the play. She poured out the tea and handed him his cup, and sat sipping her tea and looking into the fire. Five minutes passed, and he began to think that the opportunity for which he was waiting would not arise.

  He sought in his mind for some method of approaching the subject. Now that the moment was near, he felt sad and nervous, as he always did at the thought of inflicting pain or distress.

  Then, suddenly, Beatrice spoke about the play.

  “I just don’t believe in this grand passion, this all-devouring flame which people are always writing about,” she said irritably. “It may occur in one case in a million, but I simply don’t believe it holds true for the normal run of people, I just don’t believe it.”

  She sat in her armchair, stirring her tea, and looking into the fire.

  It was her old line of argument, brought out and hacked around to all sorts and conditions of people; it was her attempt to justify to herself her actions in having married without being in love; an attempt to reassure herself that other people, or the vast majority, also married with their heads rather than their hearts, as she had done, as she would do again if she were widowed; that other people, therefore, had no fuller an emotional life than she had.

  But that evening she seemed not to be content to let the matter stand. She seemed to be seeking an assurance from Bartels himself that she was right.

  She said hopefully:

  “Don’t you think I’m right, Barty? Don’t you think it’s true that people see this love-stuff through a kind of rosy mist of self-deception?”

  Bartels took a deep breath. “No, I don’t,” he said flatly. “I believe in love.”

  Beatrice reached to take a cigarette from a small table at her side. The lamplight fell on her red hair and fair complexion. She looked young and soft and, because she spoke in a low voice, somehow defenceless. But Bartels, hardening his heart, said:

  “You think as you do, because you have not met the right man, yet.”

  “Perhaps I’m not made like other women,” she replied hopelessly. “I don’t know. I can’t feel this great overwhelming passion which people call love. I just can’t feel it about any man.”

  Bartels said again, dully: “That’s because you have not met the right man. If you met the right man, you would feel it.”

  But she shook her head. “I can’t give the adulation, the worship, the adoration, because I don’t feel it. It’s not in me to give it to any man. I can’t help it. That’s the way I am. I can feel physical passion, affection, comradeship, but that’s all.”

  “When you are in love,” said Bartels, “you want to give, to protect, and to cherish, too. But above all you want to give.”

  “That, to me, is a form of magic in which I don’t believe.”

  Bartels said: “Magic? Yes, it’s magic all right. A formation of the eyes, a half-smile, the carriage of the head, each of th
ese things can bring about love. It’s magic all right. But a common enough type.”

  “To me love means one thing.”

  “What is that?”

  “Sex.”

  “Bed?”

  “Bed,” said Beatrice. “All the rest of it, the romantic dreams, the self-deception, what you call the wish to give and give, it all boils down to that. Bed. Love means bed. The rest is comradeship.”

  Even Bartels had never before heard her express such a disillusioning opinion. He was shocked and amazed. He shook his head.

  “You’re wrong,” he said, gently. “You’re utterly wrong.”

  He felt an urgent wish to convince her that she was on the wrong track. It astonished and dismayed him that she should persist in this way of thinking.

  Suddenly, unpredictable as she so often was, she said:

  “But I do love you, in my own way. I do, really.”

  “Do you?” He smiled affectionately at her. “Perhaps you do.”

  “Only I can’t think anybody wonderful, because I try to see people with what I believe are the eyes of truth.”

  “Why?” asked Bartels quickly. “Why force it on yourself? Why be so practical? Why not live with a little fantasy, if it helps?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?” persisted Bartels. “Why can’t you?”

  “Perhaps because I believe that truth, reality, is the most important thing in the world. It’s not easy. It involves being truthful with yourself, and that’s difficult. I try to be truthful with myself.”

  “I think you succeed. Sometimes disastrously so.”

  The little clock on the mantelpiece struck eleven, musically, harmoniously. Bartels felt cool and level-headed now, alert and vigilant, poised to strike the blow which he had planned. With a conscious effort he excluded any emotion from his mind, any pity from his heart.

  He heard Beatrice say: “You should have married a different woman, Barty. I love you, but it’s not what you mean by love. You should have married a softer, more effeminate woman than me. The thing you need most, I can’t give you. I try hard, but I can’t. That’s the tragedy of it. But I’ve given you everything I could. I’ve tried to be a good wife to you.”

  “You’ve succeeded in being a good wife.”

  Was there any harm in conceding that? he wondered. It was her just due. She had been an excellent housekeeper, a good lover; she had encouraged him in bad times. She had given him loyalty and comradeship.

  For the second time that day, he thought: She’s like a fine mosaic, but for me the centrepiece is missing. It wouldn’t have mattered for ninety-nine men out of a hundred, but it matters to me. It’s her bad luck that I should be as I am. It’s just her bad luck.

  “I’ve not succeeded,” said Beatrice, “I’ve failed. Perhaps not through my own fault, but I’ve failed because I have not given you what you want.”

  Now, thought Bartels, shall I tell her now? For a moment the words rested heavily upon his tongue, but instead of speaking them he said:

  “It is always risky for a woman whose heart is ruled by her head to marry a man whose head is ruled by his heart. I am as much, or as little, to blame as you. It’s just one of those things. You’ve done a lot for me,” he added.

  “Have I?” asked Beatrice. “I wonder.”

  “But a woman who does a lot for a man can pay a heavy price.”

  Beatrice looked up. “Meaning what?”

  Bartels reached forward and stroked the dog’s head. “Oh, it’s all rather complicated. Let’s skip it. Can I have another cup of tea, please?”

  He knew there was a risk that she might agree to drop the subject, but, understanding her, he reckoned it was a remote one. She took his cup and filled it and said: “What is the price she pays? Tell me.”

  “Let’s skip it,” he said again.

  “No, tell me. Go on.” She handed him back his cup of tea, and looked at him expectantly.

  “Well, I think a woman is often like a thrush with a snail. She hops along, sees a man, pauses, listens, considers, head on one side, and then dashes him out of his protective shell and swallows him.

  “A woman will knock a man into some semblance of order, cajoling, pleading, using every ounce of her personality, until she has moulded him into the shape she thinks is good for him. Then she sits back to enjoy the fruits of her labours. But she forgets the price she has had to pay: the blanketing out of his personality, the smothering process which has to be gone through.

  “If he falls for another woman, she is surprised and hurt.

  “She sees him as he was, and she sees him as she made him, a better finished product altogether. A product which another woman is now going to enjoy. I will agree with you that it is very trying for her.”

  Beatrice sat with her hands folded in her lap, looking down at them, saying nothing. Bartels thought she was summoning her thoughts for a counterattack, a final showdown. This was what he was prepared for. This was what he hoped for. Instead, she spoke quite quietly.

  “You’re a sentimentalist and a romantic, and I’m not. You should have married somebody else. I know you don’t love me anymore. You’re terribly fond of me, you need me, you can’t do without me, but you don’t love me. Not anymore.”

  Now was the moment.

  But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t say the words because, with a sinking heart, he saw that she was crying; sitting bolt upright on the settee in front of the fire, holding her handkerchief to her nose, her face puckered up like a child’s, mouth quivering to restrain her weeping.

  “I’m too strong a character to suit you,” whispered Beatrice. “I know I’m crying now, but I’m too strong a character. You should have married somebody weaker. You are the type which loves a helpless sort of woman. It’s true, darling.”

  Bartels thought: You can’t tell with people, you just can’t tell. She thinks she’s strong, but at heart she’s a child, wanting to be loved, and wanting to have somebody to love. Maybe everybody has three character-skins. The first skin is the one they try to present to the world, the deceptive skin; then comes the second skin, the concealed selfishness, the cynicism, the callousness, covetousness, and greed; but then, if you dig deep enough, right down below it all, you find the third skin, that of the essential, basic child, insecure, needing to be loved and to love.

  You can’t tell with people, you can’t tell, he thought miserably.

  “It’s true, darling,” said Beatrice again, in a choked voice, “you don’t love me. You’re terribly fond of me, I know. And I know you need me,” she said again. “I know you can’t do without me.”

  A little wave of pity approached the barriers Bartels had erected around his heart. He saw it coming, and watched its approach with agitation, and raised the barriers higher against it.

  She should never have married him, if she didn’t love him. It was not fair. Or if she married him, she should have been prepared to give and give. He would leave her. He had to leave her, because Lorna was lonely, and needed him, and he needed Lorna. Fundamentally, it would serve Beatrice right.

  She shouldn’t have married me, he repeated to himself. She shouldn’t have done it.

  Beatrice suddenly buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook because she was weeping properly now. But there was little sound except for the periodic sharp intake of her breath.

  She’s fighting against it, thought Bartels irrelevantly, trying not to make too much of a scene. That’s partly because she is English and partly because of her school training. It sticks, as Mr Chips said about Latin, some of it sticks. Blood and training. Some of it sticks; not all, but some.

  The wave was lapping round the barriers now, eating at the foundations, lapping and receding, and coming back with renewed vigour. He only had to get up from his chair and take two steps, and sit beside her and take her in his arms, and tell her she was wrong, and she would believe him because she wanted to. It would all stop.

  Beatrice said in a muffled voic
e: “I only try to do my best, darling. It’s not easy.”

  Pity, pity, pity.

  The fly in the wine glass, the daddy-long-legs at the window, the butterfly in the fire. With dread and a feeling of foreboding Bartels saw the wave top the barrier and surge down upon him, and for a few seconds struggled against it with a hopeless ferocity. Then the waters were around him and over him, and he knew that he had lost. He rose from his chair and went over to the settee. He moved slowly and heavily.

  I think that as he put his arms around her and told her that she was wrong, and that he did love her, there was already stirring within his mind, very faintly, and in an undefined form, the feeling that he might have to kill her.

  It was the next day, 14 February, that, in accordance with his fortnightly habit, Bartels called upon his aunt Emily. Aunt Rose, pugnacious to the last, had died some years before, and uncle James, lost and at sea without that dominating character, had been buried beside her scarcely a year later.

  But Cook was still in service, and greeted him in her usual sour manner, and told him that aunt Emily was at a seance but would be back in half an hour or so. He was hardly inside the door before he noticed a curious aromatic smell, half sweet, half acrid.

  “What’s that smell?” he asked.

  “You may well ask,” replied Cook ominously; she was a fat, pale woman, with dark hairs on her upper lip and a slight but disconcerting cast in one eye. She disappeared into the kitchen without further words.

  She had been with Bartels’ aunt for twenty-seven years, and there appeared no reason to believe that she would ever leave until his aunt died. There was a general understanding that his aunt would leave her what she called “a little something” in her will. Bartels remembered how sometimes, in the gentle, arch way his aunt Emily had of speaking, she would say in Cook’s presence, while he was still a boy:

  “There! What a lovely cake old Cookie has made for you to take back to school! What should we do without her? Never mind, Cookie knows she will not be forgotten when I pass over!”